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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. Chapter: With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799. The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tentlike pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing-- Awake, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily stage of duty run; Shake off dull sloth... Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour-- Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear. Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long supple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest intelligence. It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. Seth's broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother's; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow. The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam. The concert of the tools and Adam's voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the wall, and said, "There! I've finished my door to-day, anyhow." The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise, "What! Dost think thee'st finished the door?" "Aye, sure," said Seth, with answering surprise; "what's awanting to't?" A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, "Why, thee'st forgot the panels." The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown. "Hoorray!" shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward and seizing the door. "We'll hang up th' door at fur end o' th' shop an' write on't 'Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.' Here, Jim, lend's hould o' th' red pot." "Nonsense!" said Adam. "Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day; you'll laugh o' th' other side o' your mouth then." "Catch me at it, Adam. It'll be a good while afore my head's full o' th' Methodies," said Ben. "Nay, but it's often full o' drink, and that's worse." Ben, however, had now got the "red pot" in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air. "Let it alone, will you?" Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. "Let it alone, or I'll shake the soul out o' your body." Ben shook in Adam's iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn't mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke. "Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he's i' the right to laugh at me--I canna help laughing at myself." "I shan't loose him till he promises to let the door alone," said Adam. "Come, Ben, lad," said Seth, in a persuasive tone, "don't let's have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may's well try to turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say you'll leave the door alone, and make an end on't." "I binna frighted at Adam," said Ben, "but I donna mind sayin' as I'll let 't alone at your askin', Seth." "Come, that's wise of you, Ben," said Adam, laughing and relaxing his grasp. They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm. "Which was ye thinkin' on, Seth," he began--"the pretty parson's face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?" "Come and hear her, Ben," said Seth, good-humouredly; "she's going to preach on the Green to-night; happen ye'd get something to think on yourself then, instead o' those wicked songs you're so fond on. Ye might get religion, and that 'ud be the best day's earnings y' ever made." "All i' good time for that, Seth; I'll think about that when I'm a-goin' to settle i' life; bachelors doesn't want such heavy earnin's. Happen I shall do the coortin' an' the religion both together, as YE do, Seth; but ye wouldna ha' me get converted an' chop in atween ye an' the pretty preacher, an' carry her aff?" "No fear o' that, Ben; she's neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won't speak lightly on her again." "Well, I'm half a mind t' ha' a look at her to-night, if there isn't good company at th' Holly Bush. What'll she take for her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i' time for't. Will't be--what come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophetess--a uncommon pretty young woman." "Come, Ben," said Adam, rather sternly, "you let the words o' the Bible alone; you're going too far now." "What! Are YE a-turnin' roun', Adam? I thought ye war dead again th' women preachin', a while agoo?" "Nay, I'm not turnin' noway. I said nought about the women preachin'. I said, You let the Bible alone: you've got a jest-book, han't you, as you're rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that." "Why, y' are gettin' as big a saint as Seth. Y' are goin' to th' preachin' to-night, I should think. Ye'll do finely t' lead the singin'. But I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at his gran' favright Adam Bede a-turnin' Methody." "Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are--though it's like enough you'll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle wi' people's doing as they like in religion. That's between themselves and God, as he's said to me many a time." "Aye, aye; but he's none so fond o' your dissenters, for all that." "Maybe; I'm none so fond o' Josh Tod's thick ale, but I don't hinder you from making a fool o' yourself wi't." There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam's, but Seth said, very seriously. "Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody's religion's like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o' the matter as well as the church folks." "Nay, Seth, lad; I'm not for laughing at no man's religion. Let 'em follow their consciences, that's all. Only I think it 'ud be better if their consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i' the church--there's a deal to be learnt there. And there's such a thing as being oversperitial; we must have something beside Gospel i' this world. Look at the canals, an' th' aqueduc's, an' th' coal-pit engines, and Arkwright's mills there at Cromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as a man must be doing nothing all's life but shutting's eyes and looking what's agoing on inside him. I know a man must have the love o' God in his soul, and the Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o' looking at it: there's the sperrit o' God in all things and all times--weekday as well as Sunday--and i' the great works and inventions, and i' the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does bits o' jobs out o' working hours--builds a oven for 's wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o' garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o' one, he's doin' more good, and he's just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning." "Well done, Adam!" said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speaking; "that's the best sarmunt I've heared this long while. By th' same token, my wife's been a-plaguin' on me to build her a oven this twelvemont." "There's reason in what thee say'st, Adam," observed Seth, gravely. "But thee know'st thyself as it's hearing the preachers thee find'st so much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It's the preacher as empties th' alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he'll do his work none the worse for that." "On'y he'll lave the panels out o' th' doors sometimes, eh, Seth?" said Wiry Ben. "Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again' me as 'll last you your life. But it isna religion as was i' fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more's the pity." "Ne'er heed me, Seth," said Wiry Ben, "y' are a down-right good-hearted chap, panels or no panels; an' ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o' fun, like some o' your kin, as is mayhap cliverer." "Seth, lad," said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, "thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some 's got one way o' looking at things and some 's got another." "Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean'st me no unkindness," said Seth, "I know that well enough. Thee't like thy dog Gyp--thee bark'st at me sometimes, but thee allays lick'st my hand after." All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, "Look there, now! I can't abide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work and was afraid o' doing a stroke too much." Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, "Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are six-an'-forty like me, istid o' six-an'-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' workin' for nought." "Nonsense," said Adam, still wrathful; "what's age got to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock's fairly struck, just as if he'd never a bit o' pride and delight in 's work. The very grindstone 'ull go on turning a bit after you loose it." "Bodderation, Adam!" exclaimed Wiry Ben; "lave a chap aloon, will 'ee? Ye war afinding faut wi' preachers a while agoo--y' are fond enough o' preachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; that'll 'commodate ye--it laves ye th' more to do." With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something. "Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preaching?" Adam asked, looking up. "Nay; I've got my hat and things at Will Maskery's. I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from Poyser's, thee know'st." "Then I'll tell mother not to look for thee," said Adam. "Thee artna going to Poyser's thyself to-night?" said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. "Nay, I'm going to th' school." Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him. "What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?" said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth. Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, "Of course." Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression. The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner; and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his master's heels. On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, "Here's the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?" "Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary's i' th' house, and Mester Burge 'ull be back anon; he'd be glad t' ha' ye to supper wi'm, I'll be's warrand." "No, Dolly, thank you; I'm off home. Good evening." Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the highroad leading away from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted stockings. Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running in his head: Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear; For God's all-seeing eye surveys Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways. Können Sie eine geeignete 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.

Die erste Person, die man in Adam Bede trifft, ist keine wirkliche, lebendige Person aus Fleisch und Blut. Es ist der Erzähler in der dritten Person von Eliot. Im ersten Absatz vergleicht sich dieser Erzähler mit einem "ägyptischen Zauberer", der "weitreichende Visionen der Vergangenheit offenbart". Ooh, la la. Die "Vision", mit der das Buch beginnt, ist die des "großzügigen Arbeitszimmers von Mr. Jonathan Burge, Zimmermann und Baumeister, im Dorf Hayslope, wie es am achtzehnten Juni im Jahr unseres Herrn 1799 aussah". Aber vorerst sollst du keine Aufmerksamkeit auf Burge richten. Stattdessen sollten alle Augen auf...Adam Bede gerichtet sein. Er ist zwar nur einer von Burges Arbeitern, fällt aber aufgrund seiner Baritonstimme, seiner kraftvollen Statur und seines "Ausdrucks von gut gelaunter, ehrlicher Intelligenz" auf. Es stellt sich heraus, dass das ganze Zimmermannsding in der Familie Bede liegt. Adam arbeitet zusammen mit seinem jüngeren Bruder Seth Bede. Während Adam einschüchternd wirkt, ist Seth mild und freundlich. Wie der Erzähler es ausdrückt: "Die Rucksacktouristen waren sich immer sicher, dass sie von Seth einen Penny bekommen konnten; sie sprachen Adam kaum an". Und Seth ist auch ein bisschen ein Dummkopf. Er vergisst, die Paneele an einer Tür anzubringen, die er gerade baut, und das bringt ihm eine ganze Menge Gelächter ein. Aber Adam hat Seths Rücken. Er schimpft mit den anderen Arbeitern und drängelt sogar einen der hartnäckigeren Spaßvögel, einen Kerl namens Ben Cranage, herum. Wenn sich die Sache beruhigt hat, erfahren wir ein wenig mehr über Seth und Adam. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Seth Methodist ist. Es stellt sich auch heraus, dass Seth in eine methodistische Predigerin verknallt ist. Und das bringt unseren Freund Wiry Ben dazu, sich wie ein Viertklässler zu benehmen. Er fragt Seth, an was er gedacht habe, "an das hübsche Gesicht der Pfarrerin oder die Predigt, als du die Paneele vergessen hast?". Ah, aber mag die Predigerin Seth "gerne"? Wir werden sehen. In der Zwischenzeit bringt Adam Wiry Ben zum Schweigen und hält einen Vortrag über den Wert harter Arbeit. Seth gibt sich als träumerisch zu erkennen und hinterfragt die pragmatische Sichtweise seines Bruders: "Wenn ein Mann Religion bekommt, wird er seine Arbeit dadurch nicht schlechter machen". Pünktlich um 18:00 Uhr hören alle Männer auf zu arbeiten. Bis auf Adam, der "nicht ertragen kann, Männer ihre Werkzeuge auf diese Weise wegwerfen zu sehen, sobald die Uhr beginnt zu schlagen". Doch bald packt auch Adam zusammen und geht nach Hause. Seine große, schreitende, singende Figur erweckt die Bewunderung eines "älteren Reiters", der zufällig vorbeikommt. Na, das ist eine Antwort, Wiry Ben!

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: Yet it was when she had got off--and I missed her on the spot--that the great pinch really came. If I had counted on what it would give me to find myself alone with Miles, I speedily perceived, at least, that it would give me a measure. No hour of my stay in fact was so assailed with apprehensions as that of my coming down to learn that the carriage containing Mrs. Grose and my younger pupil had already rolled out of the gates. Now I WAS, I said to myself, face to face with the elements, and for much of the rest of the day, while I fought my weakness, I could consider that I had been supremely rash. It was a tighter place still than I had yet turned round in; all the more that, for the first time, I could see in the aspect of others a confused reflection of the crisis. What had happened naturally caused them all to stare; there was too little of the explained, throw out whatever we might, in the suddenness of my colleague's act. The maids and the men looked blank; the effect of which on my nerves was an aggravation until I saw the necessity of making it a positive aid. It was precisely, in short, by just clutching the helm that I avoided total wreck; and I dare say that, to bear up at all, I became, that morning, very grand and very dry. I welcomed the consciousness that I was charged with much to do, and I caused it to be known as well that, left thus to myself, I was quite remarkably firm. I wandered with that manner, for the next hour or two, all over the place and looked, I have no doubt, as if I were ready for any onset. So, for the benefit of whom it might concern, I paraded with a sick heart. The person it appeared least to concern proved to be, till dinner, little Miles himself. My perambulations had given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him, but they had tended to make more public the change taking place in our relation as a consequence of his having at the piano, the day before, kept me, in Flora's interest, so beguiled and befooled. The stamp of publicity had of course been fully given by her confinement and departure, and the change itself was now ushered in by our nonobservance of the regular custom of the schoolroom. He had already disappeared when, on my way down, I pushed open his door, and I learned below that he had breakfasted--in the presence of a couple of the maids--with Mrs. Grose and his sister. He had then gone out, as he said, for a stroll; than which nothing, I reflected, could better have expressed his frank view of the abrupt transformation of my office. What he would not permit this office to consist of was yet to be settled: there was a queer relief, at all events--I mean for myself in especial--in the renouncement of one pretension. If so much had sprung to the surface, I scarce put it too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the absurdity of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything more to teach him. It sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little tricks in which even more than myself he carried out the care for my dignity, I had had to appeal to him to let me off straining to meet him on the ground of his true capacity. He had at any rate his freedom now; I was never to touch it again; as I had amply shown, moreover, when, on his joining me in the schoolroom the previous night, I had uttered, on the subject of the interval just concluded, neither challenge nor hint. I had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. Yet when he at last arrived, the difficulty of applying them, the accumulations of my problem, were brought straight home to me by the beautiful little presence on which what had occurred had as yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain nor shadow. To mark, for the house, the high state I cultivated I decreed that my meals with the boy should be served, as we called it, downstairs; so that I had been awaiting him in the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window of which I had had from Mrs. Grose, that first scared Sunday, my flash of something it would scarce have done to call light. Here at present I felt afresh--for I had felt it again and again--how my equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will to shut my eyes as tight as possible to the truth that what I had to deal with was, revoltingly, against nature. I could only get on at all by taking "nature" into my confidence and my account, by treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of course, and unpleasant, but demanding, after all, for a fair front, only another turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue. No attempt, nonetheless, could well require more tact than just this attempt to supply, one's self, ALL the nature. How could I put even a little of that article into a suppression of reference to what had occurred? How, on the other hand, could I make reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure? Well, a sort of answer, after a time, had come to me, and it was so far confirmed as that I was met, incontestably, by the quickened vision of what was rare in my little companion. It was indeed as if he had found even now--as he had so often found at lessons--still some other delicate way to ease me off. Wasn't there light in the fact which, as we shared our solitude, broke out with a specious glitter it had never yet quite worn?--the fact that (opportunity aiding, precious opportunity which had now come) it would be preposterous, with a child so endowed, to forego the help one might wrest from absolute intelligence? What had his intelligence been given him for but to save him? Mightn't one, to reach his mind, risk the stretch of an angular arm over his character? It was as if, when we were face to face in the dining room, he had literally shown me the way. The roast mutton was on the table, and I had dispensed with attendance. Miles, before he sat down, stood a moment with his hands in his pockets and looked at the joint, on which he seemed on the point of passing some humorous judgment. But what he presently produced was: "I say, my dear, is she really very awfully ill?" "Little Flora? Not so bad but that she'll presently be better. London will set her up. Bly had ceased to agree with her. Come here and take your mutton." He alertly obeyed me, carried the plate carefully to his seat, and, when he was established, went on. "Did Bly disagree with her so terribly suddenly?" "Not so suddenly as you might think. One had seen it coming on." "Then why didn't you get her off before?" "Before what?" "Before she became too ill to travel." I found myself prompt. "She's NOT too ill to travel: she only might have become so if she had stayed. This was just the moment to seize. The journey will dissipate the influence"--oh, I was grand!--"and carry it off." "I see, I see"--Miles, for that matter, was grand, too. He settled to his repast with the charming little "table manner" that, from the day of his arrival, had relieved me of all grossness of admonition. Whatever he had been driven from school for, it was not for ugly feeding. He was irreproachable, as always, today; but he was unmistakably more conscious. He was discernibly trying to take for granted more things than he found, without assistance, quite easy; and he dropped into peaceful silence while he felt his situation. Our meal was of the briefest--mine a vain pretense, and I had the things immediately removed. While this was done Miles stood again with his hands in his little pockets and his back to me--stood and looked out of the wide window through which, that other day, I had seen what pulled me up. We continued silent while the maid was with us--as silent, it whimsically occurred to me, as some young couple who, on their wedding journey, at the inn, feel shy in the presence of the waiter. He turned round only when the waiter had left us. "Well--so we're alone!" Kannst du eine geeignete 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.

Sobald die Gouvernante alleine mit Miles ist, vermisst sie ihre Freundin, Mrs. Grose. Trotzdem gibt sie ihr Bestes, um alles reibungslos laufen zu lassen, während sie die Verantwortung hat. Die Gouvernante sieht Miles erst beim Abendessen; nach dem Abschied von seiner Schwester und von Mrs. Grose verbrachte er den Tag alleine. Die Gouvernante hat Schwierigkeiten, sich auch in diesen merkwürdigen Umständen natürlich zu verhalten. Sie und Miles sprechen über Floras Gesundheit; sie essen höflich zusammen, solange das Dienstmädchen dabei ist, doch sobald dieses geht, äußert er bedrohlich, dass sie alleine sind.

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: IV.--The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist. FROM the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstances did not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather the material for these little narratives. On referring to my note-book for the year 1895 I find that it was upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his attention from the matter in hand. And yet without a harshness which was foreign to his nature it was impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late in the evening and implored his assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat and to inform us what it was that was troubling her. "At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his keen eyes darted over her; "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy." She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction of the edge of the pedal. "Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do with my visit to you to-day." My friend took the lady's ungloved hand and examined it with as close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a specimen. "You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business," said he, as he dropped it. "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe the spatulate finger-end, Watson, which is common to both professions? There is a spirituality about the face, however"--he gently turned it towards the light--"which the typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician." "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music." "In the country, I presume, from your complexion." "Yes, sir; near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey." "A beautiful neighbourhood and full of the most interesting associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?" The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the following curious statement:-- "My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word from him since. When father died we were left very poor, but one day we were told that there was an advertisement in the TIMES inquiring for our whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he died some months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations and see that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead; but Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate." "Excuse me," said Holmes; "when was this interview?" "Last December--four months ago." "Pray proceed." "Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for ever making eyes at me--a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful--and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person." "Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling. The young lady blushed and laughed. "Yes, Mr. Holmes; Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how DID I get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person; but he had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that we were very poor he suggested that I should come and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady-housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went home to my mother in town. "The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh, it seemed three months to me! He was a dreadful person, a bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I married him I would have the finest diamonds in London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me in his arms one day after dinner--he was hideously strong--and he swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came in and tore him off from me, on which he turned upon his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley since. "And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station in order to get the 12.22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this place when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when on my return on the Monday I saw the same man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without some companion. "The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point down which he could have gone." Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "This case certainly presents some features of its own," said he. "How much time elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?" "Two or three minutes." "Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that there are no side roads?" "None." "Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other." "It could not have been on the side of the heath or I should have seen him." "So by the process of exclusion we arrive at the fact that he made his way towards Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?" "Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice." Holmes sat in silence for some little time. "Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?" he asked, at last. "He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry." "He would not pay you a surprise visit?" "Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!" "Have you had any other admirers?" "Several before I knew Cyril." "And since?" "There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an admirer." "No one else?" Our fair client seemed a little confused. "Who was he?" asked Holmes. "Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it has seemed to me sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows." "Ha!" Holmes looked grave. "What does he do for a living?" "He is a rich man." "No carriages or horses?" "Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the City two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African gold shares." "You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your case. In the meantime take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good news from you." "It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl should have followers," said Holmes, as he pulled at his meditative pipe, "but for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson." "That he should appear only at that point?" "Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different type? How came they BOTH to be so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith's relations? One more point. What sort of a MENAGE is it which pays double the market price for a governess, but does not keep a horse although six miles from the station? Odd, Watson--very odd!" "You will go down?" "No, my dear fellow, YOU will go down. This may be some trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall, you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on which we may hope to get across to our solution." We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9.50, so I started early and caught the 9.13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young lady's adventure, for the road runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems; but besides this central carriage drive I observed several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay. The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse, gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington grounds he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view. A quarter of an hour passed and then a second cyclist appeared. This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low over his handle-bar, with a curiously furtive suggestion in every movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She stopped. He at once stopped too, keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed straight at him! He was as quick as she, however, and darted off in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight. I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for presently the man reappeared cycling slowly back. He turned in at the Hall gates and dismounted from his machine. For some few minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man. However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house-agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable elderly gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of his clients were not matters which he could discuss. Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not. "Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should have been behind the hedge; then you would have had a close view of this interesting person. As it is you were some hundreds of yards away, and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house and you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house-agent!" "What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat. "Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the scullery-maid. Williamson! It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that athletic young lady's pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl's story is true. I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who's the better for that? Well, well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed. We can do little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two inquiries myself." Next morning we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the letter lay in the postscript:-- "I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when I tell you that my place here has become difficult owing to the fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same time my promise is, of course, given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however, that the situation is a little strained." "Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters," said Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of development than I had originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories which I have formed." Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening with a cut lip and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own adventures, and laughed heartily as he recounted them. "I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat," said he. "You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old British sport of boxing. Occasionally it is of service. To-day, for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without it." I begged him to tell me what had occurred. "I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he is or has been a clergyman; but one or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man of that name in orders whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further informed me that there are usually week-end visitors--'a warm lot, sir'--at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as far as this when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander which I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your own." The Thursday brought us another letter from our client. "You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes," said she, "to hear that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over. "As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him more than I can say. How CAN Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday." "So I trust, Watson; so I trust," said Holmes, gravely. "There is some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on Saturday morning, and make sure that this curious and inconclusive investigation has no untoward ending." I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he had so little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken; but who he was or what he wanted was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes's manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this curious train of events. A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the heath-covered country-side with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and drabs and slate-greys of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air, and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience. "I had given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is her trap she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet her." From the instant that we passed the rise we could no longer see the vehicle, but we hastened onwards at such a pace that my sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us. "Too late, Watson; too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his side. "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train! It's abduction, Watson--abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road! Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder." We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road. As we turned the curve the whole stretch of road between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes's arm. "That's the man!" I gasped. A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and his shoulders rounded as he put every ounce of energy that he possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over his face. "Halloa! Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our road. "Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!" he yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. "Pull up, I say, or, by George, I'll put a bullet into your horse." Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart. "You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he said, in his quick, clear way. "That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to know where she is." "We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove back to help the young lady." "Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?" cried the stranger, in an ecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hellhound Woodley and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington Wood." He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside the road, followed Holmes. "This is where they came through," said he, pointing to the marks of several feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this in the bush?" It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone. "That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger. "He drove her. The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can't do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman." We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled up. "They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left--here, beside the laurel bushes! Ah, I said so!" As he spoke a woman's shrill scream--a scream which vibrated with a frenzy of horror--burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle. "This way! This way! They are in the bowling alley," cried the stranger, darting through the bushes. "Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!" We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding-crop, his whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared and slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation. "They're married!" I gasped. "Come on!" cried our guide; "come on!" He rushed across the glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the bully Woodley advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant laughter. "You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you right enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley." Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in his hand. "Yes," said our ally, "I AM Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this woman righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if you molested her, and, by the Lord, I'll be as good as my word!" "You're too late. She's my wife!" "No, she's your widow." His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but before he could raise it he was looking down the barrel of Holmes's weapon. "Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that pistol! Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!" "Who are you, then?" "My name is Sherlock Holmes." "Good Lord!" "You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police until their arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened groom who had appeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here. Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham." He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his note-book. "Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes I must detain you all under my personal custody." The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes's request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before him. "He will live," said I. "What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. "I'll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that angel, is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?" "You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes. "There are two very good reasons why she should under no circumstances be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage." "I have been ordained," cried the old rascal. "And also unfrocked." "Once a clergyman, always a clergyman." "I think not. How about the license?" "We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket." "Then you got it by a trick. But in any case a forced marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before you have finished. You'll have time to think the point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your pistol in your pocket." "I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes; but when I thought of all the precaution I had taken to shield this girl--for I loved her, Mr. Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was--it fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest brute and bully in South Africa, a man whose name is a holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew these rascals were lurking, without following her on my bicycle just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from her, and I wore a beard so that she should not recognise me, for she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was following her about the country roads." "Why didn't you tell her of her danger?" "Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to face that. Even if she couldn't love me it was a great deal to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her voice." "Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should call it selfishness." "Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have someone near to look after her. Then when the cable came I knew they were bound to make a move." "What cable?" Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket. "That's it," said he. It was short and concise:-- "The old man is dead." "Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked, and I can understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head. But while we wait you might tell me what you can." The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad language. "By Heaven," said he, "if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I'll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl to your heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper it will be the worst day's work that ever you did." "Your reverence need not be excited," said Holmes, lighting a cigarette. "The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there's any difficulty in your telling me I'll do the talking, and then you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa on this game--you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley." "Lie number one," said the old man; "I never saw either of them until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!" "What he says is true," said Carruthers. "Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own home-made article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would inherit his fortune. How's that--eh?" Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore. "She was next-of-kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old fellow would make no will." "Couldn't read or write," said Carruthers. "So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The idea was that one of you was to marry her and the other have a share of the plunder. For some reason Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that?" "We played cards for her on the voyage. He won." "I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there Woodley was to do the courting. She recognised the drunken brute that he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her." "No, by George, I couldn't!" "There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and began to make his own plans independently of you." "It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can tell this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. "Yes, we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he picked up with this cast padre here. I found that they had set up house-keeping together at this place on the line that she had to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He said, 'Let us get her married first, and after a week or two she may see things a bit different.' I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her the mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart." Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. "I have been very obtuse, Watson," said he. "When in your report you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and in some respects a unique case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them; so it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think, Watson, that in your medical capacity you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that if she is sufficiently recovered we shall be happy to escort her to her mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help to you in your trial it shall be at your disposal." In the whirl of our incessant activity it has often been difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over the actors have passed for ever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscripts dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the Court, since Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice. ***** THE STRAND MAGAZINE Vol. 27 FEBRUARY, 1904 THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Watson beginnt mit einer kurzen Erklärung, wie er seine Fälle auswählt, um sie zu veröffentlichen. Es gibt viele zur Auswahl, aber Watson wählt diejenigen aus, die interessant, ungewöhnlich und zeigen, wie genial Holmes als Detektiv ist. Gut zu wissen, Watson. Wir bekommen auch ein Datum für diesen Fall: April 1895. Manchmal gibt uns Watson einen Monat oder ein Jahr an, und manchmal behält er absichtlich das Datum aus verschiedenen Gründen vor. Der Fall, den wir jetzt haben, war ungewöhnlich, deshalb hat Watson ihn ausgewählt. Holmes arbeitet gerade an einem anderen Fall, als Violet Smith auftaucht. Sie weigert sich zu gehen, bis sie ihre Geschichte erzählt hat, also lässt Holmes sie schließlich reden, obwohl er es hasst unterbrochen zu werden. Holmes macht seinen üblichen Beobachtungsroutine mit Violet und stellt fest, dass sie eine Radfahrerin und Musikerin ist. Violet erzählt dann eine verwirrende, komplizierte Geschichte, die ungefähr so geht: Violets Vater war Dirigent und ihre Familie hatte nie viel Geld. Ihr Vater starb und Violet und ihre Mutter waren sehr arm. Dann lasen sie eine Anzeige in der Zeitung, die nach ihnen suchte. Sie antworteten darauf und trafen zwei Männer, Mr. Woodley und Mr. Carruthers. Diese Männer kannten Violets Onkel, Ralph Smith, in Südafrika. Ralph war gerade gestorben und er hatte seine Freunde gebeten, nach seiner einzigen Verwandten, Mrs. Smith und Violet, zu schauen. Die Smith-Damen waren sozusagen dankbar. Violet verrät versehentlich, dass sie mit einem Elektriker namens Cyril Morton verlobt ist. Mr. Carruthers hat dann Violet eingestellt, um seinem Kind Musik zu unterrichten. Also ist Violet in seinem Haus geblieben und hat dort unter der Woche gearbeitet und ist am Wochenende mit dem Zug nach London gefahren, um ihre Mutter zu besuchen. Alles war gut, abgesehen von der Tatsache, dass jeder Mann, der Violet trifft, anscheinend in sie verliebt ist. Zuerst kam Mr. Woodley zu Besuch und belästigte Violet sexuell, bis Carruthers ihn rausschmiss. Dann bemerkte Violet, dass Carruthers in sie verliebt war. Und dann bekam Violet einen Stalker. Ein mysteriöser Mann mit Fahrrad folgte ihr jedes Mal, wenn sie mit dem Fahrrad von Carruthers' Haus zum Bahnhof fuhr. Violet findet ihren Fahrrad-Stalker gruselig und will, dass Holmes ihr hilft. Holmes befragt sie ein wenig und stimmt dann zu, den Fall anzunehmen, da er seltsam genug ist, um sein Interesse zu wecken. Aber da Holmes bereits an anderem arbeitet, entscheidet er sich, diese Aufgabe auszulagern. Er schickt Watson nach Farnham zum Haus von Carruthers und sagt ihm, dass er eine Überwachung machen und einige Hinweise finden soll. Wie weit ist Farnham von London entfernt? Nun, das kannst du auf dieser Karte sehen. Also macht sich Watson auf sein eigenes Detektivabenteuer. Er beobachtet den mysteriösen Radfahrer, der einen Bart hatte, und sucht herum und erfährt über eine Person, die in einem nahegelegenen Haus lebt, einen Mr. Williamson von Charlington Hall. Williamson ist ein in Ungnade gefallener Geistlicher. Watson kommt gut gelaunt nach Hause, aber Holmes platzt schnell seine Blase, indem er sein gesamtes Detektivabenteuer kritisiert. Offensichtlich sind alle von Watson gesammelten Informationen wertlos. Watson ist sauer, aber Holmes lässt ihn abblitzen und sagt ihm, dass er ihn nächstes Wochenende begleiten wird, um den Fall selbst zu lösen. Schön egomanisch, Holmes. Dann trifft ein Telegramm von Violet ein. Mr. Carruthers hat ihr einen Heiratsantrag gemacht. Sie hat nein gesagt und dann ihren Job aufgegeben, wegen der unangenehmen Situation. Ihr letzter Arbeitstag wird Ende dieser Woche sein. Holmes macht sich auf die Suche und kehrt erschlagen nach Hause zurück. Im Gegensatz zu Watson, der seine Informationen über die Nachbarschaft in einer Kneipe erhalten hat, geriet Holmes in eine Schlägerei mit Mr. Woodley. Dann trifft ein weiterer Brief von Violet ein. Sie erzählt ihnen, dass Woodley zurück in der Stadt ist und sie erneut belästigt. Holmes und Watson fahren am Samstag hinunter, um auf Violet aufzupassen, wenn sie zum Bahnhof fährt. Als sie ankommen, stellen sie fest, dass Violet diesmal mit einer Kutsche statt mit dem Fahrrad gefahren ist. Die Kutsche ist von der Straße abgekommen und Violet wird vermisst. Der mysteriöse Radfahrer bietet an, Violet zu finden. Die Gruppe eilt zum nahegelegenen Charlington Hall und stolpert über eine Hochzeit. Woodley hat Violet entführt und zwingt sie, ihn in einer Zeremonie zu heiraten, die vom ehemaligen Geistlichen, Mr. Williamson, durchgeführt wird. Woodley lacht böse und sagt, dass Violet seine Frau ist, so ist es nun mal. Der mysteriöse Radfahrer enthüllt sich selbst als Mr. Carruthers und verkündet, dass Violet tatsächlich die Witwe von Woodley ist. Dann erschießt er Woodley. Ooh! Holmes sagt allen, dass sie aufhören sollen. Die Männer tragen Woodley herein und Watson kümmert sich um Violet, die total verängstigt ist. Holmes weist dann logischerweise darauf hin, dass eine erzwungene Ehe nicht bindend ist und dass Williamson kein echter Geistlicher mehr ist, also ist nichts davon eigentlich legal. Carruthers fühlt sich jetzt wahrscheinlich ziemlich dumm wegen seiner überreagierenden Reaktion. Williamson schätzt Holmes' Logik nicht. Williamson ist ziemlich witzig. Er sollte in jeder Geschichte mit Holmes reden. Carruthers erklärt uns nun alles ganz bequem. Er und Woodley waren mit Ralph Smith befreundet, weil Smith Geld hatte. Nach seinem Tod hatten die beiden einen Plan, um seinen Erben, Violet, zu heiraten und all ihr Geld zu stehlen. Nebenbei bemerkt: In dieser Zeit, als eine Frau heiratete, gingen ihr Geld und ihr Eigentum automatisch an ihren Ehemann. Daher der Heiratsplan. Carruthers wollte hier der Bräutigam sein, aber dann verliebte er sich tatsächlich in Violet. Er und Woodley hatten deswegen einen Streit. Woodley holte Williamson zur Hilfe und die beiden entführten Violet. Carruthers hatte einen Radfahrer-Stalker gespielt, um Violet vor jeglichen Schweinereien zu schützen. Watson erzählt uns, dass Woodley sich erholt hat und gemeinsam mit Williamson ins Gefängnis kam. Carruthers saß eine Zeit lang im Gefängnis, wurde aber schnell entlassen. Und Violet erbte ein Vermögen und heiratete Cyril Morton.

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: 'As I stood there musing over this too perfect triumph of man, the full moon, yellow and gibbous, came up out of an overflow of silver light in the north-east. The bright little figures ceased to move about below, a noiseless owl flitted by, and I shivered with the chill of the night. I determined to descend and find where I could sleep. 'I looked for the building I knew. Then my eye travelled along to the figure of the White Sphinx upon the pedestal of bronze, growing distinct as the light of the rising moon grew brighter. I could see the silver birch against it. There was the tangle of rhododendron bushes, black in the pale light, and there was the little lawn. I looked at the lawn again. A queer doubt chilled my complacency. "No," said I stoutly to myself, "that was not the lawn." 'But it _was_ the lawn. For the white leprous face of the sphinx was towards it. Can you imagine what I felt as this conviction came home to me? But you cannot. The Time Machine was gone! 'At once, like a lash across the face, came the possibility of losing my own age, of being left helpless in this strange new world. The bare thought of it was an actual physical sensation. I could feel it grip me at the throat and stop my breathing. In another moment I was in a passion of fear and running with great leaping strides down the slope. Once I fell headlong and cut my face; I lost no time in stanching the blood, but jumped up and ran on, with a warm trickle down my cheek and chin. All the time I ran I was saying to myself: "They have moved it a little, pushed it under the bushes out of the way." Nevertheless, I ran with all my might. All the time, with the certainty that sometimes comes with excessive dread, I knew that such assurance was folly, knew instinctively that the machine was removed out of my reach. My breath came with pain. I suppose I covered the whole distance from the hill crest to the little lawn, two miles perhaps, in ten minutes. And I am not a young man. I cursed aloud, as I ran, at my confident folly in leaving the machine, wasting good breath thereby. I cried aloud, and none answered. Not a creature seemed to be stirring in that moonlit world. 'When I reached the lawn my worst fears were realized. Not a trace of the thing was to be seen. I felt faint and cold when I faced the empty space among the black tangle of bushes. I ran round it furiously, as if the thing might be hidden in a corner, and then stopped abruptly, with my hands clutching my hair. Above me towered the sphinx, upon the bronze pedestal, white, shining, leprous, in the light of the rising moon. It seemed to smile in mockery of my dismay. 'I might have consoled myself by imagining the little people had put the mechanism in some shelter for me, had I not felt assured of their physical and intellectual inadequacy. That is what dismayed me: the sense of some hitherto unsuspected power, through whose intervention my invention had vanished. Yet, for one thing I felt assured: unless some other age had produced its exact duplicate, the machine could not have moved in time. The attachment of the levers--I will show you the method later--prevented any one from tampering with it in that way when they were removed. It had moved, and was hid, only in space. But then, where could it be? 'I think I must have had a kind of frenzy. I remember running violently in and out among the moonlit bushes all round the sphinx, and startling some white animal that, in the dim light, I took for a small deer. I remember, too, late that night, beating the bushes with my clenched fist until my knuckles were gashed and bleeding from the broken twigs. Then, sobbing and raving in my anguish of mind, I went down to the great building of stone. The big hall was dark, silent, and deserted. I slipped on the uneven floor, and fell over one of the malachite tables, almost breaking my shin. I lit a match and went on past the dusty curtains, of which I have told you. 'There I found a second great hall covered with cushions, upon which, perhaps, a score or so of the little people were sleeping. I have no doubt they found my second appearance strange enough, coming suddenly out of the quiet darkness with inarticulate noises and the splutter and flare of a match. For they had forgotten about matches. "Where is my Time Machine?" I began, bawling like an angry child, laying hands upon them and shaking them up together. It must have been very queer to them. Some laughed, most of them looked sorely frightened. When I saw them standing round me, it came into my head that I was doing as foolish a thing as it was possible for me to do under the circumstances, in trying to revive the sensation of fear. For, reasoning from their daylight behaviour, I thought that fear must be forgotten. 'Abruptly, I dashed down the match, and, knocking one of the people over in my course, went blundering across the big dining-hall again, out under the moonlight. I heard cries of terror and their little feet running and stumbling this way and that. I do not remember all I did as the moon crept up the sky. I suppose it was the unexpected nature of my loss that maddened me. I felt hopelessly cut off from my own kind--a strange animal in an unknown world. I must have raved to and fro, screaming and crying upon God and Fate. I have a memory of horrible fatigue, as the long night of despair wore away; of looking in this impossible place and that; of groping among moon-lit ruins and touching strange creatures in the black shadows; at last, of lying on the ground near the sphinx and weeping with absolute wretchedness. I had nothing left but misery. Then I slept, and when I woke again it was full day, and a couple of sparrows were hopping round me on the turf within reach of my arm. 'I sat up in the freshness of the morning, trying to remember how I had got there, and why I had such a profound sense of desertion and despair. Then things came clear in my mind. With the plain, reasonable daylight, I could look my circumstances fairly in the face. I saw the wild folly of my frenzy overnight, and I could reason with myself. "Suppose the worst?" I said. "Suppose the machine altogether lost--perhaps destroyed? It behoves me to be calm and patient, to learn the way of the people, to get a clear idea of the method of my loss, and the means of getting materials and tools; so that in the end, perhaps, I may make another." That would be my only hope, perhaps, but better than despair. And, after all, it was a beautiful and curious world. 'But probably, the machine had only been taken away. Still, I must be calm and patient, find its hiding-place, and recover it by force or cunning. And with that I scrambled to my feet and looked about me, wondering where I could bathe. I felt weary, stiff, and travel-soiled. The freshness of the morning made me desire an equal freshness. I had exhausted my emotion. Indeed, as I went about my business, I found myself wondering at my intense excitement overnight. I made a careful examination of the ground about the little lawn. I wasted some time in futile questionings, conveyed, as well as I was able, to such of the little people as came by. They all failed to understand my gestures; some were simply stolid, some thought it was a jest and laughed at me. I had the hardest task in the world to keep my hands off their pretty laughing faces. It was a foolish impulse, but the devil begotten of fear and blind anger was ill curbed and still eager to take advantage of my perplexity. The turf gave better counsel. I found a groove ripped in it, about midway between the pedestal of the sphinx and the marks of my feet where, on arrival, I had struggled with the overturned machine. There were other signs of removal about, with queer narrow footprints like those I could imagine made by a sloth. This directed my closer attention to the pedestal. It was, as I think I have said, of bronze. It was not a mere block, but highly decorated with deep framed panels on either side. I went and rapped at these. The pedestal was hollow. Examining the panels with care I found them discontinuous with the frames. There were no handles or keyholes, but possibly the panels, if they were doors, as I supposed, opened from within. One thing was clear enough to my mind. It took no very great mental effort to infer that my Time Machine was inside that pedestal. But how it got there was a different problem. 'I saw the heads of two orange-clad people coming through the bushes and under some blossom-covered apple-trees towards me. I turned smiling to them and beckoned them to me. They came, and then, pointing to the bronze pedestal, I tried to intimate my wish to open it. But at my first gesture towards this they behaved very oddly. I don't know how to convey their expression to you. Suppose you were to use a grossly improper gesture to a delicate-minded woman--it is how she would look. They went off as if they had received the last possible insult. I tried a sweet-looking little chap in white next, with exactly the same result. Somehow, his manner made me feel ashamed of myself. But, as you know, I wanted the Time Machine, and I tried him once more. As he turned off, like the others, my temper got the better of me. In three strides I was after him, had him by the loose part of his robe round the neck, and began dragging him towards the sphinx. Then I saw the horror and repugnance of his face, and all of a sudden I let him go. 'But I was not beaten yet. I banged with my fist at the bronze panels. I thought I heard something stir inside--to be explicit, I thought I heard a sound like a chuckle--but I must have been mistaken. Then I got a big pebble from the river, and came and hammered till I had flattened a coil in the decorations, and the verdigris came off in powdery flakes. The delicate little people must have heard me hammering in gusty outbreaks a mile away on either hand, but nothing came of it. I saw a crowd of them upon the slopes, looking furtively at me. At last, hot and tired, I sat down to watch the place. But I was too restless to watch long; I am too Occidental for a long vigil. I could work at a problem for years, but to wait inactive for twenty-four hours--that is another matter. 'I got up after a time, and began walking aimlessly through the bushes towards the hill again. "Patience," said I to myself. "If you want your machine again you must leave that sphinx alone. If they mean to take your machine away, it's little good your wrecking their bronze panels, and if they don't, you will get it back as soon as you can ask for it. To sit among all those unknown things before a puzzle like that is hopeless. That way lies monomania. Face this world. Learn its ways, watch it, be careful of too hasty guesses at its meaning. In the end you will find clues to it all." Then suddenly the humour of the situation came into my mind: the thought of the years I had spent in study and toil to get into the future age, and now my passion of anxiety to get out of it. I had made myself the most complicated and the most hopeless trap that ever a man devised. Although it was at my own expense, I could not help myself. I laughed aloud. 'Going through the big palace, it seemed to me that the little people avoided me. It may have been my fancy, or it may have had something to do with my hammering at the gates of bronze. Yet I felt tolerably sure of the avoidance. I was careful, however, to show no concern and to abstain from any pursuit of them, and in the course of a day or two things got back to the old footing. I made what progress I could in the language, and in addition I pushed my explorations here and there. Either I missed some subtle point or their language was excessively simple--almost exclusively composed of concrete substantives and verbs. There seemed to be few, if any, abstract terms, or little use of figurative language. Their sentences were usually simple and of two words, and I failed to convey or understand any but the simplest propositions. I determined to put the thought of my Time Machine and the mystery of the bronze doors under the sphinx as much as possible in a corner of memory, until my growing knowledge would lead me back to them in a natural way. Yet a certain feeling, you may understand, tethered me in a circle of a few miles round the point of my arrival. 'So far as I could see, all the world displayed the same exuberant richness as the Thames valley. From every hill I climbed I saw the same abundance of splendid buildings, endlessly varied in material and style, the same clustering thickets of evergreens, the same blossom-laden trees and tree-ferns. Here and there water shone like silver, and beyond, the land rose into blue undulating hills, and so faded into the serenity of the sky. A peculiar feature, which presently attracted my attention, was the presence of certain circular wells, several, as it seemed to me, of a very great depth. One lay by the path up the hill, which I had followed during my first walk. Like the others, it was rimmed with bronze, curiously wrought, and protected by a little cupola from the rain. Sitting by the side of these wells, and peering down into the shafted darkness, I could see no gleam of water, nor could I start any reflection with a lighted match. But in all of them I heard a certain sound: a thud--thud--thud, like the beating of some big engine; and I discovered, from the flaring of my matches, that a steady current of air set down the shafts. Further, I threw a scrap of paper into the throat of one, and, instead of fluttering slowly down, it was at once sucked swiftly out of sight. 'After a time, too, I came to connect these wells with tall towers standing here and there upon the slopes; for above them there was often just such a flicker in the air as one sees on a hot day above a sun-scorched beach. Putting things together, I reached a strong suggestion of an extensive system of subterranean ventilation, whose true import it was difficult to imagine. I was at first inclined to associate it with the sanitary apparatus of these people. It was an obvious conclusion, but it was absolutely wrong. 'And here I must admit that I learned very little of drains and bells and modes of conveyance, and the like conveniences, during my time in this real future. In some of these visions of Utopias and coming times which I have read, there is a vast amount of detail about building, and social arrangements, and so forth. But while such details are easy enough to obtain when the whole world is contained in one's imagination, they are altogether inaccessible to a real traveller amid such realities as I found here. Conceive the tale of London which a negro, fresh from Central Africa, would take back to his tribe! What would he know of railway companies, of social movements, of telephone and telegraph wires, of the Parcels Delivery Company, and postal orders and the like? Yet we, at least, should be willing enough to explain these things to him! And even of what he knew, how much could he make his untravelled friend either apprehend or believe? Then, think how narrow the gap between a negro and a white man of our own times, and how wide the interval between myself and these of the Golden Age! I was sensible of much which was unseen, and which contributed to my comfort; but save for a general impression of automatic organization, I fear I can convey very little of the difference to your mind. 'In the matter of sepulture, for instance, I could see no signs of crematoria nor anything suggestive of tombs. But it occurred to me that, possibly, there might be cemeteries (or crematoria) somewhere beyond the range of my explorings. This, again, was a question I deliberately put to myself, and my curiosity was at first entirely defeated upon the point. The thing puzzled me, and I was led to make a further remark, which puzzled me still more: that aged and infirm among this people there were none. 'I must confess that my satisfaction with my first theories of an automatic civilization and a decadent humanity did not long endure. Yet I could think of no other. Let me put my difficulties. The several big palaces I had explored were mere living places, great dining-halls and sleeping apartments. I could find no machinery, no appliances of any kind. Yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics that must at times need renewal, and their sandals, though undecorated, were fairly complex specimens of metalwork. Somehow such things must be made. And the little people displayed no vestige of a creative tendency. There were no shops, no workshops, no sign of importations among them. They spent all their time in playing gently, in bathing in the river, in making love in a half-playful fashion, in eating fruit and sleeping. I could not see how things were kept going. 'Then, again, about the Time Machine: something, I knew not what, had taken it into the hollow pedestal of the White Sphinx. Why? For the life of me I could not imagine. Those waterless wells, too, those flickering pillars. I felt I lacked a clue. I felt--how shall I put it? Suppose you found an inscription, with sentences here and there in excellent plain English, and interpolated therewith, others made up of words, of letters even, absolutely unknown to you? Well, on the third day of my visit, that was how the world of Eight Hundred and Two Thousand Seven Hundred and One presented itself to me! 'That day, too, I made a friend--of a sort. It happened that, as I was watching some of the little people bathing in a shallow, one of them was seized with cramp and began drifting downstream. The main current ran rather swiftly, but not too strongly for even a moderate swimmer. It will give you an idea, therefore, of the strange deficiency in these creatures, when I tell you that none made the slightest attempt to rescue the weakly crying little thing which was drowning before their eyes. When I realized this, I hurriedly slipped off my clothes, and, wading in at a point lower down, I caught the poor mite and drew her safe to land. A little rubbing of the limbs soon brought her round, and I had the satisfaction of seeing she was all right before I left her. I had got to such a low estimate of her kind that I did not expect any gratitude from her. In that, however, I was wrong. 'This happened in the morning. In the afternoon I met my little woman, as I believe it was, as I was returning towards my centre from an exploration, and she received me with cries of delight and presented me with a big garland of flowers--evidently made for me and me alone. The thing took my imagination. Very possibly I had been feeling desolate. At any rate I did my best to display my appreciation of the gift. We were soon seated together in a little stone arbour, engaged in conversation, chiefly of smiles. The creature's friendliness affected me exactly as a child's might have done. We passed each other flowers, and she kissed my hands. I did the same to hers. Then I tried talk, and found that her name was Weena, which, though I don't know what it meant, somehow seemed appropriate enough. That was the beginning of a queer friendship which lasted a week, and ended--as I will tell you! 'She was exactly like a child. She wanted to be with me always. She tried to follow me everywhere, and on my next journey out and about it went to my heart to tire her down, and leave her at last, exhausted and calling after me rather plaintively. But the problems of the world had to be mastered. I had not, I said to myself, come into the future to carry on a miniature flirtation. Yet her distress when I left her was very great, her expostulations at the parting were sometimes frantic, and I think, altogether, I had as much trouble as comfort from her devotion. Nevertheless she was, somehow, a very great comfort. I thought it was mere childish affection that made her cling to me. Until it was too late, I did not clearly know what I had inflicted upon her when I left her. Nor until it was too late did I clearly understand what she was to me. For, by merely seeming fond of me, and showing in her weak, futile way that she cared for me, the little doll of a creature presently gave my return to the neighbourhood of the White Sphinx almost the feeling of coming home; and I would watch for her tiny figure of white and gold so soon as I came over the hill. 'It was from her, too, that I learned that fear had not yet left the world. She was fearless enough in the daylight, and she had the oddest confidence in me; for once, in a foolish moment, I made threatening grimaces at her, and she simply laughed at them. But she dreaded the dark, dreaded shadows, dreaded black things. Darkness to her was the one thing dreadful. It was a singularly passionate emotion, and it set me thinking and observing. I discovered then, among other things, that these little people gathered into the great houses after dark, and slept in droves. To enter upon them without a light was to put them into a tumult of apprehension. I never found one out of doors, or one sleeping alone within doors, after dark. Yet I was still such a blockhead that I missed the lesson of that fear, and in spite of Weena's distress I insisted upon sleeping away from these slumbering multitudes. 'It troubled her greatly, but in the end her odd affection for me triumphed, and for five of the nights of our acquaintance, including the last night of all, she slept with her head pillowed on my arm. But my story slips away from me as I speak of her. It must have been the night before her rescue that I was awakened about dawn. I had been restless, dreaming most disagreeably that I was drowned, and that sea anemones were feeling over my face with their soft palps. I woke with a start, and with an odd fancy that some greyish animal had just rushed out of the chamber. I tried to get to sleep again, but I felt restless and uncomfortable. It was that dim grey hour when things are just creeping out of darkness, when everything is colourless and clear cut, and yet unreal. I got up, and went down into the great hall, and so out upon the flagstones in front of the palace. I thought I would make a virtue of necessity, and see the sunrise. 'The moon was setting, and the dying moonlight and the first pallor of dawn were mingled in a ghastly half-light. The bushes were inky black, the ground a sombre grey, the sky colourless and cheerless. And up the hill I thought I could see ghosts. There several times, as I scanned the slope, I saw white figures. Twice I fancied I saw a solitary white, ape-like creature running rather quickly up the hill, and once near the ruins I saw a leash of them carrying some dark body. They moved hastily. I did not see what became of them. It seemed that they vanished among the bushes. The dawn was still indistinct, you must understand. I was feeling that chill, uncertain, early-morning feeling you may have known. I doubted my eyes. 'As the eastern sky grew brighter, and the light of the day came on and its vivid colouring returned upon the world once more, I scanned the view keenly. But I saw no vestige of my white figures. They were mere creatures of the half light. "They must have been ghosts," I said; "I wonder whence they dated." For a queer notion of Grant Allen's came into my head, and amused me. If each generation die and leave ghosts, he argued, the world at last will get overcrowded with them. On that theory they would have grown innumerable some Eight Hundred Thousand Years hence, and it was no great wonder to see four at once. But the jest was unsatisfying, and I was thinking of these figures all the morning, until Weena's rescue drove them out of my head. I associated them in some indefinite way with the white animal I had startled in my first passionate search for the Time Machine. But Weena was a pleasant substitute. Yet all the same, they were soon destined to take far deadlier possession of my mind. 'I think I have said how much hotter than our own was the weather of this Golden Age. I cannot account for it. It may be that the sun was hotter, or the earth nearer the sun. It is usual to assume that the sun will go on cooling steadily in the future. But people, unfamiliar with such speculations as those of the younger Darwin, forget that the planets must ultimately fall back one by one into the parent body. As these catastrophes occur, the sun will blaze with renewed energy; and it may be that some inner planet had suffered this fate. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that the sun was very much hotter than we know it. 'Well, one very hot morning--my fourth, I think--as I was seeking shelter from the heat and glare in a colossal ruin near the great house where I slept and fed, there happened this strange thing: Clambering among these heaps of masonry, I found a narrow gallery, whose end and side windows were blocked by fallen masses of stone. By contrast with the brilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me. I entered it groping, for the change from light to blackness made spots of colour swim before me. Suddenly I halted spellbound. A pair of eyes, luminous by reflection against the daylight without, was watching me out of the darkness. 'The old instinctive dread of wild beasts came upon me. I clenched my hands and steadfastly looked into the glaring eyeballs. I was afraid to turn. Then the thought of the absolute security in which humanity appeared to be living came to my mind. And then I remembered that strange terror of the dark. Overcoming my fear to some extent, I advanced a step and spoke. I will admit that my voice was harsh and ill-controlled. I put out my hand and touched something soft. At once the eyes darted sideways, and something white ran past me. I turned with my heart in my mouth, and saw a queer little ape-like figure, its head held down in a peculiar manner, running across the sunlit space behind me. It blundered against a block of granite, staggered aside, and in a moment was hidden in a black shadow beneath another pile of ruined masonry. 'My impression of it is, of course, imperfect; but I know it was a dull white, and had strange large greyish-red eyes; also that there was flaxen hair on its head and down its back. But, as I say, it went too fast for me to see distinctly. I cannot even say whether it ran on all-fours, or only with its forearms held very low. After an instant's pause I followed it into the second heap of ruins. I could not find it at first; but, after a time in the profound obscurity, I came upon one of those round well-like openings of which I have told you, half closed by a fallen pillar. A sudden thought came to me. Could this Thing have vanished down the shaft? I lit a match, and, looking down, I saw a small, white, moving creature, with large bright eyes which regarded me steadfastly as it retreated. It made me shudder. It was so like a human spider! It was clambering down the wall, and now I saw for the first time a number of metal foot and hand rests forming a kind of ladder down the shaft. Then the light burned my fingers and fell out of my hand, going out as it dropped, and when I had lit another the little monster had disappeared. 'I do not know how long I sat peering down that well. It was not for some time that I could succeed in persuading myself that the thing I had seen was human. But, gradually, the truth dawned on me: that Man had not remained one species, but had differentiated into two distinct animals: that my graceful children of the Upper-world were not the sole descendants of our generation, but that this bleached, obscene, nocturnal Thing, which had flashed before me, was also heir to all the ages. 'I thought of the flickering pillars and of my theory of an underground ventilation. I began to suspect their true import. And what, I wondered, was this Lemur doing in my scheme of a perfectly balanced organization? How was it related to the indolent serenity of the beautiful Upper-worlders? And what was hidden down there, at the foot of that shaft? I sat upon the edge of the well telling myself that, at any rate, there was nothing to fear, and that there I must descend for the solution of my difficulties. And withal I was absolutely afraid to go! As I hesitated, two of the beautiful Upper-world people came running in their amorous sport across the daylight in the shadow. The male pursued the female, flinging flowers at her as he ran. 'They seemed distressed to find me, my arm against the overturned pillar, peering down the well. Apparently it was considered bad form to remark these apertures; for when I pointed to this one, and tried to frame a question about it in their tongue, they were still more visibly distressed and turned away. But they were interested by my matches, and I struck some to amuse them. I tried them again about the well, and again I failed. So presently I left them, meaning to go back to Weena, and see what I could get from her. But my mind was already in revolution; my guesses and impressions were slipping and sliding to a new adjustment. I had now a clue to the import of these wells, to the ventilating towers, to the mystery of the ghosts; to say nothing of a hint at the meaning of the bronze gates and the fate of the Time Machine! And very vaguely there came a suggestion towards the solution of the economic problem that had puzzled me. 'Here was the new view. Plainly, this second species of Man was subterranean. There were three circumstances in particular which made me think that its rare emergence above ground was the outcome of a long-continued underground habit. In the first place, there was the bleached look common in most animals that live largely in the dark--the white fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance. Then, those large eyes, with that capacity for reflecting light, are common features of nocturnal things--witness the owl and the cat. And last of all, that evident confusion in the sunshine, that hasty yet fumbling awkward flight towards dark shadow, and that peculiar carriage of the head while in the light--all reinforced the theory of an extreme sensitiveness of the retina. 'Beneath my feet, then, the earth must be tunnelled enormously, and these tunnellings were the habitat of the new race. The presence of ventilating shafts and wells along the hill slopes--everywhere, in fact, except along the river valley--showed how universal were its ramifications. What so natural, then, as to assume that it was in this artificial Underworld that such work as was necessary to the comfort of the daylight race was done? The notion was so plausible that I at once accepted it, and went on to assume the _how_ of this splitting of the human species. I dare say you will anticipate the shape of my theory; though, for myself, I very soon felt that it fell far short of the truth. 'At first, proceeding from the problems of our own age, it seemed clear as daylight to me that the gradual widening of the present merely temporary and social difference between the Capitalist and the Labourer, was the key to the whole position. No doubt it will seem grotesque enough to you--and wildly incredible!--and yet even now there are existing circumstances to point that way. There is a tendency to utilize underground space for the less ornamental purposes of civilization; there is the Metropolitan Railway in London, for instance, there are new electric railways, there are subways, there are underground workrooms and restaurants, and they increase and multiply. Evidently, I thought, this tendency had increased till Industry had gradually lost its birthright in the sky. I mean that it had gone deeper and deeper into larger and ever larger underground factories, spending a still-increasing amount of its time therein, till, in the end--! Even now, does not an East-end worker live in such artificial conditions as practically to be cut off from the natural surface of the earth? 'Again, the exclusive tendency of richer people--due, no doubt, to the increasing refinement of their education, and the widening gulf between them and the rude violence of the poor--is already leading to the closing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of the land. About London, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country is shut in against intrusion. And this same widening gulf--which is due to the length and expense of the higher educational process and the increased facilities for and temptations towards refined habits on the part of the rich--will make that exchange between class and class, that promotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of our species along lines of social stratification, less and less frequent. So, in the end, above ground you must have the Haves, pursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the Have-nots, the Workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of their labour. Once they were there, they would no doubt have to pay rent, and not a little of it, for the ventilation of their caverns; and if they refused, they would starve or be suffocated for arrears. Such of them as were so constituted as to be miserable and rebellious would die; and, in the end, the balance being permanent, the survivors would become as well adapted to the conditions of underground life, and as happy in their way, as the Upper-world people were to theirs. As it seemed to me, the refined beauty and the etiolated pallor followed naturally enough. 'The great triumph of Humanity I had dreamed of took a different shape in my mind. It had been no such triumph of moral education and general co-operation as I had imagined. Instead, I saw a real aristocracy, armed with a perfected science and working to a logical conclusion the industrial system of to-day. Its triumph had not been simply a triumph over Nature, but a triumph over Nature and the fellow-man. This, I must warn you, was my theory at the time. I had no convenient cicerone in the pattern of the Utopian books. My explanation may be absolutely wrong. I still think it is the most plausible one. But even on this supposition the balanced civilization that was at last attained must have long since passed its zenith, and was now far fallen into decay. The too-perfect security of the Upper-worlders had led them to a slow movement of degeneration, to a general dwindling in size, strength, and intelligence. That I could see clearly enough already. What had happened to the Under-grounders I did not yet suspect; but from what I had seen of the Morlocks--that, by the by, was the name by which these creatures were called--I could imagine that the modification of the human type was even far more profound than among the "Eloi," the beautiful race that I already knew. 'Then came troublesome doubts. Why had the Morlocks taken my Time Machine? For I felt sure it was they who had taken it. Why, too, if the Eloi were masters, could they not restore the machine to me? And why were they so terribly afraid of the dark? I proceeded, as I have said, to question Weena about this Under-world, but here again I was disappointed. At first she would not understand my questions, and presently she refused to answer them. She shivered as though the topic was unendurable. And when I pressed her, perhaps a little harshly, she burst into tears. They were the only tears, except my own, I ever saw in that Golden Age. When I saw them I ceased abruptly to trouble about the Morlocks, and was only concerned in banishing these signs of the human inheritance from Weena's eyes. And very soon she was smiling and clapping her hands, while I solemnly burned a match. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Als der Zeitreisende mehr auf dem Gipfel des Hügels nachdenkt, erscheint der Vollmond, die Kreaturen gehen in die Gebäude und er beschließt, einen Schlafplatz zu finden. Er betrachtet den Garten mit der Weißen Sphinx und ist schockiert festzustellen, dass die Zeitmaschine verschwunden ist. Ängstlich, dass er in der Zukunft gestrandet sein könnte, rennt er in den Garten. Der einzige Gedanke, der ihn tröstet, ist, dass die Zeitmaschine ohne die Hebel nicht funktionsfähig ist. In Panik rennt er durch den Garten und sucht nach der Maschine und erschreckt dabei ein Tier im Halbdunkel, das er für einen kleinen Hirsch hält. Er betritt das große Steinbauwerk von zuvor, zündet ein Streichholz an und entdeckt einen zweiten großen Saal darin, in dem viele der Kreaturen schlafen. Einige der Kreaturen wachen auf, als der Zeitreisende nach seiner Zeitmaschine ruft. Er beruhigt sich und geht wieder nach draußen, nur um ihre "Schreie des Schreckens" zu hören, als sie umher rennen. Er tastet sich im Dunkeln nach der Zeitmaschine und "berührt dabei seltsame Kreaturen im Schatten", bis er auf dem Boden einschläft und am nächsten Tag aufwacht. Er beschließt, das Beste aus seiner Situation zu machen und möglicherweise eine neue Maschine zu bauen, aber zuerst will er die alte suchen. Die Befragung der Kreaturen ist erfolglos, aber er findet Hinweise darauf, dass die Maschine in den hohlen bronzenen Sockel unter der Weißen Sphinx gezogen wurde, sowie nahegelegene Fußspuren eines Tieres, das er sich als Faultier vorstellt. Allerdings weiß er nicht, wie er den Sockel öffnen kann, und als er einigen der Kreaturen zu verstehen gibt, dass er ihn öffnen möchte, scheinen sie tief beleidigt zu sein und gehen weg. Er schlägt gegen den Sockel und meint, etwas darin bewegen zu hören. Nachdem er mehrmals dagegen geschlagen hat, bittet er sich selbst um Geduld. In den nächsten Tagen lernt der Zeitreisende noch etwas mehr von der einfachen Sprache der Kreaturen und versucht, seine fehlende Zeitmaschine zu vergessen, bis er genug Wissen hat, um sie wiederzufinden. Die Umgebung erweist sich als durchweg schön, aber die tiefen, kreisförmigen Brunnen machen ihm weiterhin Rätsel, ebenso wie das Vakuum, das sie erzeugen, und das dumpfe Geräusch von unten. Er bringt die Anwesenheit der Brunnen mit den verstreuten hohen Türmen in Verbindung und kommt zu dem Schluss, dass es sich um ein unterirdisches Belüftungssystem handelt, eine Idee, die sich als falsch erweisen wird. Er gibt zu, dass er wenig über Transport und andere Merkmale der Gesellschaft lernt, außer einem "allgemeinen Eindruck von automatischer Organisation". Das Fehlen von alten oder kranken Kreaturen verwirrt ihn, ebenso wie das Fehlen von Friedhöfen oder Gräbern. Obwohl er nicht glauben kann, dass die Gesellschaft vollständig automatisch ist, kann er keine anderen Erklärungen finden. An seinem dritten Tag rettet der Zeitreisende eine junge weibliche Kreatur vor dem Ertrinken im flachen Fluss. Später schenkt sie ihm einen Blumenkranz. Ihr Name ist Weena, und der Zeitreisende erklärt, dass es der Beginn einer "eigenartigen Freundschaft war, die eine Woche lang andauerte und endete - wie ich Ihnen sagen werde. Weena folgt ihm wie ein Hund und ist traurig, wenn sie mit seinen Erkundungen nicht mithalten kann und zurückbleibt. Der Zeitreisende erklärt, dass er nicht wusste, was er ihr jedes Mal, wenn er sie zurückließ, "zugefügt hatte", und dass er nicht verstanden hatte, was sie ihm bedeutete. Er erfährt, dass sie nur Angst vor der Dunkelheit hat und dass die Kreaturen nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit nur in Gruppen im Inneren schlafen. Trotzdem schläft der Zeitreisende weiterhin abseits der Gruppen. Weena schläft schließlich neben dem Zeitreisenden. Der Zeitreisende erzählt weiter von der Nacht, bevor er Weena gerettet hat. Er erwacht bei Sonnenaufgang und sieht zweimal weiße, affenähnliche Kreaturen allein einen Hügel hinauflaufen und einmal sieht er mehrere von ihnen einen dunklen Körper tragen. Sobald die Sonne aufgeht, sieht er sie nicht mehr und fragt sich, ob es Geister waren. Obwohl die Rettung von Weena ihn an diesem Tag an sie vergessen lässt, sagt er, sie würden bald eine "weit tödlichere Besessenheit von meinem Verstand ergreifen". An seinem vierten Morgen findet der Zeitreisende während er Schutz vor der Hitze in einer der Ruinen sucht, einen dunklen, engen Gang. Als er ihn betritt, entdeckt er ein Paar Augen, die ihn in der Dunkelheit beobachten. Er spricht und berührt etwas Weiches, dann sieht er eine kleine, weiße affenartige Kreatur in den von Sonnenlicht durchfluteten Raum rennen. Er folgt ihr in eine zweite Ruine, wo er einen Brunnen findet. Er zündet ein Streichholz an, schaut hinein und sieht die Kreatur an den Metallfuß- und Handstützen an der Wand hinabklettern. Der Zeitreisende erkennt, dass sich der Mensch in zwei verschiedene Tiere entwickelt hat, die "oberirdischen" Kreaturen und die nächtlichen Kreaturen unten. Er fragt sich, welche Beziehung zwischen den beiden besteht, und beschließt, in den Brunnen hinabzusteigen, obwohl er Angst davor hat. Zwei der "oberirdischen" Kreaturen sind bestürzt, als sie ihn in den Brunnen schauen sehen, und lassen ihn allein. Er entwickelt eine neue Theorie, wie ihre Welt funktioniert: die neue Art, die er gefunden hat, ist unterirdisch und lebt in Tunneln, die von den Türmen und Brunnen belüftet werden, und arbeitet, um die Funktion der "oberirdischen" zu gewährleisten. Er glaubt, dass die Menschheit sich infolge der immer größer werdenden Kluft zwischen "Kapitalisten und Arbeitern" aufgespalten hat und dass die Armen zunehmend in unterirdische Gebiete verbannt wurden, während die Reichen an der Oberfläche geblieben sind. Der Mangel an Interaktion zwischen den "Habenichtsen" und den "Habenden" hat zu einer geringeren Vermischung und zur Entstehung von zwei unterschiedlichen Arten geführt, die sich an ihre eigenen Umgebungen angepasst haben. Trotzdem glaubt er, dass die Arten gleich glücklich sind. Er glaubt, dass die Menschheit nicht nur über die Natur triumphiert hat, sondern auch über "Natur und den Mitmenschen". Der Zeitreisende erklärt, dass er nicht sicher ist, ob dies die richtige Erklärung ist, aber sie scheint ihm die plausibelste zu sein. Er fragt sich, warum die Morlocks - so nennt er die Wesen aus der Unterwelt - seine Zeitmaschine genommen haben und warum die Eloi - so nennt er die Wesen an der Oberfläche - sie ihm nicht zurückgeben können, wenn sie die Herrschenden sind, und warum sie Angst vor der Dunkelheit haben. Weena weigert sich, seine Fragen zu beantworten und weint sogar.

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: A Family Party Maggie left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, and went to Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet according to agreement. In the mean time very unexpected things had happened, and there was to be a family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a change in the fortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely finally to carry away the shadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause their hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded splendor. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come into office are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of high appreciation and full-blown eulogy; in many respectable families throughout this realm, relatives becoming creditable meet with a similar cordiality of recognition, which in its fine freedom from the coercion of any antecedents, suggests the hopeful possibility that we may some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who have ceased to bite, and wolves that no longer show their teeth with any but the blandest intentions. Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for she longed to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the wonderful news. It seemed, did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air of wisdom, as if everything, even other people's misfortunes (poor creatures!) were conspiring now to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, and cousin Tom, and naughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent on the contrary, as happy as they deserved to be after all their troubles. To think that the very day--the _very day_--after Tom had come back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom Mr. Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at St. Ogg's in a dangerous state, so that Wakem had signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter on the premises at once! It was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as if the misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other time, in order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of his exemplary conduct,--papa thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver must certainly go to the Mill now, and keep house for Tom; that was rather a loss to Lucy in the matter of household comfort; but then, to think of poor aunty being in her old place again, and gradually getting comforts about her there! On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when she and Maggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into the handsome parlor, where the very sunbeams seemed cleaner than elsewhere, she directed her manoeuvres, as any other great tactician would have done, against the weaker side of the enemy. "Aunt Pullet," she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressingly adjusting that lady's floating cap-string, "I want you to make up your mind what linen and things you will give Tom toward housekeeping; because you are always so generous,--you give such nice things, you know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow." "That she never can, my dear," said Mrs. Pullet, with unusual vigor, "for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit wi' mine, I can tell you. She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend the money. Big checks and live things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen is,--not a spot nor a diamond among 'em. But it's poor work dividing one's linen before one dies,--I niver thought to ha' done that, Bessy," Mrs. Pullet continued, shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver, "when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver we'd spun, and the Lord knows where yours is gone." "I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, accustomed to consider herself in the light of an accused person. "I'm sure it was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie awake o' nights thinking o' my best bleached linen all over the country." "Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver," said uncle Pullet, feeling that he was offering a cheap and wholesome form of comfort, which he was recommending by example. "Oh, but, aunt Pullet," said Lucy, "you've so much beautiful linen. And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it when they were married." "Well, I don't say as I won't do it," said Mrs. Pullet, "for now Tom's so lucky, it's nothing but right his friends should look on him and help him. There's the tablecloths I bought at your sale, Bessy; it was nothing but good natur' o' me to buy 'em, for they've been lying in the chest ever since. But I'm not going to give Maggie any more o' my Indy muslin and things, if she's to go into service again, when she might stay and keep me company, and do my sewing for me, if she wasn't wanted at her brother's." "Going into service" was the expression by which the Dodson mind represented to itself the position of teacher or governess; and Maggie's return to that menial condition, now circumstances offered her more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her hair down her back, and altogether in a state of dubious promise, was a most undesirable niece; but now she was capable of being at once ornamental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle Glegg's presence, over the tea and muffins. "Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on the back, "nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us hear of you taking a place again, Maggie. Why, you must ha' picked up half-a-dozen sweethearts at the bazaar; isn't there one of 'em the right sort of article? Come, now?" "Mr. Glegg," said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness in her severity which she always put on with her crisper fronts, "you'll excuse me, but you're far too light for a man of your years. It's respect and duty to her aunts, and the rest of her kin as are so good to her, should have kept my niece from fixing about going away again without consulting us; not sweethearts, if I'm to use such a word, though it was never heared in _my_ family." "Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, then, eh, neighbor Pullet? They thought us sweet enough then," said Mr. Glegg, winking pleasantly; while Mr. Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness, took a little more sugar. "Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., "if you're going to be undelicate, let me know." "La, Jane, your husband's only joking," said Mrs. Pullet; "let him joke while he's got health and strength. There's poor Mr. Tilt got his mouth drawn all o' one side, and couldn't laugh if he was to try." "I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., "if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though it's other people must see the joke in a niece's putting a slight on her mother's eldest sister, as is the head o' the family; and only coming in and out on short visits, all the time she's been in the town, and then settling to go away without my knowledge,--as I'd laid caps out on purpose for her to make 'em up for me,--and me as have divided my money so equal----" "Sister," Mrs. Tulliver broke in anxiously, "I'm sure Maggie never thought o' going away without staying at your house as well as the others. Not as it's my wish she should go away at all, but quite contrairy. I'm sure I'm innocent. I've said over and over again, 'My dear, you've no call to go away.' But there's ten days or a fortnight Maggie'll have before she's fixed to go; she can stay at your house just as well, and I'll step in when I can, and so will Lucy." "Bessy," said Mrs. Glegg, "if you'd exercise a little more thought, you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to unpin a bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o' the time, when our house isn't above a quarter of an hour's walk from Mr. Deane's. She can come the first thing in the morning, and go back the last at night, and be thankful she's got a good aunt so close to her to come and sit with. I know _I_ should, when I was her age." "La, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, "it 'ud do your beds good to have somebody to sleep in 'em. There's that striped room smells dreadful mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything. I'm sure I thought I should be struck with death when you took me in." "Oh, there is Tom!" exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. "He's come on Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep his promise." Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, at this first meeting since the prospect of returning to the Mill had been opened to him; and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair by her side. To have no cloud between herself and Tom was still a perpetual yearning in her, that had its root deeper than all change. He smiled at her very kindly this evening, and said, "Well, Magsie, how's aunt Moss?" "Come, come, sir," said Mr. Glegg putting out his hand. "Why, you're such a big man, you carry all before you, it, seems. You're come into your luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did; but I wish you joy, I wish you joy. You'll get the Mill all for your own again some day, I'll be bound. You won't stop half-way up the hill." "But I hope he'll bear in mind as it's his mother's family as he owes it to," said Mrs. Glegg. "If he hadn't had them to take after, he'd ha' been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, nor wastefulness in our family, nor dying without wills----" "No, nor sudden deaths," said aunt Pullet; "allays the doctor called in. But Tom had the Dodson skin; I said that from the first. And I don't know what _you_ mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give him a tablecloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I don't say what more I shall do; but _that_ I shall do, and if I should die to-morrow, Mr. Pullet, you'll bear it in mind,--though you'll be blundering with the keys, and never remember as that on the third shelf o' the left-hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the broad ties,--not the narrow-frilled uns,--is the key of the drawer in the Blue Room, where the key o' the Blue Closet is. You'll make a mistake, and I shall niver be worthy to know it. You've a memory for my pills and draughts, wonderful,--I'll allays say that of you,--but you're lost among the keys." This gloomy prospect of the confusion that would ensue on her decease was very affecting to Mrs. Pullet. "You carry it too far, Sophy,--that locking in and out," said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. "You go beyond your own family. There's nobody can say I don't lock up; but I do what's reasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out what's serviceable, to make a present of to my nephey; I've got cloth as has never been whitened, better worth having than other people's fine holland; and I hope he'll lie down in it and think of his aunt." Tom thanked Mrs. Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly on her virtues; and Mrs. Glegg effected a diversion for him by asking about Mr. Deane's intentions concerning steam. Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to come on Sindbad. It appeared, when it was time to go home, that the man-servant was to ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy. "You must sit by yourself, aunty," said that contriving young lady, "because I must sit by Tom; I've a great deal to say to him." In the eagerness of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, Lucy could not persuade herself to defer a conversation about her with Tom, who, she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapid fulfilment of his wish about the Mill, must become pliant and flexible. Her nature supplied her with no key to Tom's; and she was puzzled as well as pained to notice the unpleasant change on his countenance when she gave him the history of the way in which Philip had used his influence with his father. She had counted on this revelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Tom's heart toward Philip at once, and, besides that, prove that the elder Wakem was ready to receive Maggie with all the honors of a daughter-in-law. Nothing was wanted, then, but for dear Tom, who always had that pleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to turn completely round, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declare that he, for his part, was delighted that all the old grievances should be healed, and that Maggie should have Philip with all suitable despatch; in cousin Lucy's opinion nothing could be easier. But to minds strongly marked by the positive and negative qualities that create severity,--strength of will, conscious rectitude of purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of self-control, and a disposition to exert control over others,--prejudices come as the natural food of tendencies which can get no sustenance out of that complex, fragmentary, doubt-provoking knowledge which we call truth. Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye,--however it may come, these minds will give it a habitation; it is something to assert strongly and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneous ideas, something to impose on others with the authority of conscious right; it is at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that will answer these purposes is self-evident. Our good, upright Tom Tulliver's mind was of this class; his inward criticism of his father's faults did not prevent him from adopting his father's prejudice; it was a prejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was a meeting-point for all the disappointed feelings of family and personal pride. Other feelings added their force to produce Tom's bitter repugnance to Philip, and to Maggie's union with him; and notwithstanding Lucy's power over her strong-willed cousin, she got nothing but a cold refusal ever to sanction such a marriage; "but of course Maggie could do as she liked,--she had declared her determination to be independent. For Tom's part, he held himself bound by his duty to his father's memory, and by every manly feeling, never to consent to any relation with the Wakems." Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fill Tom's mind with the expectation that Maggie's perverse resolve to go into a situation again would presently metamorphose itself, as her resolves were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirely different,--a marriage with Philip Wakem. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am Ende der Woche besucht Maggie Tante Pullet. Dort findet eine Party statt, um Toms Erwerb der Mühle zu feiern. Lucy kommt früh, um mit Maggie zu sprechen und Tante Pullet davon zu überzeugen, einige Dinge an Tom und seine Mutter zu spenden, um ihnen das Haushalten zu erleichtern. Frau Pullet stimmt schließlich zu, etwas von ihrer Bettwäsche aufzugeben, sagt aber, dass sie nichts für Maggie aufbewahren wird, da das Mädchen darauf besteht, "in den Dienst zu gehen". Maggies Beschäftigung ist ein wunder Punkt für ihre Familie, die alle möchten, dass sie zu ihnen kommt, jetzt, da sie "gleichermaßen schmückend und nützlich sein kann". Frau Glegg ist empört, dass Maggie nicht ihre Pflicht gegenüber ihren Tanten erfüllt, sondern "heimschechelt", ohne dass sie davon wissen. Allerdings ist sie nicht bereit, Maggie bei sich wohnen zu lassen, da damit ein weiteres Zimmer geöffnet werden müsste. Stattdessen besteht sie darauf, dass Maggie sie jeden Morgen besucht. Tom wird herzlich begrüßt und daran erinnert, dass er seinen Erfolg dem guten Vorbild von Mutters Familie verdankt. Lucy plant, dass Tom sie nach der Party nach Hause fährt, zusammen mit seiner Mutter. Sie setzt darauf, dass sie bei dieser Gelegenheit seine Zustimmung für Maggies Heirat mit Philip erhält. Aber alles, was sie erreicht, ist, dass Tom glaubt, Maggie werde einen "verkehrten Entschluss... in etwas Gleiches, aber völlig anderes" ändern...Tom verweigert seinen Segen, obwohl er sagt, Maggie könne tun, was sie will.

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: SZENE III. Dunsinane. Ein Raum im Schloss. [Macbeth, Doktor und Begleiter betreten die Bühne.] MACBETH. Bringt mir keine weiteren Berichte; lasst sie alle fliehen: Bis Birnam Wood nach Dunsinane zieht, kann ich mich von Angst nicht anstecken lassen. Was ist mit dem Jungen Malcolm? Ist er nicht von einer Frau geboren? Die Geister, die alle sterblichen Konsequenzen kennen, haben mir so zugesprochen, - "Fürchte dich nicht, Macbeth; kein Mann, der von einer Frau geboren ist, wird je Macht über dich haben." Dann flieht, falsche Vasallen, und mischt euch unter die englischen Gourmets: Den Geist, dem ich gehorche, und das Herz, das ich trage, werden nie von Zweifeln erfüllt sein oder vor Angst zittern. [Ein Diener tritt auf.] Der Teufel verdamme dich, du weißgesichtiger Lump! Woher hast du diesen dummen Blick? DIENER. Es sind zehntausend-- MACBETH. Gänse, Schurke? DIENER. Soldaten, Herr. MACBETH. Mach dein Gesicht bleich und färbe deine Angst über, du furchtsamer Feigling. Welche Soldaten, Halunke? Deine Leinwange ist der Tod deiner Seele! Sie sind Berater der Angst. Welche Soldaten, Käsegesicht? DIENER. Die englische Streitmacht, wenn es Ihnen gefällt. MACBETH. Begib dich fort mit deinem Gesicht. [Der Diener verlässt die Bühne.] Seyton! - Mir ist schlecht, wenn ich sehe - Seyton, sage ich! - Dieser Ansturm wird mich entweder krönen oder mich nun verdrängen. Ich habe lange genug gelebt: meine Lebensweise ist vergangen wie das welke, gelbe Blatt; und das, was dem Alter eigen sein sollte, wie Ehre, Liebe, Gehorsam, Trupps von Freunden, darf ich nicht erwarten; sondern an ihrer Stelle Flüche, nicht laut, sondern tief, Ehre im Mund, Atem, die das arme Herz gerne leugnen würde und nicht wagt. Seyton! [Seyton betritt die Bühne.] SEYTON. Euer gnädiges Anliegen? MACBETH. Was gibt es Neues? SEYTON. Alles ist bestätigt, mein Herr, was berichtet wurde. MACBETH. Ich werde kämpfen, bis mein Fleisch von meinen Knochen gerissen ist. Gib mir meine Rüstung. SEYTON. Noch ist sie nicht nötig. MACBETH. Ich werde sie anziehen. Schicke mehr Pferde los, durchkämme das Land; hängt die, die von Angst sprechen. - Gib mir meine Rüstung. - Wie geht es Ihrem Patienten, Doktor? DOKTOR. Nicht so krank, mein Herr, aber gequält von dicht aufeinanderfolgenden Vorstellungen, die sie vom Schlaf abhalten. MACBETH. Heile sie davon: Kannst du einem kranken Geist nicht helfen; einen tief verwurzelten Kummer aus dem Gedächtnis ziehen; die geschriebenen Schwierigkeiten des Gehirns auslöschen, und mit einem süßen vergesslichen Gegenmittel die überfüllte Brust von jener gefährlichen Last reinigen, die auf dem Herzen lastet? DOKTOR. Da muss der Patient sich selbst helfen. MACBETH. Wirf Medizin den Hunden zu - ich will nichts davon hören. - Komm, zieh meine Rüstung an; gib mir meinen Stab: - Seyton, schick los. - Doktor, die Vasallen fliehen vor mir. - Komm, Herr, beeile dich. - Wenn du könntest, Doktor, durch das Wasser meines Landes sehen, ihre Krankheit diagnostizieren, und sie zu vollständiger und gesunder Gesundheit reinigen, dann würde ich dich bis in den letzten Nachhall loben, der wiederum loben würde. - Nimm sie ab, sage ich. - Welches Rhabarberkraut, Sennesstrauch oder welches Abführmittel würde diese Engländer vertreiben? Hörst du etwas von ihnen? DOKTOR. Ja, mein Herr; Ihre königliche Vorbereitung bringt uns etwas Neues zu Gehör. MACBETH. Bring es mir nach. - Ich werde weder vor Tod noch Verderben bangen, bis Birnam Forest nach Dunsinane kommt. [Alle abgesehen vom Doktor verlassen die Bühne.] DOKTOR. Wäre ich von Dunsinane fort und frei, Profit würd mich kaum hierher ziehen. [Ab.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Diese Szene eröffnet vor dem Schloss des Königs in England, wo Malcolm und Macduff über den Zustand der Angelegenheiten sprechen, die Macbeth in Schottland verursacht hat. Es ist kein schönes Bild, denn jeden Tag "treffen neue Leiden den Himmel ins Gesicht". Malcolm möchte einen trostlosen Ort finden und für seine Heimat weinen. Macduff möchte gegen Macbeth in den Kampf ziehen. Zu Beginn ihres Gesprächs ist offensichtlich, dass die beiden Männer einander misstrauen. Macduff spürt die Sorge des Prinzen und versichert ihm: "Ich bin nicht verräterisch." Malcolm ist immer noch nicht überzeugt. Er fragt, warum Macduff seine Frau und sein Kind in Gefahr zurückgelassen hat, um nach England zu kommen. Der Prinz gibt zu, dass er misstrauisch ist und um seine eigene Sicherheit besorgt. Macduff ruft frustriert aus: "Blutet, blutet, armes Land." Er fühlt, dass es keine Hoffnung für Schottland gibt, wenn er sich nicht mit Malcolm gegen Macbeth verbünden kann. Aber da er nicht vertraut wird, fühlt Macduff, dass er gehen muss. Malcolm hält Macduff jedoch zurück, um seine Vertrauenswürdigkeit zu testen. Der Prinz gibt vor, ein böser Mensch voller Laster zu sein, und im Vergleich zu Macbeth sagt Malcolm: "Schwarzer Macbeth wird rein wie Schnee erscheinen." Macduff spottet und sagt: "In den Legionen der grässlichen Hölle kann kein Teufel kommen, der in bösesten Übeln Macbeth übertreffen kann." Malcolm stimmt zu, dass der aktuelle König "blutrünstig, habgierig, betrügerisch, boshaft ist und nach jeder Sünde schmeckt, die einen Namen hat", aber er verspricht, dass er schlimmer ist, gieriger und lüsterner. Macduff gibt immer noch nicht auf Malcolm, schlägt ihm jedoch Wege vor, mit seinen Lastern umzugehen. Macduff glaubt außerdem, dass Malcolm sicherlich Tugenden besitzt, die die Laster überwiegen. Malcolm behauptet jedoch, er habe keine der königlichen Gnaden wie "Gerechtigkeit, Wahrhaftigkeit, Mäßigung, Beständigkeit, Ausdauer, Barmherzigkeit, Hingabe, Geduld oder Mut". Er sagt weiter, dass er, wenn er König wäre, "die süße Milch der Eintracht in die Hölle gießen, den allgemeinen Frieden zerstören und jede Einheit auf Erden durcheinander bringen" würde. Macduff betrauert bei dieser Nachricht erneut sein geliebtes Schottland. Dann wendet er, von Malcolm's Vortäuschung getäuscht, sich gegen den Prinzen und sagt, er sei nicht geeignet, Schottland zu regieren oder sogar zu leben. Er gibt den Kampf für seine Heimat auf und verabschiedet sich ein zweites Mal von Malcolm. Noch einmal hält Malcolm Macduff auf. Er lobt Macduffs Integrität der Seele und edle Leidenschaft für Schottland. Dann gesteht er die List ein, die er verwendet hat, um Macduffs Absicht zu testen. Malcolm verspricht dann Unterstützung und Loyalität für Macduffs Versuch, Macbeth zu stürzen, und sagt: "Ich stelle mich in deine Richtung." Er teilt Macduff mit, dass Siward und 10.000 englische Soldaten auf ihrem Befehl stehen, um im Kampf zu helfen. Macduff ist von dieser Nachricht sprachlos, verwirrt zwischen dem Schein und der Realität. Als Malcolm ihn danach fragt, erklärt Macduff seine Verwirrung: "Solche willkommenen und unwillkommenen Dinge auf einmal zu haben, ist schwer zu vereinbaren." Ein Arzt geht dann vorbei und sagt, dass König Edward kommt. Der Arzt bleibt nur lange genug stehen, um von König Edwards Heilungskraft zu berichten. Malcolm erzählt Macduff außerdem, dass dieser heilige König auch eine göttliche Gabe der Prophezeiung hat. Dann tritt Ross in die Szene, frisch aus Schottland angekommen, und wieder wird Malcolm misstrauisch. Macduff erkundigt sich nach dem Zustand der Dinge in Schottland. Ross erklärt, dass sich nichts geändert hat, "Es ist wie ein Grab." Als Malcolm nach dem neuesten Kummer fragt, antwortet Ross: "Jede Minute bringt einen neuen hervor." Als Macduff ihn nach seiner Frau fragt, umgeht Ross zunächst die Nachricht von ihrem Mord. Aber als er hört, dass Malcolm und Macduff einen Angriff auf Macbeth führen werden, erzählt er von der jüngsten Brutalität des Königs, dem "wildem Gemetzel" von Macduffs Familie. Macduff ist überwältigt von Trauer über seinen Verlust und Schuldgefühlen wegen seiner Abwesenheit. Malcolm ermutigt ihn, die Trauer in einen kämpferischen Geist gegen Macbeth zu verwandeln: "Dies sei der Wetzstein deines Schwertes." Macduff stimmt zu, dass er Rache nehmen muss!

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: Signa's wedding supper was over. The guests, and the tiresome little Norwegian preacher who had performed the marriage ceremony, were saying good-night. Old Ivar was hitching the horses to the wagon to take the wedding presents and the bride and groom up to their new home, on Alexandra's north quarter. When Ivar drove up to the gate, Emil and Marie Shabata began to carry out the presents, and Alexandra went into her bedroom to bid Signa good-bye and to give her a few words of good counsel. She was surprised to find that the bride had changed her slippers for heavy shoes and was pinning up her skirts. At that moment Nelse appeared at the gate with the two milk cows that Alexandra had given Signa for a wedding present. Alexandra began to laugh. "Why, Signa, you and Nelse are to ride home. I'll send Ivar over with the cows in the morning." Signa hesitated and looked perplexed. When her husband called her, she pinned her hat on resolutely. "I ta-ank I better do yust like he say," she murmured in confusion. Alexandra and Marie accompanied Signa to the gate and saw the party set off, old Ivar driving ahead in the wagon and the bride and groom following on foot, each leading a cow. Emil burst into a laugh before they were out of hearing. "Those two will get on," said Alexandra as they turned back to the house. "They are not going to take any chances. They will feel safer with those cows in their own stable. Marie, I am going to send for an old woman next. As soon as I get the girls broken in, I marry them off." "I've no patience with Signa, marrying that grumpy fellow!" Marie declared. "I wanted her to marry that nice Smirka boy who worked for us last winter. I think she liked him, too." "Yes, I think she did," Alexandra assented, "but I suppose she was too much afraid of Nelse to marry any one else. Now that I think of it, most of my girls have married men they were afraid of. I believe there is a good deal of the cow in most Swedish girls. You high-strung Bohemian can't understand us. We're a terribly practical people, and I guess we think a cross man makes a good manager." Marie shrugged her shoulders and turned to pin up a lock of hair that had fallen on her neck. Somehow Alexandra had irritated her of late. Everybody irritated her. She was tired of everybody. "I'm going home alone, Emil, so you needn't get your hat," she said as she wound her scarf quickly about her head. "Good-night, Alexandra," she called back in a strained voice, running down the gravel walk. Emil followed with long strides until he overtook her. Then she began to walk slowly. It was a night of warm wind and faint starlight, and the fireflies were glimmering over the wheat. "Marie," said Emil after they had walked for a while, "I wonder if you know how unhappy I am?" Marie did not answer him. Her head, in its white scarf, drooped forward a little. Emil kicked a clod from the path and went on:-- "I wonder whether you are really shallow-hearted, like you seem? Sometimes I think one boy does just as well as another for you. It never seems to make much difference whether it is me or Raoul Marcel or Jan Smirka. Are you really like that?" "Perhaps I am. What do you want me to do? Sit round and cry all day? When I've cried until I can't cry any more, then--then I must do something else." "Are you sorry for me?" he persisted. "No, I'm not. If I were big and free like you, I wouldn't let anything make me unhappy. As old Napoleon Brunot said at the fair, I wouldn't go lovering after no woman. I'd take the first train and go off and have all the fun there is." "I tried that, but it didn't do any good. Everything reminded me. The nicer the place was, the more I wanted you." They had come to the stile and Emil pointed to it persuasively. "Sit down a moment, I want to ask you something." Marie sat down on the top step and Emil drew nearer. "Would you tell me something that's none of my business if you thought it would help me out? Well, then, tell me, PLEASE tell me, why you ran away with Frank Shabata!" Marie drew back. "Because I was in love with him," she said firmly. "Really?" he asked incredulously. "Yes, indeed. Very much in love with him. I think I was the one who suggested our running away. From the first it was more my fault than his." Emil turned away his face. "And now," Marie went on, "I've got to remember that. Frank is just the same now as he was then, only then I would see him as I wanted him to be. I would have my own way. And now I pay for it." "You don't do all the paying." "That's it. When one makes a mistake, there's no telling where it will stop. But you can go away; you can leave all this behind you." "Not everything. I can't leave you behind. Will you go away with me, Marie?" Marie started up and stepped across the stile. "Emil! How wickedly you talk! I am not that kind of a girl, and you know it. But what am I going to do if you keep tormenting me like this!" she added plaintively. "Marie, I won't bother you any more if you will tell me just one thing. Stop a minute and look at me. No, nobody can see us. Everybody's asleep. That was only a firefly. Marie, STOP and tell me!" Emil overtook her and catching her by the shoulders shook her gently, as if he were trying to awaken a sleepwalker. Marie hid her face on his arm. "Don't ask me anything more. I don't know anything except how miserable I am. And I thought it would be all right when you came back. Oh, Emil," she clutched his sleeve and began to cry, "what am I to do if you don't go away? I can't go, and one of us must. Can't you see?" Emil stood looking down at her, holding his shoulders stiff and stiffening the arm to which she clung. Her white dress looked gray in the darkness. She seemed like a troubled spirit, like some shadow out of the earth, clinging to him and entreating him to give her peace. Behind her the fireflies were weaving in and out over the wheat. He put his hand on her bent head. "On my honor, Marie, if you will say you love me, I will go away." She lifted her face to his. "How could I help it? Didn't you know?" Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he left Marie at her gate, he wandered about the fields all night, till morning put out the fireflies and the stars. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Ein paar Tage später findet die Hochzeit eines der von Alexandra angestellten Mädchen, Signa, statt. Die Hochzeit ist gerade vorbei und die Gäste verlassen den Ort - nur Signa scheint sich zu zieren, zu gehen. Schließlich macht sie sich mit ihrem Ehemann und zwei Kühen, die sie als Geschenk von Alexandra erhalten hat, auf den Weg. Als Marie sich über Signas Ehe mit Nelse Jensen beschwert, den sie für zu "grantig" hält, bemerkt Alexandra laut, dass schwedische Mädchen oft Männer heiraten, vor denen sie Angst haben, weil die Schweden ein praktisches Volk sind und denken, dass ein grober Kerl sie und den Haushalt in Schach halten wird. Das ärgert Marie aus irgendeinem Grund. In letzter Zeit ärgert sie sich häufig. Sie sagt Emil, dass er sie nicht nach Hause begleiten muss und geht. Emil läuft ihr hinterher, um sie einzuholen. Er versucht, mit ihr zu reden, fragt sie, ob sie wisse, wie unglücklich er ist, oder ob sie wirklich so gleichgültig ist, wie es den Anschein hat. Als er fragt, ob sie Mitleid mit ihm habe, antwortet sie verneinend. Wenn sie seine Freiheit hätte, sagt sie ihm, dann würde sie die Stadt verlassen und all den Spaß haben, den es zu haben gibt. Das habe er bereits getan, erinnert er sie, und alles, woran er denken konnte, war sie. Dann setzt er sie hin und fragt sie gezielt, warum sie mit Frank davongelaufen ist. Sie antwortet, dass sie es getan habe, weil sie in ihn verliebt war, Emil ist ungläubig. Sie fährt fort und erklärt, dass sie sich entschieden habe, in ihm zu sehen, was sie sehen wollte, und nun müsse sie dafür bezahlen. Er hingegen könne einfach allen Drama hinter sich lassen und weitermachen. Während ihr Gespräch weitergeht, bittet Emil sie, mit ihm davonzulaufen, und sie sagt Nein. Das Beste für ihn sei es, zu gehen, weil sie es nicht mehr ertragen könne. Emil verspricht zu gehen, wenn sie sagt, dass sie ihn liebt. Marie sagt ihm nicht direkt, dass sie ihn liebt. "Hast du das nicht gewusst?", fragt sie ihn.

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: I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity; and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward; and one being selected by the magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell all his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, upon examination, they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. He appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed, that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony, that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the recognition. The trial, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor"---- The human frame could no longer support the agonizing suffering that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death: my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and, at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture. But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around, and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings: "Are you better now, Sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you; but you will be hung when the next sessions come on. However, that's none of my business, I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience, it were well if every body did the same." I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me; for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and at long intervals. One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French-- "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to make you more comfortable?" "I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving." "I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge." "That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?" "Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality: seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path." As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say-- "It was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva: nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.--But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any kind." "This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event: tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament." "Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; "and some one, a friend, is come to visit you." I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony-- "Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him enter!" Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone-- "I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance." "My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure. "Is my father, indeed, come? How kind, how very kind. But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?" My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried-- "Are you then safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?" My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. "What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of the room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval--" The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears. "Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry." We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found, and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and allowed to return to my native country. I did not participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit--of Elizabeth, and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, "He may be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad conscience." These words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, surely I had one. William, Justine, and Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations; "And whose death," cried I, "is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not remain in this wretched country; take me where I may forget myself, my existence, and all the world." My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having taken leave of Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a heavy weight, when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and I had quitted for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so much misery. It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy, when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now took a double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me, and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which we were now entering. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Victor wird vor den Magistrat gebracht und mehrere Zeugen sagen gegen ihn aus. Eine Gruppe einheimischer Fischer fand das Opfer, einen jungen Mann von etwa fünfundzwanzig Jahren. Als Victor hört, dass das Opfer erdrosselt wurde, zittert er vor Angst; er weiß, dass dies die bevorzugte Vorgehensweise seiner Kreatur ist. Als Frankenstein die Unruhe bemerkt, schlägt Mr. Kirwin, der Magistrat, vor, dass Victor den Leichnam sehen soll, damit das Gericht seine Reaktion beurteilen kann. Frankenstein ist ruhig, als sie ihn in den Raum führen, in dem der Leichnam liegt. Er hat ein unangreifbares Alibi für die Zeit, in der der Körper gefunden wurde. Als er in den Raum geht, überkommt ihn Entsetzen: die leblose Gestalt von Henry Clerval liegt vor ihm. Frankenstein wirft sich auf den Körper und wird vor Kummer und Schuld fast wahnsinnig; er wird in Krämpfen aus dem Raum getragen. Zwei Monate lang liegt Victor in einem Fieber- und Verwirrungswahn. Er ruft aus, dass er ein Mörder sei, und bittet sein Pflegepersonal, ihm bei der Ergreifung des Monsters zu helfen. Er bildet sich oft ein, dass er die Hände des Monsters um seinen Hals spürt und springt voller Angst aus seinem Bett. Victor sehnt sich nach dem Tod und findet es bitter ironisch, dass er eine solche Tragödien-Epidemie überleben kann. Er kommt zu dem Schluss, dass er nach allem "verdammt war zu leben". Als Victor schließlich aus seinem Wahn erwacht, stellt er fest, dass eine verbitterte alte Frau sein Krankenbett betreut hat. Sie sagt ihm, dass er für den Mord, den er begangen hat, schwer bestraft werde und dass er besser tot wäre; sie scheint Freude an ihrer Bosheit und Grausamkeit zu haben. Der Arzt, der geschickt wurde, um Victor zu untersuchen, ist ebenso gleichgültig und gefühllos. Victor reflektiert bitter, dass nun nur noch der Henker sich um sein Wohl kümmert. Frankenstein erfährt, dass nur Mr. Kirwin ihm während seiner Krankheit große Freundlichkeit erwiesen hat; er ist es, der Victor mit seinem Krankenzimmer und Arzt versorgt hat. Der Magistrat besucht ihn und äußert sein Vertrauen, dass er von jeglicher Verantwortung für den Mord freigesprochen wird. Er teilt Victor mit, dass "ein Freund" ihn besuchen möchte; in der Annahme, dass es das Monster sei, bittet Victor, ihn wegzuschicken. Mr. Kirwin ist von diesem Ausbruch sehr überrascht und informiert ihn streng, dass der Besucher sein Vater ist; darüber ist Victor überglücklich. Er fragt sofort nach dem Wohlergehen von Elizabeth und Ernest, und der ältere Frankenstein versichert ihm, dass es allen gut geht. Bei der Erwähnung von Clerval weint Victor und ruft aus, dass ein entsetzliches Schicksal über ihm schwebe. Die Anwesenheit seines Vaters ist für Victor "wie die eines guten Engels"; langsam beginnt er, seine Gesundheit wiederzuerlangen. Oft wünscht er sich, tot zu sein, aber stellt sich vor, dass es irgendeine dunkle Kraft ist, die ihn am Leben hält, damit sein böses Schicksal erfüllt werden kann. Obwohl Victor von allen strafrechtlichen Vorwürfen freigesprochen wird, ist er "für immer vergiftet vom Kelch des Lebens." Sein Vater versucht vergeblich, ihn aufzuheitern, aber Victor leidet an einer unüberwindbaren Melancholie. Er steht unter ständiger Beobachtung, um ihn davon abzuhalten, sich das Leben zu nehmen. Schließlich entscheidet Victor, der "egoistischen Verzweiflung" zu triumphieren, damit er nach Genf zurückkehren kann, um seine verbliebene Familie zu schützen. Obwohl der ältere Frankenstein die Reise aufschieben möchte, bis sein Sohn sich von seiner Melancholie erholt hat, lässt sich Victor nicht abhalten. Ohne Laudanum kann er nicht schlafen und wird häufig von Alpträumen gequält, in denen seine Kreatur ihn erdrosselt.

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: Candide, yet more moved with compassion than with horror, gave to this shocking beggar the two florins which he had received from the honest Anabaptist James. The spectre looked at him very earnestly, dropped a few tears, and fell upon his neck. Candide recoiled in disgust. "Alas!" said one wretch to the other, "do you no longer know your dear Pangloss?" "What do I hear? You, my dear master! you in this terrible plight! What misfortune has happened to you? Why are you no longer in the most magnificent of castles? What has become of Miss Cunegonde, the pearl of girls, and nature's masterpiece?" "I am so weak that I cannot stand," said Pangloss. Upon which Candide carried him to the Anabaptist's stable, and gave him a crust of bread. As soon as Pangloss had refreshed himself a little: "Well," said Candide, "Cunegonde?" "She is dead," replied the other. Candide fainted at this word; his friend recalled his senses with a little bad vinegar which he found by chance in the stable. Candide reopened his eyes. "Cunegonde is dead! Ah, best of worlds, where art thou? But of what illness did she die? Was it not for grief, upon seeing her father kick me out of his magnificent castle?" "No," said Pangloss, "she was ripped open by the Bulgarian soldiers, after having been violated by many; they broke the Baron's head for attempting to defend her; my lady, her mother, was cut in pieces; my poor pupil was served just in the same manner as his sister; and as for the castle, they have not left one stone upon another, not a barn, nor a sheep, nor a duck, nor a tree; but we have had our revenge, for the Abares have done the very same thing to a neighbouring barony, which belonged to a Bulgarian lord." At this discourse Candide fainted again; but coming to himself, and having said all that it became him to say, inquired into the cause and effect, as well as into the _sufficient reason_ that had reduced Pangloss to so miserable a plight. "Alas!" said the other, "it was love; love, the comfort of the human species, the preserver of the universe, the soul of all sensible beings, love, tender love." "Alas!" said Candide, "I know this love, that sovereign of hearts, that soul of our souls; yet it never cost me more than a kiss and twenty kicks on the backside. How could this beautiful cause produce in you an effect so abominable?" Pangloss made answer in these terms: "Oh, my dear Candide, you remember Paquette, that pretty wench who waited on our noble Baroness; in her arms I tasted the delights of paradise, which produced in me those hell torments with which you see me devoured; she was infected with them, she is perhaps dead of them. This present Paquette received of a learned Grey Friar, who had traced it to its source; he had had it of an old countess, who had received it from a cavalry captain, who owed it to a marchioness, who took it from a page, who had received it from a Jesuit, who when a novice had it in a direct line from one of the companions of Christopher Columbus.[3] For my part I shall give it to nobody, I am dying." "Oh, Pangloss!" cried Candide, "what a strange genealogy! Is not the Devil the original stock of it?" "Not at all," replied this great man, "it was a thing unavoidable, a necessary ingredient in the best of worlds; for if Columbus had not in an island of America caught this disease, which contaminates the source of life, frequently even hinders generation, and which is evidently opposed to the great end of nature, we should have neither chocolate nor cochineal. We are also to observe that upon our continent, this distemper is like religious controversy, confined to a particular spot. The Turks, the Indians, the Persians, the Chinese, the Siamese, the Japanese, know nothing of it; but there is a sufficient reason for believing that they will know it in their turn in a few centuries. In the meantime, it has made marvellous progress among us, especially in those great armies composed of honest well-disciplined hirelings, who decide the destiny of states; for we may safely affirm that when an army of thirty thousand men fights another of an equal number, there are about twenty thousand of them p-x-d on each side." "Well, this is wonderful!" said Candide, "but you must get cured." "Alas! how can I?" said Pangloss, "I have not a farthing, my friend, and all over the globe there is no letting of blood or taking a glister, without paying, or somebody paying for you." These last words determined Candide; he went and flung himself at the feet of the charitable Anabaptist James, and gave him so touching a picture of the state to which his friend was reduced, that the good man did not scruple to take Dr. Pangloss into his house, and had him cured at his expense. In the cure Pangloss lost only an eye and an ear. He wrote well, and knew arithmetic perfectly. The Anabaptist James made him his bookkeeper. At the end of two months, being obliged to go to Lisbon about some mercantile affairs, he took the two philosophers with him in his ship. Pangloss explained to him how everything was so constituted that it could not be better. James was not of this opinion. "It is more likely," said he, "mankind have a little corrupted nature, for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves; God has given them neither cannon of four-and-twenty pounders, nor bayonets; and yet they have made cannon and bayonets to destroy one another. Into this account I might throw not only bankrupts, but Justice which seizes on the effects of bankrupts to cheat the creditors." "All this was indispensable," replied the one-eyed doctor, "for private misfortunes make the general good, so that the more private misfortunes there are the greater is the general good." While he reasoned, the sky darkened, the winds blew from the four quarters, and the ship was assailed by a most terrible tempest within sight of the port of Lisbon. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Candide erkennt den Bettler bald als Pangloss. Candide bringt den schwachen und gebrechlichen Pangloss zum Anabaptisten-Haus. Sobald Pangloss wieder zu Kräften kommt, informiert er Candide darüber, dass bulgarische Soldaten das Anwesen des Barons verwüstet, die ganze Familie getötet und Cunegonde vergewaltigt und ermordet haben. Während sie die Nachricht überbringen bzw. empfangen, fallen sowohl Pangloss als auch Candide regelmäßig in Ohnmacht. Candide fragt Pangloss, was eine solch schreckliche Wirkung verursacht haben könnte. Pangloss erklärt, dass er sich von einem der Diener im Anwesen des Barons mit Syphilis infiziert hat. Er führt seine Syphilis auf die Entdeckung der neuen Welt durch Columbus zurück und besteht darauf, dass Europa ohne diese nie von den Ressourcen der neuen Welt wie Schokolade profitiert hätte. Der Anabaptist, gerührt von Pangloss' Geschichte, entscheidet sich, für seine Behandlung zu bezahlen. Nach der medizinischen Behandlung geht es Pangloss wieder gut. Der Anabaptist stellt Pangloss als seinen Buchhalter ein. Zwei Monate später reisen James der Anabaptist, Pangloss und Candide geschäftlich mit dem Boot nach Lissabon. Mitten in einer Rede von Pangloss über die unverzichtbare Natur des Leidens in der besten aller Welten gerät das Schiff in einen schrecklichen Sturm.

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: Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them. Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair, lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably." And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him. But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse: "This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow." Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. "What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them. "You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold." "Indeed!" replied he. "Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses." Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow, came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend. To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus-- "Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?" "I am ready, if the others are." "Shall I ring the bell?" "Yes, do." And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over. The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. "He was afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together as they could;" and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage. Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense. To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her subject cut up--her hand seized--her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known, hoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so. Without scruple--without apology--without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself _her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she replied, "I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget yourself--you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please." "Miss Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly mean!"--And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness, "Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it." But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,--but acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,--he resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer. As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied, "It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith--such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions." "Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Elton, "what can be the meaning of this?--Miss Smith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!--(in an accent meant to be insinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me." It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this--which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed-- "Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me." "No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings--Nothing could be farther from my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?--that you have never thought seriously of her?" "Never, madam," cried he, affronted in his turn: "never, I assure you. _I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!--No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received--" "Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present." He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another syllable passed.--Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield. There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think of--and in strange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem--if not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel--perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party, except herself.--But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mr. Elton tritt in das Zeichnungszimmer zu Emma und missfällt ihr, indem er sich mehr um ihre Gesundheit kümmert als um die von Harriet. John Knightley's Bericht, dass es anfängt zu schneien, führt zu einer kleinen Krise und Mr. Woodhouse und Isabella sind außer sich vor Sorge, die dreiviertel Meile nach Hause zu fahren. Mr. Knightley beurteilt die Situation und beruhigt alle, dass sie sicher zurückkommen werden. In der Verwirrung, die durch das Auseinandergehen der Party entsteht, findet sich Emma allein in einer der Kutschen mit Mr. Elton wieder. Er erklärt ihr sofort seine Liebe und macht ihr einen Heiratsantrag. In der Hoffnung, dass er nur betrunken ist, versucht Emma, ihn daran zu erinnern, dass Harriet das eigentliche Objekt seiner Zuneigung ist. Erstaunt versichert Elton Emma, dass er nie an Harriet interessiert war. Außerdem ist er überzeugt, dass Emma von seinen Gefühlen gewusst und sie gefördert hat. Emma weist ihn scharf zurecht und lehnt seinen Antrag ab und die beiden reisen im Rest der Reise in wütendem Schweigen.

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: Ich erwachte in meinem eigenen Bett. Wenn es sein könnte, dass ich nicht geträumt habe, muss mich der Graf hierher getragen haben. Ich versuchte, mich selbst über das Thema zu überzeugen, konnte aber zu keinem eindeutigen Ergebnis kommen. Sicher gab es gewisse kleine Beweise, wie zum Beispiel, dass meine Kleidung auf ungewöhnliche Weise gefaltet und abgelegt war, was nicht meine Gewohnheit ist. Meine Uhr war immer noch nicht aufgezogen und ich bin streng daran gewöhnt, sie als letztes vor dem Schlafengehen aufzuziehen, und viele solcher Einzelheiten. Aber diese Dinge sind kein Beweis, denn sie könnten Hinweise darauf gewesen sein, dass mein Verstand nicht wie gewohnt war und ich aus irgendeinem Grund definitiv aufgewühlt war. Ich muss auf Beweise achten. Eines bin ich froh: Wenn es so war, dass der Graf mich hierher getragen und ausgezogen hat, muss er bei seiner Aufgabe in Eile gewesen sein, denn meine Taschen sind intakt. Ich bin sicher, dieses Tagebuch wäre für ihn ein Rätsel gewesen, das er nicht geduldet hätte. Er hätte es mitgenommen oder zerstört. Als ich mich in diesem Raum umschaue, obwohl er für mich so voller Angst war, ist er jetzt eine Art Zufluchtsort, denn nichts kann schrecklicher sein als diese schrecklichen Frauen, die darauf warten, mein Blut zu saugen. * * * * * _18. Mai._--Ich bin hinuntergegangen, um diesen Raum noch einmal bei Tageslicht anzusehen, denn ich _muss_ die Wahrheit wissen. Als ich an der Türöffnung oben auf der Treppe ankam, fand ich sie geschlossen. Sie war so stark gegen den Türpfosten geschlagen worden, dass ein Teil des Holzes gesplittert war. Ich konnte sehen, dass der Riegel des Schlosses nicht eingerastet war, aber die Tür von innen verschlossen ist. Ich fürchte, es war kein Traum und muss auf dieser Vermutung handeln. * * * * * _19. Mai._ -- Ich befinde mich sicher in einer Falle. Letzte Nacht bat mich der Graf mit den heuchlerischsten Tönen, drei Briefe zu schreiben, von denen der erste besagte, dass meine Arbeit hier fast beendet sei und dass ich in wenigen Tagen nach Hause aufbrechen würde, der zweite, dass ich am nächsten Morgen abreise, ab dem Zeitpunkt des Briefes, und der dritte, dass ich die Burg verlassen und in Bistritz angekommen sei. Ich hätte mich gerne widersetzt, aber ich fühlte, dass es in der gegenwärtigen Situation Wahnsinn wäre, mich offen mit dem Grafen anzulegen, während ich so absolut in seiner Gewalt bin. Und zu verweigern würde seinen Verdacht auf mich lenken und seinen Zorn erwecken. Er weiß, dass ich zu viel weiß und dass ich nicht leben darf, damit ich ihm nicht gefährlich werde; meine einzige Chance besteht darin, meine Möglichkeiten zu verlängern. Es könnte etwas geschehen, das mir eine Chance zur Flucht gibt. In seinen Augen sah ich etwas von dem wachsenden Zorn, der sich zeigte, als er diese schöne Frau von sich stieß. Er erklärte mir, dass die Post selten und unzuverlässig sei und dass mein Schreiben jetzt meiner Freunden ein beruhigendes Gefühl geben würde. Und er versicherte mir mit so viel Nachdruck, dass er die späteren Briefe stornieren würde, die in Bistritz aufbewahrt werden würden, bis es Zeit wäre, falls sich zufällig eine Chance ergäbe, meinen Aufenthalt zu verlängern, dass ihm Widerstand neue Verdachtsmomente gegeben hätte. Ich gab also vor, seiner Ansicht zu folgen, und fragte ihn, welche Daten ich auf die Briefe setzen sollte. Er rechnete eine Minute nach und sagte dann:-- "Der erste sollte der 12. Juni sein, der zweite der 19. Juni und der dritte der 29. Juni." Jetzt weiß ich, wie lange mein Leben sein wird. Gott helfe mir! * * * * * _28. Mai_. -- Es gibt eine Chance zur Flucht bzw. die Möglichkeit, ein Lebenszeichen nach Hause zu schicken. Eine Gruppe Szgany ist zur Burg gekommen und hat im Hof ihr Lager aufgeschlagen. Diese Szgany sind Zigeuner; ich habe Notizen über sie in meinem Buch. Sie sind charakteristisch für diese Region, obwohl sie mit den gewöhnlichen Zigeunern auf der ganzen Welt verwandt sind. Es gibt Tausende von ihnen in Ungarn und Transsylvanien, die fast außerhalb des Gesetzes leben. Sie schließen sich in der Regel einem großen Adligen oder _boyar_ an und nennen sich nach seinem Namen. Sie sind furchtlos und ohne Religion, außer dem Aberglauben, und sie sprechen nur ihre eigenen Varianten der Roma-Sprache. Ich werde einige Briefe nach Hause schreiben und versuchen, sie verschicken zu lassen. Ich habe bereits durch mein Fenster mit ihnen gesprochen, um Bekanntschaft zu schließen. Sie nahmen ihre Hüte ab, verbeugten sich und machten viele Zeichen, die ich jedoch genauso wenig verstehen konnte wie ihre gesprochene Sprache... * * * * * Ich habe die Briefe geschrieben. Minas Brief ist in Kurzschrift, und ich bitte Herrn Hawkins nur, mit ihr Kontakt aufzunehmen. Ich habe ihr meine Situation erklärt, aber ohne die Schrecken, die ich nur vermuten kann. Es würde sie zu Tode erschrecken, wenn ich mein Herz vor ihr offenbaren würde. Falls die Briefe nicht ankommen, soll der Graf mein Geheimnis oder den Umfang meines Wissens noch nicht kennen... * * * * * Ich habe die Briefe übergeben; ich warf sie mit einem Goldstück durch die Gitter meines Fensters und machte so viele Zeichen wie möglich, um sie abschicken zu lassen. Der Mann, der sie nahm, drückte sie an sein Herz, verbeugte sich und steckte sie dann in seinen Hut. Ich konnte nichts mehr tun. Ich schlich zurück ins Studierzimmer und fing an zu lesen. Da der Graf nicht hereinkam, habe ich hier geschrieben... * * * * * Der Graf ist gekommen. Er setzte sich neben mich und sagte in seiner freundlichsten Stimme, als er zwei Briefe öffnete:-- "Der Szgany hat mir diese gegeben, von denen ich natürlich aufpassen werde, obwohl ich nicht weiß, von wem sie kommen. Sieh!" -- Er muss es angesehen haben -- "einer ist von dir und für meinen Freund Peter Hawkins; der andere" -- hier sah er die fremden Symbole, als er den Umschlag öffnete, und der finstere Ausdruck kam auf sein Gesicht, und seine Augen funkelten böse -- "der andere ist eine schändliche Sache, eine Beleidigung der Freundschaft und Gastfreundschaft! Er ist nicht unterschrieben. Nun gut! Es kann uns also egal sein." Und er hielt ruhig Brief und Umschlag in die Flamme der Lampe, bis sie verbrannt waren. Dann fuhr er fort:-- "Den Brief an Hawkins -- den werde ich natürlich weiterleiten, da er von dir ist. Deine Briefe haben für mich eine heilige Bedeutung. Ich bitte um Verzeihung, mein Freund, dass ich, ohne es zu wissen, das Siegel brach. Willst du es nicht wieder verschließen?" Er reichte mir den Brief und mit einer höflichen Verbeugung reichte er mir einen sauberen Umschlag. Ich konnte nur die Adresse ändern und ihn schweigend an ihn zurückgeben. Als er das Zimmer verließ, hörte ich, wie der Schlüssel sich leise drehte. Eine Minute später ging ich hinüber und versuchte es, und die Tür war verschlossen. Als der Graf ein oder zwei Stunden später leise in das Zimmer kam, weckte mich sein Kommen, denn ich war auf dem Sofa eingeschlafen. Er war sehr höflich und sehr fröhlich in seinem Auftreten und da er sah, dass ich geschlafen hatte, sagte er:-- "So, mein Freund, du bist müde? Geh zu Bett. Das ist die sicherste Ruhe. Heute Abend kann ich leider keine Zeit zum Reden haben, da ich viel zu tun habe; aber du wirst schlafen, das hoffe ich." Ich ging in mein Zimmer und legte mich ins Bett und seltsamerweise schlief ich ohne zu träumen. Verzweiflung hat ihre eigenen Ruhephasen. * * * * * _31. Mai._--Als ich heute Morgen aufwachte, dachte ich, ich würde mir etwas Papier und Brief _17. Juni._ - Heute Morgen, als ich am Bettrand saß und meine Gehirne anstrengte, hörte ich draußen das Knallen von Peitschen und das Stampfen und Schaben der Hufe der Pferde auf dem steinigen Weg jenseits des Hofes. Mit Freude eilte ich zum Fenster und sah zwei große Leiterwagen in den Hof fahren, die jeweils von acht kräftigen Pferden gezogen wurden und an der Spitze jedes Paares ein Slowake mit seinem breiten Hut, dem großen, nagelbesetzten Gürtel, dem verschmutzten Schaffell und den hohen Stiefeln stand. Sie hatten auch ihre langen Stäbe in der Hand. Ich lief zur Tür, mit der Absicht, hinunterzugehen und durch den Hauptsaal zu ihnen zu gelangen, da ich dachte, dass ihnen auf diese Weise der Zugang ermöglicht werden könnte. Wieder ein Schock: Meine Tür war von außen verriegelt. Dann lief ich zum Fenster und rief ihnen zu. Sie schauten mich dumm an und zeigten auf etwas, aber in diesem Moment kam der "Hetman" der Szgany heraus und sah, wie sie auf mein Fenster zeigten, und sagte etwas, über das sie lachten. Von da an würde keiner meiner Bemühungen, mein erbarmungswürdiges Flehen oder meine gequälten Bitten sie auch nur dazu bringen, mich anzuschauen. Sie wandten sich entschlossen ab. Die Leiterwagen enthielten große, quadratische Kästen mit Griffen aus dickem Seil; sie waren offenbar leer, wie man an der Leichtigkeit erkennen konnte, mit der die Slowaken sie handhabten, und an ihrem hellen Klang, als sie grob bewegt wurden. Als sie alle entladen waren und sich in einem großen Haufen in einer Ecke des Hofes stapelten, gaben die Szgany den Slowaken etwas Geld und spuckten darauf für Glück und gingen träge zu den Köpfen ihrer Pferde. Kurz darauf hörte ich das Knallen ihrer Peitschen in der Ferne verklingen. * * * * * _24. Juni, vor dem Morgen._ - Letzte Nacht verließ mich der Graf früh und sperrte sich in sein eigenes Zimmer ein. Sobald ich mich traute, lief ich die gewundene Treppe hinauf und schaute aus dem Fenster, das nach Süden geöffnet war. Ich dachte, ich würde auf den Grafen warten, denn irgend etwas geht vor sich. Die Szgany sind irgendwo in der Burg untergebracht und machen irgendwelche Arbeiten. Ich weiß es, denn ab und zu höre ich einen entfernten dumpfen Klang, als ob dort gehackt und geschaufelt würde, und was auch immer es sein mag, es muss das Ende irgendeiner skrupellosen Gemeinheit sein. Ich war etwas weniger als eine halbe Stunde am Fenster, als ich etwas aus dem Fenster des Grafen kommen sah. Ich zog mich zurück und beobachtete sorgfältig und sah den ganzen Mann herauskommen. Es war ein neuer Schock für mich zu sehen, dass er den Anzug trug, den ich während meiner Reise hierher getragen hatte, und über seiner Schulter die schreckliche Tasche, die ich die Frauen hatte wegtragen sehen. Es konnte keinen Zweifel an seiner Absicht geben, und das noch in meiner Kleidung! Das ist also sein neuer Plan des Bösen: Er wird andere glauben lassen, dass sie mich sehen, damit er sowohl Beweise hinterlässt, dass ich in den Städten oder Dörfern war und meine eigenen Briefe abschickte, als auch dass jeder Schurkerei, die er begehen mag, von den Einheimischen mir zugeschrieben wird. Es lässt mich rasend werden, dass dies so weitergehen kann, und während ich hier eingesperrt bin, ein regelrechter Gefangener, aber ohne den Schutz des Gesetzes, der selbst einem Verbrecher zusteht und ihm Trost spendet. Ich dachte, ich würde auf die Rückkehr des Grafen warten, und ich saß lange Zeit verbissen am Fenster. Dann begann ich zu bemerken, dass es einige seltsame kleine Punkte gab, die in den Strahlen des Mondlichts schwebten. Sie waren wie winzigste Staubkörner und wirbelten herum und sammelten sich in Haufen auf eine nebulöse Art und Weise. Ich beobachtete sie mit einem beruhigenden Gefühl, und eine Art Ruhe überkam mich. Ich lehnte mich in der Aussparung in eine bequemere Position zurück, um das luftige Toben besser genießen zu können. Etwas ließ mich aufschrecken, ein leises, erbärmliches Heulen von Hunden irgendwo tief unten im Tal, das meinen Augen verborgen war. Lauter schien es in meinen Ohren widerzuhallen, und die schwebenden Staubkörner nahmen neue Formen an, während sie im Mondlicht tanzten. Ich fühlte, wie ich darum kämpfte, auf einen Ruf meines Instinkts zu reagieren; ja, meine Seele kämpfte, und meine halb erinnerten Empfindungen strebten danach, dem Ruf zu folgen. Ich wurde hypnotisiert! Schneller und schneller tanzte der Staub; die Mondstrahlen schienen zu zittern, als sie an mir vorbeigingen und in die Dunkelheit dahinter eintauchten. Immer mehr sammelten sie sich, bis sie vage phantastische Gestalten annahmen. Und dann erschreckte ich mich, erwachte plötzlich und war vollkommen bei Sinnen und lief schreiend davon. Die sich allmählich materialisierenden, durch die Mondstrahlen gebildeten Phantome waren die der drei geisterhaften Frauen, denen ich verfallen war. Ich floh und fühlte mich in meinem eigenen Zimmer etwas sicherer, wo kein Mondlicht war und die Lampe hell brannte. Als ein paar Stunden vergangen waren, hörte ich etwas in dem Zimmer des Grafen rühren, etwas wie einen scharfen, schnell unterdrückten Schrei; und dann herrschte tiefe, schreckliche Stille, die mich erschauern ließ. Mit pochendem Herzen versuchte ich die Tür, aber ich war in meinem Gefängnis eingesperrt und konnte nichts tun. Ich setzte mich hin und weinte einfach. Während ich so saß, hörte ich einen Lärm im Hof draußen - den gepeinigten Schrei einer Frau. Ich stürzte zum Fenster und warf es auf und spähte zwischen den Gitterstäben hindurch. Dort war in der Tat eine Frau mit zerzaustem Haar, die sich die Hände über das Herz legte, als wäre sie müde vom Laufen. Sie lehnte sich an eine Ecke des Durchgangs. Als sie mein Gesicht am Fenster sah, warf sie sich nach vorne und rief mit drohendem Ton in ihrer Stimme: "Monster, gib mir mein Kind!" Sie warf sich auf die Knie, hob ihre Hände und rief die gleichen Worte mit einer Stimme, die mein Herz zerriss. Dann riss sie sich die Haare und schlug sich auf die Brust und gab sich allen Heftigkeiten extravagantester Emotionen hin. Schließlich warf sie sich nach vorne, und obwohl ich sie nicht sehen konnte, konnte ich das Schlagen ihrer nackten Hände gegen die Tür hören. Irgendwo hoch oben, wahrscheinlich auf dem Turm, hörte ich die Stimme des Grafen in seinem rauen, metallischen Flüstern rufen. Sein Ruf schien von weit her von dem Heulen der Wölfe beantwortet zu werden. Nach wenigen Minuten ergoss sich ein Rudel wie ein aufgestauter Damm, als er geöffnet wurde, durch den weiten Eingang in den Hof. Es gab keinen Schrei der Frau, und das Heulen der Wölfe war nur kurz. Bald strömten sie einzeln davon und leckten sich die Lippen. Ich konnte sie nicht bemitleiden, denn ich wusste jetzt, was aus ihrem Kind geworden war, und sie war besser tot. Was soll ich tun? Was kann ich tun? Wie kann ich diesem schrecklichen Wesen der Nacht und der Dunkelheit und der Furcht entkommen? * * * * * _25. Juni, Morgen._ - Kein Mann weiß, bis er die Nacht durchgemacht hat, wie sü Am selben Tag, später. - Ich habe den Versuch unternommen und Gott, der mir geholfen hat, bin ich sicher in dieses Zimmer zurückgekehrt. Ich muss jedes Detail in der richtigen Reihenfolge aufschreiben. Ich ging, solange mein Mut noch frisch war, direkt zum Fenster auf der Südseite und gelangte sofort nach draußen auf den schmalen Steinvorsprung, der um das Gebäude herum verläuft. Die Steine sind groß und grob gemeißelt, und der Mörtel wurde im Laufe der Zeit zwischen ihnen weggespült. Ich zog meine Schuhe aus und wagte meinen verzweifelten Weg. Ich schaute einmal nach unten, um sicherzugehen, dass ein plötzlicher Blick in die furchtbare Tiefe mich nicht überwältigen würde, aber danach hielt ich meine Augen davon fern. Ich kannte die Richtung und Entfernung des Fensters des Grafen ziemlich gut und machte mich so gut wie möglich auf den Weg dorthin, unter Berücksichtigung der verfügbaren Möglichkeiten. Mir wurde nicht schwindlig - ich nehme an, ich war zu aufgeregt - und die Zeit schien lächerlich kurz, bis ich mich auf der Fensterbank wiederfand und versuchte, den Fensterflügel zu öffnen. Ich war jedoch voller Aufregung, als ich mich bückte und mit den Füßen voran durch das Fenster glitt. Dann schaute ich mich nach dem Grafen um, machte aber überrascht und froh eine Entdeckung. Der Raum war leer! Er war kaum möbliert mit seltsamen Dingen, die anscheinend nie benutzt wurden. Die Möbel waren im selben Stil wie die in den südlichen Zimmern und waren mit Staub bedeckt. Ich suchte nach dem Schlüssel, aber er war nicht im Schloss und ich konnte ihn nirgendwo finden. Das Einzige, was ich fand, war ein großer Haufen Gold in einer Ecke - Gold aller Arten, römisches, britisches, österreichisches, ungarisches, griechisches und türkisches Geld, bedeckt mit einer Schicht Staub, als ob es lange Zeit in der Erde gelegen hätte. Kein Geldstück, das ich bemerkte, war weniger als dreihundert Jahre alt. Es gab auch Ketten und Schmuckstücke, einige mit Edelsteinen, aber alle waren alt und befleckt. In einer Ecke des Raumes befand sich eine schwere Tür. Ich versuchte sie zu öffnen, denn da ich weder den Schlüssel des Zimmers noch den Schlüssel der Außentür finden konnte, der das Hauptziel meiner Suche war, musste ich weitere Untersuchungen anstellen, sonst wären all meine Bemühungen umsonst gewesen. Sie war offen und führte durch einen steinernen Gang zu einer steilen Wendeltreppe, die nach unten führte. Ich stieg hinab, achtete sorgfältig darauf, wohin ich trat, denn die Treppe war dunkel und wurde nur durch Schießscharten in der schweren Mauer beleuchtet. Unten gab es einen dunklen, tunnelartigen Gang, aus dem ein tödlicher, krankhafter Geruch von frisch umgegrabener Erde kam. Während ich den Gang entlangging, wurde der Geruch intensiver und schwerer. Schließlich öffnete ich eine schwere, angelehnte Tür und fand mich in einer alten, verfallenen Kapelle wieder, die offensichtlich als Friedhof genutzt wurde. Das Dach war eingestürzt und an zwei Stellen gab es Stufen, die zu Gewölben führten, aber der Boden war kürzlich umgegraben worden und die Erde in große Holzkisten gelegt worden, offensichtlich diejenigen, die von den Slowaken mitgebracht worden waren. Es war niemand da und ich suchte nach einem weiteren Ausweg, fand aber keinen. Dann ging ich jedes Stück des Bodens ab, um keine Chance zu verpassen. Ich ging sogar in die Gewölbe hinunter, wo das gedämpfte Licht kämpfte, obwohl es mir bis ins Mark graute. In zwei von ihnen ging ich rein, sah aber nichts außer Bruchstücken alter Särge und Staubhaufen. Im dritten machte ich jedoch eine Entdeckung. Dort, in einer der vielen großen Kisten, lagen auf einem Haufen frisch umgegrabener Erde - der Graf! Er war entweder tot oder schlief, ich konnte es nicht sagen - denn die Augen waren geöffnet und steinern, aber ohne die Starrheit des Todes - und die Wangen hatten trotz aller Blässe die Wärme des Lebens; die Lippen waren so rot wie immer. Aber es gab kein Zeichen von Bewegung, kein Puls, kein Atem, kein Herzschlag. Ich beugte mich über ihn und versuchte, irgendein Lebenszeichen zu finden, aber vergeblich. Er konnte dort nicht lange gelegen haben, sonst wäre der erdige Geruch nach ein paar Stunden verflogen. Neben der Kiste befand sich ihr Deckel, der an einigen Stellen durchlöchert war. Ich dachte, er könnte die Schlüssel bei sich haben, aber als ich danach suchte, sah ich die toten Augen und in ihnen, obwohl sie mich oder meine Anwesenheit nicht bemerkten, einen solchen Ausdruck des Hasses, dass ich vor dem Ort floh und den Raum des Grafen wieder durch das Fenster verließ und erneut die Burgmauer emporkroch. Als ich mein Zimmer erreichte, warf ich mich keuchend auf das Bett und versuchte zu denken... 29. Juni. - Heute ist das Datum meines letzten Briefes, und der Graf hat Maßnahmen ergriffen, um zu beweisen, dass er echt war, denn ich sah ihn erneut durch dasselbe Fenster das Schloss verlassen, verkleidet in meinen Kleidern. Während er wie eine Eidechse die Mauer hinabging, wünschte ich mir, ich hätte eine Waffe oder ein tödliches Werkzeug, um ihn zerstören zu können; aber ich fürchte, dass keine von Menschenhand gefertigte Waffe eine Wirkung auf ihn haben würde. Ich wagte es nicht, auf seine Rückkehr zu warten, denn ich fürchtete, diese unheimlichen Schwestern zu sehen. Ich kehrte in die Bibliothek zurück und las dort, bis ich einschlief. Ich wurde vom Grafen geweckt, der mich so grimmig ansah, wie ein Mann nur blicken kann, als er sagte: „Morgen, mein Freund, müssen wir uns trennen. Du kehrst in dein wunderschönes England zurück, während ich eine Arbeit zu erledigen habe, die ein Ende haben kann, sodass wir uns nie wiedersehen. Dein Brief nach Hause ist abgeschickt worden. Morgen werde ich nicht hier sein, aber alles wird bereit sein für deine Reise. Am Morgen kommen die Szgany, die hier einige Arbeiten haben, und auch einige Slowaken kommen. Wenn sie gegangen sind, wird mein Wagen für dich bereitstehen und dich zum Borgo Pass bringen, um dort auf die Postkutsche von Bukowina nach Bistritz zu treffen. Aber ich hoffe, dass ich dich im Schloss Dracula wiedersehen werde." Ich misstraute ihm und beschloss, seine Aufrichtigkeit zu prüfen. Aufrichtigkeit! Es scheint eine Gotteslästerung, das Wort in Verbindung mit einem solchen Monster zu verwenden, daher fragte ich ihn direkt: „Warum darf ich nicht heute Nacht gehen?" „Weil, lieber Herr, mein Kutscher und meine Pferde auf einer Mission unterwegs sind." „Aber ich würde gerne zu Fuß gehen. Ich möchte sofort weg." Er lächelte, so ein sanftes, glattes, teuflisches Lächeln, dass mir klar wurde, dass sich hinter seiner Freundlichkeit ein Trick verbarg. Er sagte: „Und dein Gepäck?" „Darauf gebe ich nichts. Ich kann es zu einem anderen Zeitpunkt abholen." Der Graf stand auf und sagte mit einer süßen Höflichkeit, dass ich mir die Augen rieb, weil es so wirkte, als wäre es echt: "Ihr Engländer habt ein Sprichwort, das mir nahe am Herzen liegt, denn sein Geist regiert unsere _Bojaren_: 'Willkommen dem Kommenden; Schicke den scheidenden Gast fort.' Komm mit mir In Stille kehrten wir zur Bibliothek zurück, und nach einer Minute oder zwei ging ich in mein eigenes Zimmer. Das Letzte, was ich von Graf Dracula sah, war, wie er mir mit einem triumphierenden roten Leuchten in den Augen seine Hand küsste und mit einem Lächeln, auf das Judas in der Hölle stolz sein könnte. Als ich in meinem Zimmer war und mich hinlegen wollte, meinte ich, ein Flüstern an meiner Tür zu hören. Ich ging leise hin und lauschte. Falls mich meine Ohren nicht täuschten, hörte ich die Stimme des Grafen: "Zurück, zurück, an deinen eigenen Ort! Deine Zeit ist noch nicht gekommen. Warte! Habe Geduld! Heute Nacht gehört mir. Morgen Nacht gehört dir!" Es gab ein leises, süßes Kichern und voller Wut öffnete ich die Tür und sah draußen die drei schrecklichen Frauen, wie sie sich die Lippen leckten. Als ich erschien, lachten sie alle gemeinsam auf grauenhafte Weise und rannten weg. Ich kehrte in mein Zimmer zurück und fiel auf die Knie. Ist es also schon fast zu Ende? Morgen! Morgen! Herr, hilf mir und denen, die mir lieb sind! * * * * * _30. Juni, morgens._ Dies könnten die letzten Worte sein, die ich jemals in diesem Tagebuch schreibe. Ich habe bis kurz vor der Morgendämmerung geschlafen und als ich aufwachte, warf ich mich auf die Knie, denn ich hatte den Entschluss gefasst, dass, wenn der Tod käme, er mich bereit finden sollte. Schließlich spürte ich diese subtile Veränderung in der Luft und wusste, dass der Morgen gekommen war. Dann kam das erlösende Krähen des Hahns und ich fühlte mich sicher. Mit einem freudigen Herzen öffnete ich meine Tür und rannte hinunter in die Halle. Ich hatte gesehen, dass die Tür unverschlossen war und nun lag die Flucht vor mir. Mit Händen, die vor Ungeduld zitterten, löste ich die Ketten und zog die massiven Riegel zurück. Aber die Tür bewegte sich nicht. Verzweiflung ergriff mich. Ich rüttelte und rüttelte an der Tür und schüttelte sie, bis sie, so massiv sie auch war, in ihrer Umrandung klapperte. Ich konnte den Riegel sehen. Er war verschlossen worden, nachdem ich den Grafen verlassen hatte. Dann überkam mich ein wilder Wunsch, diesen Schlüssel um jeden Preis zu bekommen, und ich entschied in diesem Moment, die Mauer erneut zu erklimmen und in das Zimmer des Grafen zu gelangen. Er mochte mich töten, aber der Tod schien mir jetzt die bessere Wahl zwischen den Übeln zu sein. Ohne zu zögern stürmte ich zum Ostfenster, kletterte die Mauer hinunter, wie zuvor, und gelangte in das Zimmer des Grafen. Es war leer, aber das hatte ich erwartet. Ich konnte keinen Schlüssel irgendwo sehen, aber der Haufen Gold blieb bestehen. Ich ging durch die Tür in der Ecke, hinunter die enge Treppe und durch den dunklen Gang zur alten Kapelle. Ich wusste nun gut genug, wo ich das Monster finden konnte, nach dem ich suchte. Der große Sarg stand an derselben Stelle, dicht an der Wand, aber der Deckel lag darauf, nicht verschlossen, aber mit den Nägeln bereit in ihren Positionen, um eingeschlagen zu werden. Ich wusste, dass ich die Leiche erreichen musste, um den Schlüssel zu bekommen, also hob ich den Deckel an und lehnte ihn an die Wand; und dann sah ich etwas, das meine Seele mit Horror erfüllte. Dort lag der Graf, sah jedoch aus, als wäre seine Jugend zur Hälfte erneuert worden, denn das weiße Haar und der Schnurrbart hatten sich in dunkles eisengrau verwandelt, die Wangen waren voller und die weiße Haut schien rubinrot darunter, der Mund war röter als je zuvor, denn auf den Lippen waren Blutlachen, die aus den Mundwinkeln heruntertropften und das Kinn und den Hals hinabliefen. Selbst die tief brennenden Augen schienen in geschwollenem Fleisch eingebettet zu sein, denn die Lider und Beutel darunter waren angeschwollen. Es schien, als wäre das ganze furchtbare Wesen einfach mit Blut vollgesogen. Er lag da wie eine schmutzige Blutegel, erschöpft von seinem Völlegefühl. Ich schauderte, als ich mich über ihn beugte, und jeder meiner Sinne wandte sich gegen die Berührung; aber ich musste suchen, sonst wäre ich verloren gewesen. Die kommende Nacht könnte meinen eigenen Körper auf ähnliche Weise zu einem Gelage machen wie diese abscheulichen drei. Ich tastete am ganzen Körper herum, aber ich konnte keine Anzeichen des Schlüssels finden. Dann blieb ich stehen und betrachtete den Grafen. Auf dem aufgeblähten Gesicht lag ein höhnisches Lächeln, das mich wahnsinnig zu machen schien. Das war das Wesen, das ich dabei half, nach London zu überführen, wo er vielleicht für Jahrhunderte unter seinen unzähligen Millionen seine Begierde nach Blut stillen und einen neuen, immer größer werdenden Kreis von Halbdämonen erschaffen könnte, die sich an den Hilflosen laben. Allein bei dem Gedanken daran wurde ich wahnsinnig. Ein schrecklicher Wunsch ergriff mich, die Welt von einem solchen Monster zu befreien. Es gab keine tödliche Waffe in Reichweite, aber ich ergriff eine Schaufel, die die Arbeiter verwendet hatten, um die Kisten zu füllen, und hob sie hoch, um mit der Kante nach unten auf das verabscheuungswürdige Gesicht zu schlagen. Aber als ich dies tat, drehte sich der Kopf, und die Augen fielen direkt auf mich, mit all ihrem Basiliskenhorror. Der Anblick schien mich zu lähmen, und die Schaufel drehte sich in meiner Hand und glitt vom Gesicht ab, nur eine tiefe Wunde über der Stirn hinterlassend. Die Schaufel fiel mir aus der Hand über den Sarg, und als ich sie wegzog, blieb die Kante der Schaufel am Rand des Deckels hängen, der sich wieder schloss und das abscheuliche Ding vor meinem Blick verbarg. Der letzte Blick, den ich hatte, war auf das aufgeblähte, blutbefleckte Gesicht gerichtet, das mit einem Grinsen des Übels, das auch in der untersten Hölle Bestand hätte, fixiert war. Ich dachte und dachte, was mein nächster Schritt sein sollte, aber mein Gehirn schien in Flammen zu stehen, und ich wartete mit wachsender Verzweiflung. Während ich wartete, hörte ich in der Ferne ein von fröhlichen Stimmen gesungenes Zigeunerlied, das näher kam und durch ihr Lied das Rollen schwerer Räder und den Peitschenknall; die Szgany und die Slowaken, von denen der Graf gesprochen hatte, kamen. Mit einem letzten Blick in den Raum und auf den Kasten, der den widerwärtigen Körper enthielt, lief ich von dem Ort davon und erreichte das Zimmer des Grafen mit der Absicht, im Moment des Öffnens der Tür hinauszustürmen. Mit angespannten Ohren hörte ich, wie unten im großen Schloss die Schlüssel im Schloss knirschten und die schwere Tür zurückgeschoben wurde. Es muss noch einen anderen Zugang oder jemanden geben, der einen Schlüssel für eine der verschlossenen Türen hatte. Dann hörte ich das Geräusch vieler Füße, die in einem Gang dahintrampelten und ein klirrendes Echo hervorriefen. Ich kehrte um, um wieder hinunter in Richtung des Verlieses zu laufen, wo ich den neuen Eingang finden könnte; aber im selben Moment schien ein heftiger Windstoß zu kommen und die Tür zur Wendeltreppe knallte mit solch einer Wucht zu, dass der Staub von den Türstürzen aufwirbelte. Als ich rannte, um sie zu öffnen, fand ich sie hoffnungslos verschlossen. Ich war wieder Gefangener, und das Netz des Untergangs zog sich enger um mich zusammen. Während ich schreibe, höre ich in der darunterliegenden Passage das Geräusch vieler stampfender Füße und das Aufsetzen von schweren Gewichten, zweifellos die Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Harker wacht in seinem eigenen Bett auf und ist unsicher, ob das Erlebnis der vorherigen Nacht ein Traum oder Realität war. Mehrere Tage später bittet Dracula Harker, drei Briefe an seine Verlobte und seinen Arbeitgeber zu schreiben und sie auf den 12., 19. und 29. Juni zu datieren, obwohl es momentan erst der 19. Mai ist. Der Graf weist Harker an zu schreiben, dass er das Schloss verlassen hat und sicher auf dem Weg nach Hause ist. In der Zwischenzeit kommt eine Gruppe von Zigeunern ins Schloss und Harker hofft auf eine Chance zur Flucht und beschließt, sie zu bitten, einen Brief an Mina zu schicken. Harker übergibt seine geheime Korrespondenz einem Zigeuner durch die Gitterstäbe seines Fensters. Später am Abend erscheint Dracula mit dem Brief in der Hand und erklärt, dass es eine schändliche Beleidigung für seine Freundschaft und Gastfreundschaft ist, und verbrennt ihn. Wochen vergehen. Es ist jetzt Mitte Juni und Harker bleibt ein Gefangener. Weitere Zigeuner kommen ins Schloss und Harker sieht, wie sie große Holzkisten aus einem Wagen ausladen. Eines Tages stellt Harker fest, dass mehrere Kleidungsstücke von ihm für irgendein "neues schurkisches Vorhaben" verschwunden sind und sieht dabei den Grafen in seinem Anzug an der Schlosswand entlanggleiten. Dracula trägt ein Bündel, das dem ähnelt, was zuvor von den drei schrecklichen Frauen verschlungen wurde, was Harker davon überzeugt, dass sein Gastgeber die Verkleidung benutzt, um unsagbare Taten zu begehen. Später an diesem Tag erscheint eine verzweifelte Frau am Schlosstor und weint nach ihrem Kind. Ein Rudel Wölfe kommt aus dem Innenhof und verschlingt sie. Verzweifelt beschließt Harker, einen Teil der Schlossmauer zu erklimmen, um während des Tages in Draculas Zimmer zu gelangen. Er schafft es und findet das Zimmer des Grafen leer vor, abgesehen von einem Haufen Gold. Als Harker eine dunkle, verwinkelte Treppe entdeckt, folgt er ihr und trifft auf fünfzig Kisten mit Erde in einem tunnelartigen Gang. Harker öffnet einige der Kisten und entdeckt den Grafen in einer von ihnen, entweder tot oder schlafend. Voller Angst flieht Harker zurück in sein Zimmer. Am 29. Juni verspricht Dracula Harker, dass er am nächsten Tag gehen könne, doch Harker bittet darum, sofort gehen zu dürfen. Obwohl sein Gastgeber zustimmt und die Eingangstür öffnet, wird Harkers Abreise durch ein wartendes Rudel Wölfe behindert. Später, als er den Grafen sagen hört, "Heute Nacht gehört mir. Morgen Nacht gehört dir.", öffnet Harker seine Schlafzimmertür und findet die drei verführerischen Frauen vor. Er kehrt in sein Zimmer zurück und betet um seine Sicherheit. Am Morgen wacht Harker früh auf und steigt erneut zu Draculas Zimmer hinab. Dracula schläft wie zuvor, wirkt jedoch jünger und schlanker, und Harker bemerkt Blut, das von den Mundwinkeln des Grafen herunterläuft. Harker nimmt eine Schaufel und will den Vampir töten, aber der Schlag prallt harmlos von der Stirn des Grafen ab. Harker beschließt, etwas von Draculas Gold zu nehmen und zu versuchen, über die Schlossmauer zu entkommen. Sein Tagebucheintrag endet verzweifelt mit den Worten "Auf Wiedersehen, ihr alle. Mina."

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: Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. 'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper. 'Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,--which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. 'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir,--Oliver has--' 'What? What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. 'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?' 'No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,' replied Noah. 'He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!' And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? 'It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble, 'who has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir,--by young Twist.' 'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. 'I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!' 'He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,' said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. 'And his missis,' interposed Mr. Claypole. 'And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?' added Mr. Bumble. 'No! he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied Noah. 'He said he wanted to.' 'Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'Yes, sir,' replied Noah. 'And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him--'cause master's out.' 'Certainly, my boy; certainly,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. 'You're a good boy--a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble.' 'No, I will not, sir,' replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: 'Oliver!' 'Come; you let me out!' replied Oliver, from the inside. 'Do you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble. 'Yes,' replied Oliver. 'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?' said Mr. Bumble. 'No!' replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. 'Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,' said Mrs. Sowerberry. 'No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.' 'It's not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. 'It's Meat.' 'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Meat, ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. 'You've over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened.' 'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!' The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. 'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; 'the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before.' At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. 'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?' said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. 'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver. 'Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?' said Mrs. Sowerberry. 'She deserved what he said, and worse.' 'She didn't' said Oliver. 'She did,' said Mrs. Sowerberry. 'It's a lie!' said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went--it was not very extensive--kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time. 'Hush, Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. 'Is any one up?' 'Nobody but me,' replied the child. 'You musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver. 'I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!' 'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child with a faint smile. 'I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!' 'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' replied Oliver. 'I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!' 'I hope so,' replied the child. 'After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,' said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. 'Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!' The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Noah fand Herrn Bumble und erzählte ihm, dass Oliver versucht hatte, ihn, Charlotte und Mrs. Sowerberry umzubringen. Herr Bumble und der Mann im weißen Westen waren entsetzt, und Noah rief aus, dass Oliver auch beabsichtigt hatte, Mr. Sowerberry umzubringen. Herr Bumble ging mit Noah, um Oliver zu verprügeln, und als sie ankamen, hatte Mrs. Sowerberry Oliver im Keller eingeschlossen. Herr Bumble sprach scharf mit Oliver und sagte Mrs. Sowerberry, dass sie den Jungen zu reichlich gefüttert habe und er für den Rest seiner Ausbildung auf Haferbrei gehalten werden solle. Herr Bumble erklärte dann, dass Oliver aus einer schlechten Familie stamme, was Oliver erneut wütend machte. Mr. Sowerberry kam nach Hause und fragte Oliver, was passiert sei. Oliver erzählte ihm, dass Noah böse Dinge über seine Mutter gesagt habe und Mrs. Sowerberry begann erneut, sie zu beleidigen. Sie brach dann in Tränen aus, weil Oliver ihr widersprach, und das zwang Mr. Sowerberry, Oliver streng zu bestrafen. Dann schickten sie ihn ins Bett und am nächsten Morgen stand er früh auf und verließ das Haus. Auf dem Weg nach London besuchte er das Haus von Frau Mann und sah seinen Freund Dick, der anscheinend im Garten am Sterben war. Die Jungen umarmten sich, sprachen und verabschiedeten sich voneinander und Oliver ging fest entschlossen in die Stadt, um von den Sowerberrys wegzulaufen.

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: Pity the laden one; this wandering woe May visit you and me. When Lydgate had allayed Mrs. Bulstrode's anxiety by telling her that her husband had been seized with faintness at the meeting, but that he trusted soon to see him better and would call again the next day, unless she sent for him earlier, he went directly home, got on his horse, and rode three miles out of the town for the sake of being out of reach. He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if raging under the pain of stings: he was ready to curse the day on which he had come to Middlemarch. Everything that bad happened to him there seemed a mere preparation for this hateful fatality, which had come as a blight on his honorable ambition, and must make even people who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged. In such moments a man can hardly escape being unloving. Lydgate thought of himself as the sufferer, and of others as the agents who had injured his lot. He had meant everything to turn out differently; and others had thrust themselves into his life and thwarted his purposes. His marriage seemed an unmitigated calamity; and he was afraid of going to Rosamond before he had vented himself in this solitary rage, lest the mere sight of her should exasperate him and make him behave unwarrantably. There are episodes in most men's lives in which their highest qualities can only cast a deterring shadow over the objects that fill their inward vision: Lydgate's tenderheartedness was present just then only as a dread lest he should offend against it, not as an emotion that swayed him to tenderness. For he was very miserable. Only those who know the supremacy of the intellectual life--the life which has a seed of ennobling thought and purpose within it--can understand the grief of one who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances. How was he to live on without vindicating himself among people who suspected him of baseness? How could he go silently away from Middlemarch as if he were retreating before a just condemnation? And yet how was he to set about vindicating himself? For that scene at the meeting, which he had just witnessed, although it had told him no particulars, had been enough to make his own situation thoroughly clear to him. Bulstrode had been in dread of scandalous disclosures on the part of Raffles. Lydgate could now construct all the probabilities of the case. "He was afraid of some betrayal in my hearing: all he wanted was to bind me to him by a strong obligation: that was why he passed on a sudden from hardness to liberality. And he may have tampered with the patient--he may have disobeyed my orders. I fear he did. But whether he did or not, the world believes that he somehow or other poisoned the man and that I winked at the crime, if I didn't help in it. And yet--and yet he may not be guilty of the last offence; and it is just possible that the change towards me may have been a genuine relenting--the effect of second thoughts such as he alleged. What we call the 'just possible' is sometimes true and the thing we find it easier to believe is grossly false. In his last dealings with this man Bulstrode may have kept his hands pure, in spite of my suspicion to the contrary." There was a benumbing cruelty in his position. Even if he renounced every other consideration than that of justifying himself--if he met shrugs, cold glances, and avoidance as an accusation, and made a public statement of all the facts as he knew them, who would be convinced? It would be playing the part of a fool to offer his own testimony on behalf of himself, and say, "I did not take the money as a bribe." The circumstances would always be stronger than his assertion. And besides, to come forward and tell everything about himself must include declarations about Bulstrode which would darken the suspicions of others against him. He must tell that he had not known of Raffles's existence when he first mentioned his pressing need of money to Bulstrode, and that he took the money innocently as a result of that communication, not knowing that a new motive for the loan might have arisen on his being called in to this man. And after all, the suspicion of Bulstrode's motives might be unjust. But then came the question whether he should have acted in precisely the same way if he had not taken the money? Certainly, if Raffles had continued alive and susceptible of further treatment when he arrived, and he had then imagined any disobedience to his orders on the part of Bulstrode, he would have made a strict inquiry, and if his conjecture had been verified he would have thrown up the case, in spite of his recent heavy obligation. But if he had not received any money--if Bulstrode had never revoked his cold recommendation of bankruptcy--would he, Lydgate, have abstained from all inquiry even on finding the man dead?--would the shrinking from an insult to Bulstrode--would the dubiousness of all medical treatment and the argument that his own treatment would pass for the wrong with most members of his profession--have had just the same force or significance with him? That was the uneasy corner of Lydgate's consciousness while he was reviewing the facts and resisting all reproach. If he had been independent, this matter of a patient's treatment and the distinct rule that he must do or see done that which he believed best for the life committed to him, would have been the point on which he would have been the sturdiest. As it was, he had rested in the consideration that disobedience to his orders, however it might have arisen, could not be considered a crime, that in the dominant opinion obedience to his orders was just as likely to be fatal, and that the affair was simply one of etiquette. Whereas, again and again, in his time of freedom, he had denounced the perversion of pathological doubt into moral doubt and had said--"the purest experiment in treatment may still be conscientious: my business is to take care of life, and to do the best I can think of for it. Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma. Dogma gives a charter to mistake, but the very breath of science is a contest with mistake, and must keep the conscience alive." Alas! the scientific conscience had got into the debasing company of money obligation and selfish respects. "Is there a medical man of them all in Middlemarch who would question himself as I do?" said poor Lydgate, with a renewed outburst of rebellion against the oppression of his lot. "And yet they will all feel warranted in making a wide space between me and them, as if I were a leper! My practice and my reputation are utterly damned--I can see that. Even if I could be cleared by valid evidence, it would make little difference to the blessed world here. I have been set down as tainted and should be cheapened to them all the same." Already there had been abundant signs which had hitherto puzzled him, that just when he had been paying off his debts and getting cheerfully on his feet, the townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely at him, and in two instances it came to his knowledge that patients of his had called in another practitioner. The reasons were too plain now. The general black-balling had begun. No wonder that in Lydgate's energetic nature the sense of a hopeless misconstruction easily turned into a dogged resistance. The scowl which occasionally showed itself on his square brow was not a meaningless accident. Already when he was re-entering the town after that ride taken in the first hours of stinging pain, he was setting his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of the worst that could be done against him. He would not retreat before calumny, as if he submitted to it. He would face it to the utmost, and no act of his should show that he was afraid. It belonged to the generosity as well as defiant force of his nature that he resolved not to shrink from showing to the full his sense of obligation to Bulstrode. It was true that the association with this man had been fatal to him--true that if he had had the thousand pounds still in his hands with all his debts unpaid he would have returned the money to Bulstrode, and taken beggary rather than the rescue which had been sullied with the suspicion of a bribe (for, remember, he was one of the proudest among the sons of men)--nevertheless, he would not turn away from this crushed fellow-mortal whose aid he had used, and make a pitiful effort to get acquittal for himself by howling against another. "I shall do as I think right, and explain to nobody. They will try to starve me out, but--" he was going on with an obstinate resolve, but he was getting near home, and the thought of Rosamond urged itself again into that chief place from which it had been thrust by the agonized struggles of wounded honor and pride. How would Rosamond take it all? Here was another weight of chain to drag, and poor Lydgate was in a bad mood for bearing her dumb mastery. He had no impulse to tell her the trouble which must soon be common to them both. He preferred waiting for the incidental disclosure which events must soon bring about. 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.

Lydgate ist wieder unglücklich. Er weiß nicht, wie er sich rechtfertigen soll. Aber er muss sich auch fragen, ob er mehr Fragen über Raffles' Tod gestellt hätte, wenn er gerade keinen großen Kredit von Bulstrode bekommen hätte. Er überlegt, das Geld an Bulstrode zurückzugeben, aber wie soll er das tun, wenn er dadurch wieder tief in Schulden geraten würde? Was würde Rosamond sagen?

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: The crowd was waiting against the wall, symmetrically enclosed between the balustrades. At the corner of the neighbouring streets huge bills repeated in quaint letters "Lucie de Lammermoor-Lagardy-Opera-etc." The weather was fine, the people were hot, perspiration trickled amid the curls, and handkerchiefs taken from pockets were mopping red foreheads; and now and then a warm wind that blew from the river gently stirred the border of the tick awnings hanging from the doors of the public-houses. A little lower down, however, one was refreshed by a current of icy air that smelt of tallow, leather, and oil. This was an exhalation from the Rue des Charrettes, full of large black warehouses where they made casks. For fear of seeming ridiculous, Emma before going in wished to have a little stroll in the harbour, and Bovary prudently kept his tickets in his hand, in the pocket of his trousers, which he pressed against his stomach. Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule. She involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing to the right by the other corridor while she went up the staircase to the reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push with her finger the large tapestried door. She breathed in with all her might the dusty smell of the lobbies, and when she was seated in her box she bent forward with the air of a duchess. The theatre was beginning to fill; opera-glasses were taken from their cases, and the subscribers, catching sight of one another, were bowing. They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts after the anxieties of business; but "business" was not forgotten; they still talked cottons, spirits of wine, or indigo. The heads of old men were to be seen, inexpressive and peaceful, with their hair and complexions looking like silver medals tarnished by steam of lead. The young beaux were strutting about in the pit, showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink or applegreen cravats, and Madame Bovary from above admired them leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm of their yellow gloves. Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre, let down from the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets a sudden gaiety over the theatre; then the musicians came in one after the other; and first there was the protracted hubbub of the basses grumbling, violins squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes and flageolets fifing. But three knocks were heard on the stage, a rolling of drums began, the brass instruments played some chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country-scene. It was the cross-roads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by an oak to the left. Peasants and lords with plaids on their shoulders were singing a hunting-song together; then a captain suddenly came on, who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven. Another appeared; they went away, and the hunters started afresh. She felt herself transported to the reading of her youth, into the midst of Walter Scott. She seemed to hear through the mist the sound of the Scotch bagpipes re-echoing over the heather. Then her remembrance of the novel helping her to understand the libretto, she followed the story phrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed at once again with the bursts of music. She gave herself up to the lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn over her nerves. She had not eyes enough to look at the costumes, the scenery, the actors, the painted trees that shook when anyone walked, and the velvet caps, cloaks, swords--all those imaginary things that floated amid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another world. But a young woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire in green. She was left alone, and the flute was heard like the murmur of a fountain or the warbling of birds. Lucie attacked her cavatina in G major bravely. She plained of love; she longed for wings. Emma, too, fleeing from life, would have liked to fly away in an embrace. Suddenly Edgar-Lagardy appeared. He had that splendid pallor that gives something of the majesty of marble to the ardent races of the South. His vigorous form was tightly clad in a brown-coloured doublet; a small chiselled poniard hung against his left thigh, and he cast round laughing looks showing his white teeth. They said that a Polish princess having heard him sing one night on the beach at Biarritz, where he mended boats, had fallen in love with him. She had ruined herself for him. He had deserted her for other women, and this sentimental celebrity did not fail to enhance his artistic reputation. The diplomatic mummer took care always to slip into his advertisements some poetic phrase on the fascination of his person and the susceptibility of his soul. A fine organ, imperturbable coolness, more temperament than intelligence, more power of emphasis than of real singing, made up the charm of this admirable charlatan nature, in which there was something of the hairdresser and the toreador. From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm. He pressed Lucy in his arms, he left her, he came back, he seemed desperate; he had outbursts of rage, then elegiac gurglings of infinite sweetness, and the notes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs and kisses. Emma leant forward to see him, clutching the velvet of the box with her nails. She was filling her heart with these melodious lamentations that were drawn out to the accompaniment of the double-basses, like the cries of the drowning in the tumult of a tempest. She recognised all the intoxication and the anguish that had almost killed her. The voice of a prima donna seemed to her to be but echoes of her conscience, and this illusion that charmed her as some very thing of her own life. But no one on earth had loved her with such love. He had not wept like Edgar that last moonlit night when they said, "To-morrow! to-morrow!" The theatre rang with cheers; they recommenced the entire movement; the lovers spoke of the flowers on their tomb, of vows, exile, fate, hopes; and when they uttered the final adieu, Emma gave a sharp cry that mingled with the vibrations of the last chords. "But why," asked Bovary, "does that gentleman persecute her?" "No, no!" she answered; "he is her lover!" "Yet he vows vengeance on her family, while the other one who came on before said, 'I love Lucie and she loves me!' Besides, he went off with her father arm in arm. For he certainly is her father, isn't he--the ugly little man with a cock's feather in his hat?" Despite Emma's explanations, as soon as the recitative duet began in which Gilbert lays bare his abominable machinations to his master Ashton, Charles, seeing the false troth-ring that is to deceive Lucie, thought it was a love-gift sent by Edgar. He confessed, moreover, that he did not understand the story because of the music, which interfered very much with the words. "What does it matter?" said Emma. "Do be quiet!" "Yes, but you know," he went on, leaning against her shoulder, "I like to understand things." "Be quiet! be quiet!" she cried impatiently. Lucie advanced, half supported by her women, a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, and paler than the white satin of her gown. Emma dreamed of her marriage day; she saw herself at home again amid the corn in the little path as they walked to the church. Oh, why had not she, like this woman, resisted, implored? She, on the contrary, had been joyous, without seeing the abyss into which she was throwing herself. Ah! if in the freshness of her beauty, before the soiling of marriage and the disillusions of adultery, she could have anchored her life upon some great, strong heart, then virtue, tenderness, voluptuousness, and duty blending, she would never have fallen from so high a happiness. But that happiness, no doubt, was a lie invented for the despair of all desire. She now knew the smallness of the passions that art exaggerated. So, striving to divert her thoughts, Emma determined now to see in this reproduction of her sorrows only a plastic fantasy, well enough to please the eye, and she even smiled internally with disdainful pity when at the back of the stage under the velvet hangings a man appeared in a black cloak. His large Spanish hat fell at a gesture he made, and immediately the instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar, flashing with fury, dominated all the others with his clearer voice; Ashton hurled homicidal provocations at him in deep notes; Lucie uttered her shrill plaint, Arthur at one side, his modulated tones in the middle register, and the bass of the minister pealed forth like an organ, while the voices of the women repeating his words took them up in chorus delightfully. They were all in a row gesticulating, and anger, vengeance, jealousy, terror, and stupefaction breathed forth at once from their half-opened mouths. The outraged lover brandished his naked sword; his guipure ruffle rose with jerks to the movements of his chest, and he walked from right to left with long strides, clanking against the boards the silver-gilt spurs of his soft boots, widening out at the ankles. He, she thought must have an inexhaustible love to lavish it upon the crowd with such effusion. All her small fault-findings faded before the poetry of the part that absorbed her; and, drawn towards this man by the illusion of the character, she tried to imagine to herself his life--that life resonant, extraordinary, splendid, and that might have been hers if fate had willed it. They would have known one another, loved one another. With him, through all the kingdoms of Europe she would have travelled from capital to capital, sharing his fatigues and his pride, picking up the flowers thrown to him, herself embroidering his costumes. Then each evening, at the back of a box, behind the golden trellis-work she would have drunk in eagerly the expansions of this soul that would have sung for her alone; from the stage, even as he acted, he would have looked at her. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her; it was certain. She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in his strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say to him, to cry out, "Take me away! carry me with you! let us go! Thine, thine! all my ardour and all my dreams!" The curtain fell. The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breaths, the waving of the fans, made the air more suffocating. Emma wanted to go out; the crowd filled the corridors, and she fell back in her arm-chair with palpitations that choked her. Charles, fearing that she would faint, ran to the refreshment-room to get a glass of barley-water. He had great difficulty in getting back to his seat, for his elbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he held in his hands, and he even spilt three-fourths on the shoulders of a Rouen lady in short sleeves, who feeling the cold liquid running down to her loins, uttered cries like a peacock, as if she were being assassinated. Her husband, who was a millowner, railed at the clumsy fellow, and while she was with her handkerchief wiping up the stains from her handsome cherry-coloured taffeta gown, he angrily muttered about indemnity, costs, reimbursement. At last Charles reached his wife, saying to her, quite out of breath-- "Ma foi! I thought I should have had to stay there. There is such a crowd--SUCH a crowd!" He added-- "Just guess whom I met up there! Monsieur Leon!" "Leon?" "Himself! He's coming along to pay his respects." And as he finished these words the ex-clerk of Yonville entered the box. He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman; and Madame Bovary extended hers, without doubt obeying the attraction of a stronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening when the rain fell upon the green leaves, and they had said good-bye standing at the window. But soon recalling herself to the necessities of the situation, with an effort she shook off the torpor of her memories, and began stammering a few hurried words. "Ah, good-day! What! you here?" "Silence!" cried a voice from the pit, for the third act was beginning. "So you are at Rouen?" "Yes." "And since when?" "Turn them out! turn them out!" People were looking at them. They were silent. But from that moment she listened no more; and the chorus of the guests, the scene between Ashton and his servant, the grand duet in D major, all were for her as far off as if the instruments had grown less sonorous and the characters more remote. She remembered the games at cards at the druggist's, and the walk to the nurse's, the reading in the arbour, the tete-a-tete by the fireside--all that poor love, so calm and so protracted, so discreet, so tender, and that she had nevertheless forgotten. And why had he come back? What combination of circumstances had brought him back into her life? He was standing behind her, leaning with his shoulder against the wall of the box; now and again she felt herself shuddering beneath the hot breath from his nostrils falling upon her hair. "Does this amuse you?" said he, bending over her so closely that the end of his moustache brushed her cheek. She replied carelessly-- "Oh, dear me, no, not much." Then he proposed that they should leave the theatre and go and take an ice somewhere. "Oh, not yet; let us stay," said Bovary. "Her hair's undone; this is going to be tragic." But the mad scene did not at all interest Emma, and the acting of the singer seemed to her exaggerated. "She screams too loud," said she, turning to Charles, who was listening. "Yes--a little," he replied, undecided between the frankness of his pleasure and his respect for his wife's opinion. Then with a sigh Leon said-- "The heat is--" "Unbearable! Yes!" "Do you feel unwell?" asked Bovary. "Yes, I am stifling; let us go." Monsieur Leon put her long lace shawl carefully about her shoulders, and all three went off to sit down in the harbour, in the open air, outside the windows of a cafe. First they spoke of her illness, although Emma interrupted Charles from time to time, for fear, she said, of boring Monsieur Leon; and the latter told them that he had come to spend two years at Rouen in a large office, in order to get practice in his profession, which was different in Normandy and Paris. Then he inquired after Berthe, the Homais, Mere Lefrancois, and as they had, in the husband's presence, nothing more to say to one another, the conversation soon came to an end. People coming out of the theatre passed along the pavement, humming or shouting at the top of their voices, "O bel ange, ma Lucie!*" Then Leon, playing the dilettante, began to talk music. He had seen Tambourini, Rubini, Persiani, Grisi, and, compared with them, Lagardy, despite his grand outbursts, was nowhere. *Oh beautiful angel, my Lucie. "Yet," interrupted Charles, who was slowly sipping his rum-sherbet, "they say that he is quite admirable in the last act. I regret leaving before the end, because it was beginning to amuse me." "Why," said the clerk, "he will soon give another performance." But Charles replied that they were going back next day. "Unless," he added, turning to his wife, "you would like to stay alone, kitten?" And changing his tactics at this unexpected opportunity that presented itself to his hopes, the young man sang the praises of Lagardy in the last number. It was really superb, sublime. Then Charles insisted-- "You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You are wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good." The tables round them, however, were emptying; a waiter came and stood discreetly near them. Charles, who understood, took out his purse; the clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leave two more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble. "I am really sorry," said Bovary, "about the money which you are--" The other made a careless gesture full of cordiality, and taking his hat said-- "It is settled, isn't it? To-morrow at six o'clock?" Charles explained once more that he could not absent himself longer, but that nothing prevented Emma-- "But," she stammered, with a strange smile, "I am not sure--" "Well, you must think it over. We'll see. Night brings counsel." Then to Leon, who was walking along with them, "Now that you are in our part of the world, I hope you'll come and ask us for some dinner now and then." Der Beamte erklärte, dass er dies auf keinen Fall versäumen würde, und fügte hinzu, dass er außerdem aufgrund einer geschäftlichen Angelegenheit seines Büros nach Yonville fahren müsse. Sie verabschiedeten sich, gerade als die Uhr im Dom halb zwölf schlug. 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.

Während Charles und Emma im Theater sind, ist er wie gewöhnlich unbeholfen. Emma ignoriert ihn jedoch, da sie ganz in die Handlung der Oper vertieft ist, die sie als ihre eigene Lebensgeschichte betrachtet. Sie vergleicht ständig den männlichen Hauptdarsteller mit Rodolphe und stellt ihn sich als ihren Liebhaber vor. Während der Pause sieht Charles Leon am Imbissstand und führt ihn zu ihrer Loge, um Emma zu begrüßen. Leon bleibt bei ihnen, und Emma schenkt der Oper kaum Beachtung. Die drei verlassen das Theater und schwelgen in alten Erinnerungen. Charles lädt Leon nach Yonville ein. Außerdem drängt er Emma dazu, den nächsten Abend mit Leon im Theater zu verbringen, da er nicht länger bleiben kann. Sie trennen sich in sehr herzlicher Stimmung.

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: Wir waren jetzt in Westminster. Wir waren umgekehrt, um ihr zu folgen, nachdem sie uns entgegengekommen war, und Westminster Abbey war der Punkt, an dem sie von den Lichtern und Geräuschen der Hauptstraßen verschwand. Als sie sich von den beiden Passantenströmen befreit hatte, die auf und von der Brücke zustrebten, ging sie so schnell voran, dass wir in der engen Flussuferstraße an der Millbank waren, bevor wir sie einholten. In diesem Moment überquerte sie die Straße, als ob sie den Schritten ausweichen wollte, die sie so dicht hinter sich hörte, und ging noch schneller weiter, ohne sich umzuschauen. Ein kurzer Blick auf den Fluss durch ein langweiliges Tor, wo einige Wagen für die Nacht untergebracht waren, schien meine Füße anzuhalten. Ich berührte meinen Begleiter, ohne ein Wort zu sagen, und wir beide verzichteten darauf, ihr zu folgen, und gingen stattdessen auf derselben Straßenseite weiter, so ruhig wie möglich im Schatten der Häuser, aber ganz in ihrer Nähe. Am Ende dieser tiefliegenden Straße gab es damals, und es gibt sie auch jetzt noch, ein heruntergekommenes kleines Holzgebäude, wahrscheinlich ein veraltetes altes Fährhaus. Es befindet sich genau an dem Punkt, an dem die Straße endet und die Straße zwischen einer Häuserreihe und dem Fluss verläuft. Sobald sie hierher kam und das Wasser sah, blieb sie stehen, als ob sie ihr Ziel erreicht hätte, und ging langsam am Ufer entlang und starrte intensiv auf das Wasser. Den ganzen Weg hierher dachte ich, sie würde zu einem Haus gehen; tatsächlich hegte ich vage die Hoffnung, dass das Haus in irgendeiner Weise mit dem verlorenen Mädchen in Verbindung stehen könnte. Aber dieser eine dunkle Blick auf den Fluss, durch das Tor, hatte mich instinktiv darauf vorbereitet, dass sie nicht weiter gehen würde. Die Nachbarschaft war zu dieser Zeit trostlos; bei Nacht genauso bedrückend, traurig und einsam wie jede andere Gegend in London. Es gab weder Kai noch Häuser auf der melancholischen Straße in der Nähe des großen leeren Gefängnisses. Ein träger Graben ließ den Schlamm an den Gefängnismauern ab. Grobes Gras und wilde Unkraut wucherten über dem sumpfigen Gelände in der Umgebung. An einem Teil verrotteten Häuserruinen, die inauspiciously begonnen und nie fertiggestellt wurden. An einem anderen Teil war der Boden mit rostigen Eisenmonstern von Dampfkesseln, Rädern, Kurbeln, Rohren, Öfen, Paddeln, Ankern, Tauchglocken, Windmühlenflügeln und ich weiß nicht was für seltsamen Objekten übersät, die von einem Spekulanten angesammelt wurden und im Staub vor sich hinvegetierten, darunter - aufgrund ihres eigenen Gewichts bei schlechtem Wetter im Boden versunken - hatten sie den Anschein, als würden sie vergeblich versuchen, sich zu verstecken. Das Klirren und Flackern verschiedener feuriger Werke am Flussufer störte nachts alles, außer dem dicken und ununterbrochenen Rauch, der aus ihren Schornsteinen strömte. Schlammige Lücken und Überwege, die sich zwischen alten Holzpfeilern winden und an denen eine kränkliche Substanz haftet, ähnlich grünem Haar, und die Fetzen von Handzetteln vom letzten Jahr, die Belohnungen für ertrunkene Männer anbieten, flattern über dem Hochwasser, führten durch den Schlamm und die Schlammlagen zur Ebbe. Es gab eine Geschichte, dass einer der Gruben, die zu Zeiten der Großen Pest für die Toten gegraben wurden, in diesem Bereich lag; und ein verderblicher Einfluss schien von dort über den ganzen Ort ausgegangen zu sein. Oder es sah so aus, als ob es allmählich in diesen Albtraumzustand verfallen wäre, aus den Überläufen des verschmutzten Flusses heraus zersetzt. Als wäre sie Teil dieser Abfälle, die es ausgeworfen und der Korruption und dem Verfall überlassen hat, streifte das Mädchen, dem wir gefolgt waren, zum Flussufer und stand inmitten dieses nächtlichen Bildes, einsam und still, und betrachtete das Wasser. Es gab einige Boote und Kähne im Schlamm gestrandet, und diese ermöglichten es uns, uns ihr unbemerkt bis auf wenige Meter zu nähern. Ich gab dann Mr. Peggotty ein Zeichen, wo er war zu bleiben, und trat aus dem Schatten heraus, um mit ihr zu sprechen. Ich ging nicht auf ihre einsame Gestalt zu, ohne zu zittern; denn dieses düstere Ende ihres entschlossenen Spaziergangs und die Art und Weise, wie sie fast im Höhlenlicht des Eisernen Stegs stand und auf die Lichter schief reflektiert vom starken Gezeitenstrom starrte, inspirierten mir eine Angst. Ich glaube, sie sprach mit sich selbst. Ich bin mir sicher, obwohl sie in das Wasser starrte, dass ihr Schal von ihren Schultern gerutscht war und dass sie ihre Hände darin eingemummelt hatte, auf eine verwirrte und verloren wirkende Weise, eher wie die Handlung eines Schlafwandelnden als einer wachen Person. Ich weiß und kann nie vergessen, dass in ihrer wilden Art und Weise nichts war, das mir die Gewissheit gab, dass sie nicht vor meinen Augen versinken würde, bis ich ihren Arm packte. Gleichzeitig sagte ich 'Martha!' Sie gab einen ängstlichen Schrei von sich und kämpfte mit solcher Stärke, dass ich bezweifle, ob ich sie alleine hätte halten können. Aber eine stärkere Hand als meine legte sich auf sie; und als sie ihre ängstlichen Augen hob und sah, wessen Hand es war, leistete sie nur noch einen weiteren Versuch und brach zwischen uns zusammen. Wir trugen sie weg von dem Wasser zu ein paar trockenen Steinen und legten sie dort nieder, weinend und stöhnend. Nach kurzer Zeit saß sie zwischen den Steinen und hielt sich mit beiden Händen den unglücklichen Kopf. 'Oh, der Fluss!' rief sie leidenschaftlich. 'Oh, der Fluss!' 'Sch, sch!' sagte ich. 'Beruhige dich.' Aber sie wiederholte immer wieder dieselben Worte und rief fortwährend 'Oh, der Fluss!' über und über aus. 'Ich weiß, es ist wie ich!' rief sie aus. 'Ich weiß, dass ich dazugehöre. Ich weiß, dass es die natürliche Gemeinschaft solcher wie ich bin! Es kommt von ländlichen Orten, wo einmal kein Schaden darin lag - und es schlängelt sich durch traurige und verdorbene Straßen - und es verlässt mich, wie mein Leben, und geht zu einem großen Meer, das immer unruhig ist - und ich fühle, dass ich mit ihm gehen muss!' Ich habe nie gewusst, was Verzweiflung ist, außer in dem Ton dieser Worte. 'Ich kann mich nicht davon fernhalten. Ich kann es nicht vergessen. Es verfolgt mich Tag und Nacht. Es ist das einzige, wofür ich geeignet bin, oder das für mich geeignet ist. Oh, der furchtbare Fluss!' Der Gedanke kam mir, dass ich im Gesicht meines Begleiters, als er sie anschaute, ohne zu sprechen oder sich zu bewegen, die Geschichte seiner Nichte hätte lesen können, wenn ich nichts davon gewusst hätte. Ich habe noch nie, in einem Gemälde oder in der Realität, Horror und Mitgefühl so eindrucksvoll verschmolzen gesehen. Er zitterte, als ob er hätte fallen wollen; und seine Hand - ich berührte sie mit meiner eigenen, denn sein Erscheinen beunruhigte mich - war eisk 'Es war,' sagte ich. "Ich hätte längst im Fluss sein sollen", sagte sie und warf einen schrecklichen Blick darauf, "wenn auch nur der geringste Verdacht auf ihrer Seele gelegen hätte. Ich hätte es keine einzige Winternacht aushalten können, wenn ich daran beteiligt gewesen wäre!" "Der Grund für ihre Flucht ist zu gut bekannt", sagte ich. "Wir glauben vollkommen, dass du unschuldig daran bist, wir wissen es." "Oh, ich wäre ihr so viel besser geworden, wenn ich ein besseres Herz gehabt hätte!", rief das Mädchen mit großem Bedauern. "Denn sie war immer gut zu mir! Sie hat nie ein Wort zu mir gesagt, das nicht angenehm und richtig war. Glaubst du wirklich, ich hätte versucht, sie zu dem zu machen, was ich selbst bin, obwohl ich genau weiß, wer ich bin? Als ich alles verloren hatte, was das Leben liebenswert macht, war der schlimmste meiner Gedanken, dass ich für immer von ihr getrennt war!" Mr. Peggotty, der mit einer Hand an der Bordwand des Bootes stand und den Blick gesenkt hatte, legte seine freie Hand vor sein Gesicht. "Und als ich von dem hörte, was vor jener schneereichen Nacht geschah, von einigen Leuten aus unserer Stadt", rief Martha, "war der bitterste Gedanke in meinem Kopf, dass die Leute sich erinnern würden, dass sie einmal bei mir war und behaupten würden, ich hätte sie verdorben! Obwohl, Gott weiß, ich gestorben wäre, um ihren guten Ruf wiederherzustellen!" Lange Zeit ohne Selbstkontrolle, war die durchdringende Qual ihrer Reue und Trauer schrecklich. "Zu sterben wäre nicht viel gewesen - was soll ich sagen? -, ich hätte gelebt!", rief sie. "Ich hätte gelebt, um alt zu werden, in den elenden Straßen zu leben, herumzuirren, vermieden zu werden, im Dunkeln - und den Tag anbrechen zu sehen über der grässlichen Reihe von Häusern und mich daran erinnern, wie die gleiche Sonne einst in mein Zimmer schien und mich weckte - ich hätte selbst das getan, um sie zu retten!" Als sie auf den Steinen zusammenbrach, nahm sie einige in jede Hand und ballte sie zusammen, als wolle sie sie zermalmen. Sie wand sich ständig in eine neue Position: ihre Arme versteifend, sie vor das Gesicht drehend, als wolle sie das bisschen Licht aussperren, das es gab, und ihren Kopf senkend, als wäre er schwer von unerträglichen Erinnerungen. "Was soll ich nur tun!", sagte sie und kämpfte mit ihrer Verzweiflung. "Wie soll ich weitermachen, als der Fluch, der mich selbst ist, eine lebende Schande für jeden, der mir nahe kommt!" Plötzlich wandte sie sich meinem Begleiter zu. "Tritt auf mich, töte mich! Als sie dein Stolz war, hättest du gedacht, ich hätte ihr geschadet, wenn ich sie auf der Straße berührt hätte. Du kannst nicht glauben - warum auch, nicht wahr? - einem Wort, das aus meinem Mund kommt. Es wäre auch jetzt noch eine brennende Schande für dich, wenn sie und ich ein Wort wechseln würden. Ich beschwere mich nicht. Ich sage nicht, dass sie und ich gleich sind - ich weiß, dass da ein langer, langer Weg zwischen uns liegt. Ich sage nur, dass ich trotz meiner Schuld und meinem Elend von ganzem Herzen dankbar für sie bin und sie liebe. Oh, glaub nicht, dass die ganze Liebe, die ich zu etwas hatte, ganz verschwunden ist! Wirf mich weg, wie es die ganze Welt tut. Töte mich, weil ich bin, wie ich bin, und weil ich sie je gekannt habe, aber denke nicht das von mir!" Er betrachtete sie, während sie flehte, auf eine wild verwirrte Weise; und als sie schwieg, hob er sie sanft auf. "Martha", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "Gott bewahre mich davor, dich zu verurteilen. Verbiete es, dass ich das tun sollte, mein Mädchen! Du kennst nur die Hälfte der Veränderung, die, mit der Zeit, über mich gekommen ist, wenn du es für wahrscheinlich hältst. Nun!", er machte eine kurze Pause, dann fuhr er fort. "Du verstehst nicht, wie es dazu gekommen ist, dass dieser Herr und ich mit dir sprechen wollten. Du verstehst nicht, was wir vor uns haben. Hör jetzt zu!" Sein Einfluss auf sie war vollständig. Sie stand schüchtern vor ihm, als wäre sie zu ängstlich, um ihm in die Augen zu sehen; aber ihr leidenschaftlicher Kummer war völlig verstummt und stumm. "Wenn du gehört hast", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "was zwischen Mas'r Davy und mir in jener Nacht, als es so stark schneite, vorgefallen ist, dann weißt du, dass ich meine geliebte Nichte gesucht habe. Meine geliebte Nichte", wiederholte er ruhig. "Sie ist mir jetzt, Martha, mehr wert als je zuvor." Sie legte die Hände vor ihr Gesicht, blieb aber ansonsten ruhig. "Ich habe gehört, wie sie erzählt hat", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "dass du frühzeitig vater- und mutterlos, ohne Freund, in einer harten seemännischen Umgebung warst. Vielleicht kannst du dir vorstellen, dass du, wenn du einen solchen Freund gehabt hättest, im Laufe der Zeit eine gewisse Zuneigung zu ihm entwickelt hättest und dass meine Nichte mir wie eine Tochter war." Während sie still zitterte, legte er behutsam ihr Tuch um sie herum, hob es dafür vom Boden auf. "Ganz gleich", sagte er, "ich weiß, dass sie mit mir bis ans Ende der Welt gehen würde, wenn sie mich nur wieder sehen könnte; und dass sie bis ans Ende der Welt fliehen würde, um es zu vermeiden, mich zu sehen. Denn obwohl sie keinen Grund hat, meine Liebe zu bezweifeln, tut sie es - und tut es!", wiederholte er mit der ruhigen Überzeugung von der Wahrheit dessen, was er sagte, "aber da ist Schande dazwischen, sie hält uns voneinander getrennt." Ich erkannte in jedem Wort seiner schlichten eindringlichen Art zu sprechen, neue Beweise dafür, dass er an dieses eine Thema gedacht hatte, bei jeder Gelegenheit, in allen Facetten, die es zeigte. "Nach unserer Einschätzung", fuhr er fort, "ist Mas'r Davy hier und auch meiner Meinung nach wird sie eines Tages selbst ihren einsamen Weg nach London finden. Wir glauben - Mas'r Davy, ich und alle zusammen -, dass du unschuldig an allem bist, was ihr widerfahren ist, genauso wie das ungeborene Kind. Du hast von ihrer Freundlichkeit, Güte und Sanftmut gegenüber dir gesprochen. Segne sie, ich wusste es! Ich wusste, dass sie das immer zu allen war. Du bist ihr dankbar und liebst sie. Hilf uns, sie zu finden, so gut du kannst, und möge der Himmel dich belohnen!" Sie schaute ihn hastig an und war zum ersten Mal unsicher, ob sie ihm glauben sollte. "Vertraust du mir?" fragte sie mit erstaunter Stimme. "Ganz und gar!" sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Möchtest du mit ihr sprechen, wenn ich sie jemals finde? Ihr Unterschlupf bieten, wenn ich etwas habe, das ich mit ihr teilen kann? Und dann, ohne dass sie es weiß, zu dir kommen und dich zu ihr bringen?" fragte sie hektisch. Wir antworteten beide gleichzeitig: "Ja!" Sie erhob ihre Augen und erklärte feierlich, dass sie sich diesem Auftrag hingeben würde, mit Andacht und Treue. Dass sie niemals darin schwanken würde, niemals davon abgebracht würde, niemals davon lassen würde, solange es noch eine Chance auf Hoffnung gibt. Wenn sie untreu wäre, sollte das, was sie jetzt hat, was sie mit etwas Bösem verbindet, wenn es von ihr verschwindet, sie noch trostloser und verzweifelter zurücklassen, wenn das überhaupt möglich wäre, als sie es in jener Nacht am Ufer des Flusses war; und dann sollten alle Hilfe, menschliche und göttliche, sie für immer verlassen! Sie erhob ihre Stimme nicht Mr. Peggotty schlug mir leise vor, was mir bereits selbst in den Sinn gekommen war. Ich holte meine Geldbörse heraus, konnte sie jedoch nicht dazu bringen, irgendein Geld anzunehmen, noch konnte ich ihr irgendein Versprechen abringen, dass sie es zu einem anderen Zeitpunkt tun würde. Ich machte ihr klar, dass Mr. Peggotty, angesichts seines Zustands, keineswegs arm genannt werden konnte. Die Vorstellung, dass sie diese Suche in Angriff nimmt, während sie auf ihre eigenen Ressourcen angewiesen ist, schockierte uns beide. Sie blieb standhaft. In dieser Hinsicht war sein Einfluss auf sie genauso machtlos wie meiner. Sie bedankte sich dankbar bei ihm, blieb jedoch unnachgiebig. "Vielleicht gibt es Arbeit zu finden", sagte sie. "Ich werde es versuchen." "Nimm zumindest etwas Unterstützung an", erwiderte ich, "bis du es versucht hast." "Ich könnte nicht tun, was ich versprochen habe, für Geld", antwortete sie. "Ich könnte es nicht nehmen, wenn ich am Verhungern wäre. Mir Geld zu geben hieße, dein Vertrauen zu untergraben, das Objekt wegzunehmen, das du mir gegeben hast, das einzige sichere Ding, was mich vor dem Fluss rettet." "Im Namen des großen Richters", sagte ich, "vor dem du und wir alle zu seiner schrecklichen Zeit stehen müssen, verwerfe diese schreckliche Idee! Wir können alle etwas Gutes tun, wenn wir wollen." Sie zitterte, ihre Lippe bebte und ihr Gesicht war bleicher, als sie antwortete: "Es wurde euch vielleicht ins Herz gelegt, eine elende Kreatur zur Reue zu retten. Ich fürchte mich davor, das zu denken; es scheint zu gewagt. Wenn etwas Gutes von mir kommen sollte, könnte ich zu hoffen beginnen; denn bisher ist nichts als Schaden durch meine Taten entstanden. Ich soll zum ersten Mal seit langer Zeit wegen dem, was du mir gegeben hast, meinem elenden Leben vertrauen. Ich weiß nicht mehr, und ich kann nichts weiter sagen." Erneut unterdrückte sie die Tränen, die begonnen hatten zu fließen, und legte ihre zitternde Hand auf Mr. Peggotty, als ob in ihm eine heilende Kraft läge, und ging den öden Weg entlang. Sie war wahrscheinlich lange Zeit krank gewesen. Bei dieser näheren Gelegenheit der Beobachtung bemerkte ich, dass sie abgemagert und mitgenommen war und dass ihre gesunkenen Augen Entbehrung und Ertragen ausdrückten. Wir folgten ihr in geringem Abstand, unser Weg führte in die gleiche Richtung, bis wir wieder in die beleuchteten und belebten Straßen zurückkehrten. Ich hatte so vollstes Vertrauen in ihre Aussage, dass ich es Mr. Peggotty vorschlug, ob es dann nicht so aussehen würde, als würde man ihr misstrauen, wenn man ihr weiter folgt. Er war derselben Meinung und ebenso auf sie vertrauend, ließen wir sie ihren eigenen Weg gehen und gingen unseren, der nach Highgate führte. Er begleitete mich einen guten Teil des Weges, und als wir uns mit einem Gebet für den Erfolg dieses neuen Versuchs trennten, lag in seinem Blick eine neue und nachdenkliche Mitgefühl, das ich nicht falsch interpretieren konnte. Es war Mitternacht, als ich nach Hause kam. Ich erreichte mein eigenes Tor und stand da und lauschte auf die tiefe Glocke von St. Paul's, deren Klang ich unter der Vielzahl von schlagenden Uhren zu hören glaubte, als ich eher überrascht war, die Tür von Tante's Hütte offen zu sehen und ein schwacher Lichtschein im Eingang über die Straße strahlte. In der Annahme, dass meine Tante vielleicht in eine ihrer alten Ängste zurückgefallen war und vielleicht den Fortschritt einer imaginären Feuersbrunst in der Ferne beobachtete, ging ich zu ihr sprechen. Es war mit großer Überraschung, dass ich einen Mann in ihrem kleinen Garten stehen sah. Er hatte ein Glas und eine Flasche in der Hand und war dabei, zu trinken. Inmitten des dichten Laubs außerhalb blieb ich stehen, denn jetzt war der Mond aufgegangen, wenn auch verdeckt, und ich erkannte den Mann, den ich einmal für eine Einbildung von Mr. Dick gehalten hatte und den ich einmal mit meiner Tante auf den Straßen der Stadt getroffen hatte. Er aß auch und schien mit einem hungrigen Appetit zu essen. Er schien auch neugierig auf die Hütte zu sein, als ob es das erste Mal wäre, dass er sie sah. Nachdem er sich gebückt hatte, um die Flasche auf den Boden zu stellen, sah er zu den Fenstern hoch und sah sich um, allerdings mit einem versteckten und ungeduldigen Blick, als ob er gehen wollte. Das Licht im Flur war für einen Moment verdunkelt, und meine Tante kam heraus. Sie war erregt und legte ihm etwas Geld in die Hand. Ich hörte es klimpern. "Wozu soll das gut sein?" forderte er. "Ich kann nichts mehr entbehren", erwiderte meine Tante. "Dann kann ich nicht gehen", sagte er. "Nimm es hier zurück!" Er bedeutet mir jetzt nichts, Trot - weniger als nichts. Aber anstatt ihn für seine Vergehen zu bestrafen (was passieren würde, wenn er in diesem Land herumstreifte), gebe ich ihm lieber mehr Geld als ich es mir leisten kann, wenn er sich wieder zeigt, damit er geht. Ich war ein Narr, als ich ihn geheiratet habe; und in Bezug auf dieses Thema bin ich so weit ein unheilbarer Narr, dass für das, was ich einst glaubte, dass er ist, dieses Schattenbild meiner albernen Fantasie kaum angetastet werden darf. Denn ich meinte es ernst, Trot, so ernst, wie eine Frau es nur kann." Meine Tante beendete die Angelegenheit mit einem schweren Seufzer und glättete ihr Kleid. "Nun, mein Lieber!", sagte sie. "Jetzt kennst du den Anfang, die Mitte und das Ende und alles darüber. Wir werden das Thema nicht mehr erwähnen; und natürlich wirst du es auch niemand anderem erwähnen. Das ist meine mürrische, altmodische Geschichte, und wir behalten sie für uns, Trot!" Ich arbeitete hart an meinem Buch, ohne dass es sich auf meine pünktlichen Pflichten als Zeitungsredakteur auswirkte; und es wurde veröffentlicht und war sehr erfolgreich. Ich war nicht betäubt von dem Lob, das in meinen Ohren klang, obwohl ich sehr darauf bedacht war und von meiner eigenen Leistung etwas Besseres dachte als alle anderen. Es ist mir immer in meiner Beobachtung der menschlichen Natur aufgefallen, dass ein Mann, der einen guten Grund hat, an sich selbst zu glauben, sich nicht vor anderen Menschen präsentiert, damit sie an ihn glauben. Aus diesem Grund behielt ich meine Bescheidenheit aus eigenem Respekt bei, und je mehr Lob ich bekam, desto mehr versuchte ich es zu verdienen. Es ist nicht mein Ziel, in dieser Aufzeichnung, obwohl es in allen anderen wesentlichen Punkten mein schriftliches Andenken ist, die Geschichte meiner eigenen Fiktionen fortzusetzen. Sie drücken sich selbst aus, und ich überlasse sie sich selbst. Wenn ich gelegentlich darauf verweise, dann nur als Teil meines Fortschritts. Da ich zu dieser Zeit eine Grundlage hatte, um zu glauben, dass die Natur und der Zufall mich zu einem Autor gemacht hatten, ging ich selbstbewusst meiner Berufung nach. Ohne diese Gewissheit hätte ich es sicherlich sein lassen und meine Energie in ein anderes Bestreben gesteckt. Ich hätte versucht herauszufinden, was die Natur und der Zufall mich wirklich gemacht hatten, und das zu sein und nichts anderes. Ich hatte so erfolgreich in der Zeitung und anderswo geschrieben, dass ich, als mein neuer Erfolg erreicht war, mich für berechtigt hielt, den langweiligen Debatten zu entkommen. An einem freudigen Abend notierte ich daher das Lied der parlamentarischen Dudelsäcke zum letzten Mal und habe es seitdem nie wieder gehört; obwohl ich den alten Monoton in den Zeitungen immer noch ohne wesentliche Variation (außer vielleicht dass es mehr davon gibt) während der ganzen Sitzung erkenne. Jetzt schreibe ich von der Zeit, als ich ungefähr anderthalb Jahre verheiratet war. Nach verschiedenen Versuchen hatten wir die Hauswirtschaft als aussichtslos aufgegeben. Das Haus versorgte sich selbst und wir hatten einen Diener. Die Hauptfunktion dieses Gehilfen war es, sich mit der Köchin zu streiten; in dieser Hinsicht war er ein perfekter Whittington, ohne seine Katze oder die entfernteste Chance, Lord Mayor zu werden. Es scheint mir, dass er in einem Hagel von Topfdeckeln gelebt hat. Sein ganzes Leben war ein Kampf. Er schrie um Hilfe zu den unpassendsten Gelegenheiten - wenn wir ein kleines Abendessen oder ein paar Freunde hatten - und kam mit fliegenden Eisenkugeln aus der Küche gestolpert. Wir wollten ihn loswerden, aber er war sehr an uns gebunden und wollte nicht gehen. Er war ein weinerlicher Junge und brach in beklagenswerte Klagen aus, wenn eine Beendigung unserer Verbindung angedeutet wurde, sodass wir gezwungen waren, ihn zu behalten. Er hatte keine Mutter - nichts in der Art einer Verwandtschaft, soweit ich feststellen konnte, außer einer Schwester, die in dem Moment, als wir ihn von ihr befreit hatten, nach Amerika geflohen war; und er wurde bei uns wie ein schrecklicher kleiner Wechselbalg untergebracht. Er hatte eine lebhafte Wahrnehmung seines eigenen unglücklichen Zustands und rieb sich immer die Augen mit dem Ärmel seines Jackets oder beugte sich nach unten, um sich die Nase an der äußersten Ecke eines kleinen Taschentuchs zu putzen, das er nie komplett aus seiner Tasche nahm, sondern immer aufsparte und versteckte. Dieser unglückliche Diener, der für lächerliche sechs Pfund zehn im Jahr eingestellt wurde, war für mich eine ständige Quelle der Unruhe. Ich beobachtete ihn, wie er wuchs - und er wuchs wie rote Bohnen - mit schmerzhaften Befürchtungen darüber, wann er anfangen würde, sich zu rasieren, und sogar darüber, wann er kahl oder grau werden würde. Ich sah keine Aussicht, ihn jemals loszuwerden, und projizierte mich in die Zukunft und dachte darüber nach, was für ein Ärgernis er sein würde, wenn er ein alter Mann geworden wäre. Ich hatte nichts weniger erwartet als diese Art und Weise, wie dieser Unglückliche mich aus meiner Notlage befreien würde. Er stahl Doras Uhr, die wie alles andere, uns gehörte und keinen bestimmten Platz hatte, und verkaufte sie, wobei er den Erlös (er war immer ein schwachsinniger Junge) ununterbrochen für Fahrten zwischen London und Uxbridge außerhalb des Kutschers ausgegeben hat. Er wurde geholt und vor ein Gericht gebracht, soweit ich mich erinnere, nach seiner fünfzehnten Fahrt, als man vier Schilling und sechs Pence und eine gebrauchte Flöte, die er nicht spielen konnte, bei ihm fand. Die Überraschung und ihre Konsequenzen wären für mich viel weniger unangenehm gewesen, wenn er nicht reuig gewesen wäre. Aber er war wirklich sehr reuig und auf eine besondere Art und Weise - nicht insgesamt, sondern in Raten. Zum Beispiel: Am Tag nachdem ich gegen ihn aussagen musste, machte er bestimmte Enthüllungen über einen Korb im Keller, von dem wir glaubten, dass er mit Wein gefüllt war, aber der nichts anderes als Flaschen und Korken enthielt. Wir nahmen an, er hätte jetzt sein Gewissen erleichtert und das Schlimmste über die Köchin erzählt. Aber ein oder zwei Tage später bekam sein Gewissen einen neuen Stich und er erzählte, wie sie eine kleine Tochter hatte, die uns jeden Morgen unser Brot wegnahm, und auch wie er selbst bestochen worden war, dem Milchmann Kohle zu geben. Zwei bis drei Tage später wurde mir von den Behörden mitgeteilt, dass er zur Entdeckung von Roastbeefs unter dem Küchenvorrat und Laken im Lappenkorb geführt hatte. Eine Weile später brach er in eine völlig neue Richtung aus und gestand, dass er von den Plänen des Potboys, unser Grundstück zu berauben, wusste und dass dieser sofort verhaftet wurde. Ich schämte mich so sehr, ein solches Opfer zu sein, dass ich ihm jedes Geld gegeben hätte, um den Mund zu halten, oder ihm eine große Bestechung angeboten hätte, damit er weglaufen durfte. Es war eine erschwerende Tatsache in diesem Fall, dass er keine Ahnung davon hatte, sondern glaubte, dass er mir mit jeder neuen Entdeckung Genugtuung leistete - um nicht zu sagen, dass er mir Verpflichtungen auflud. Schließlich lief ich selbst davon, wann immer ich einen "Es ist nicht nur, mein Liebling", sagte ich, "dass wir Geld, Komfort und manchmal sogar die Beherrschung verlieren, weil wir nicht lernen, vorsichtiger zu sein, sondern wir tragen auch die ernsthafte Verantwortung, jeden zu verderben, der in unseren Dienst tritt oder mit uns zu tun hat. Ich fange an, zu befürchten, dass der Fehler nicht nur einseitig ist, sondern dass diese Menschen alle schlechte Resultate erzielen, weil wir selbst nicht besonders gut sind." "Oh, was für eine Anschuldigung", rief Dora aus und öffnete die Augen weit. "Zu sagen, dass du mich jemals Golduhren hast nehmen sehen! Oh!" "Meine Liebste", widersprach ich, "rede keinen unsinnigen Nonsens! Wer hat auch nur das geringste Anzeichen auf Golduhren gemacht?" "Du hast", erwiderte Dora. "Du weißt, dass du es getan hast. Du hast gesagt, dass ich mich nicht gut entwickelt habe und mich mit ihm verglichen hast." "Mit wem?", fragte ich. "Mit dem Bediensteten", schluchzte Dora. "Oh, du gemeiner Kerl, deine liebevolle Frau mit einem verbannten Bediensteten zu vergleichen! Warum hast du mir nicht vor unserer Hochzeit deine Meinung über mich gesagt? Warum hast du nicht gesagt, du herzloses Wesen, dass du davon überzeugt warst, dass ich schlimmer als ein verbannter Bediensteter bin? Oh, was für eine schreckliche Meinung du von mir hast! Oh, mein Gott!" "Nun, Dora, meine Liebe", erwiderte ich und versuchte sanft das Taschentuch wegzunehmen, das sie sich vor die Augen presste, "das ist nicht nur sehr lächerlich von dir, sondern auch sehr falsch. Zunächst einmal ist es nicht wahr." "Du hast immer gesagt, er sei ein Lügner", schluchzte Dora. "Und jetzt sagst du das Gleiche von mir! Oh, was soll ich tun! Was soll ich tun!" "Mein liebes Mädchen", entgegnete ich, "ich muss dich wirklich bitten, vernünftig zu sein und auf das zu hören, was ich gesagt habe und sage. Meine liebe Dora, wenn wir nicht lernen, unsere Pflicht gegenüber denen zu erfüllen, die wir beschäftigen, werden sie nie lernen, ihre Pflicht uns gegenüber zu erfüllen. Ich fürchte, wir bieten den Menschen Gelegenheiten, Unrecht zu tun, die niemals geboten werden sollten. Selbst wenn wir so nachlässig wären, wie wir es sind, aus freiem Willen - was wir nicht sind - selbst wenn es uns gefallen würde und angenehm wäre - was es nicht ist - bin ich überzeugt, dass wir nicht das Recht hätten, auf diese Weise weiterzumachen. Wir verderben die Menschen faktisch. Daran müssen wir denken. Ich kann nicht anders, Dora. Es ist ein Gedanke, den ich nicht loswerden kann und der mich manchmal sehr beunruhigt. Nun, das ist alles, meine Liebe. Komm jetzt, sei nicht albern!" Dora ließ mich lange Zeit nicht zu, das Taschentuch wegzunehmen. Sie saß schluchzend und murmeln dahinter und fragte, warum ich mich unwohl fühlte, warum ich mich jemals verheiratet hatte? Warum hatte ich nicht sogar am Tag vor der Hochzeit gesagt, dass ich wusste, dass ich mich unwohl fühlen würde und es lieber nicht wollte? Wenn ich sie nicht ertragen könnte, warum hatte ich sie nicht zu ihren Tanten nach Putney geschickt oder zu Julia Mills nach Indien? Julia würde froh sein, sie zu sehen und würde sie nicht einen verbannten Bediensteten nennen. Julia hatte sie noch nie so genannt. Kurz gesagt, Dora war so geplagt und plagte mich damit, dass ich entschied, dass es keinen Sinn mehr machte, diese Art von Anstrengung zu wiederholen, wenn auch noch so mild, und dass ich einen anderen Weg einschlagen müsste. Welchen anderen Weg gab es noch? Ihren Geist "formen"? Das war ein gebräuchlicher Begriff, der vielversprechend und vielversprechend klang, und ich beschloss, Doras Geist zu formen. Ich begann sofort. Als Dora sehr kindisch war und ich lieber nach ihrer Pfeife getanzt hätte, versuchte ich ernst zu sein - und brachte sie und mich aus dem Gleichgewicht. Ich sprach mit ihr über die Themen, die mich beschäftigten, und las Shakespeare für sie vor - und langweilte sie bis zum Äußersten. Ich gewöhnte mich daran, ihr gelegentlich kleine Schnipsel von nützlichen Informationen oder vernünftigen Meinungen zu geben, als ob es zufällig wäre - und sie zuckte zusammen, wenn ich sie losließ, als wären es Knallkörper. Egal wie beiläufig oder natürlich ich versuchte, den Geist meiner kleinen Frau zu formen, ich konnte nicht anders, als zu sehen, dass sie instinktiv wusste, was ich vorhatte, und von den schärfsten Befürchtungen heimgesucht wurde. Insbesondere war es mir klar, dass sie Shakespeare für einen furchtbaren Kerl hielt. Die Formung ging nur sehr langsam voran. Ohne sein Wissen zog ich Traddles zu Rate und ließ meine Minen auf ihn losgehen, um Dora aus zweiter Hand zu erziehen. Die Menge an praktischer Weisheit, die ich auf Traddles auf diese Weise einprägte, war immens und von bester Qualität. Aber es hatte keine andere Wirkung auf Dora, als ihre Stimmung zu drücken und sie immer nervös zu machen in der Furcht, dass als Nächstes sie dran sein würde. Ich befand mich in der Lage eines Lehrers, einer Falle, einer Fallgrube, immer die Spinne für Doras Fliege zu spielen und immer aus meinem Loch zu springen, zu ihrer unendlichen Unruhe. Trotzdem, während ich auf diese Zwischenphase vorausschaute zu der Zeit, wenn eine vollkommene Sympathie zwischen Dora und mir existieren sollte und wenn ich ihren Geist zu meiner vollsten Zufriedenheit "geformt" haben würde, blieb ich entschlossen, auch für Monate weiterzumachen. Schließlich jedoch, als ich merkte, dass ich trotz all der Entschlossenheit bis jetzt ein stachliger Igel gewesen war und nichts erreicht hatte, kam mir der Gedanke, dass Doras Geist vielleicht bereits geformt war. Bei näherer Betrachtung erschien mir das so wahrscheinlich, dass ich meinen Plan aufgab, der in Worten vielversprechender aussah als in der Tat, und beschloss, von nun an mit meiner kleinen Ehefrau zufrieden zu sein und sie durch irgendeinen Prozess zu nichts anderem zu verändern. Mir reichte es herzlich, immer klug und vernünftig zu sein und meine geliebte Dora unter Zwang zu sehen. Also kaufte ich ihr ein hübsches Paar Ohrringe und ein Halsband für Jip und ging an einem Tag nach Hause, um mich angenehm zu machen. Dora war begeistert über die kleinen Geschenke, küsste mich freudig, aber zwischen uns war ein Schatten, wenn auch nur sehr leicht, und ich hatte mir vorgenommen, dass er nicht da sein sollte. Wenn es irgendwo diesen Schatten geben müsste, würde ich ihn für die Zukunft in meiner eigenen Brust behalten. Ich setzte mich neben meine Frau auf das Sofa, setzte ihr die Ohrringe auf und sagte ihr dann, dass ich fürchtete, dass wir in letzter Zeit nicht mehr so gute Gesellschaft füreinander waren wie früher und dass es meine Schuld war. Was ich aufrichtig empfand und was es tatsächlich war. "Die Wahrheit ist, Dora, mein Leben", sagte ich, "ich habe versucht, weise zu sein." "Und mich auch weise zu machen", sagte Dora schüchtern. "Nicht wahr, Doady?" Ich nickte Bejahung zu der hübschen Frage der hochge "Besser, natürlich Dora zu sein als alles andere auf der Welt." "Auf der Welt! Ach, Doady, das ist ein großer Ort!" Sie schüttelte den Kopf, schaute mit ihren strahlenden Augen zu mir auf, küsste mich, brach in ein fröhliches Lachen aus und sprang davon, um Jips neuen Halsband anzulegen. So endete mein letzter Versuch, irgendeine Veränderung bei Dora herbeizuführen. Ich war unglücklich dabei gewesen. Ich konnte meine eigene einsame Weisheit nicht ertragen. Ich konnte sie nicht mit ihrem früheren flehenden Appell an mich als ihre Kindfrau in Einklang bringen. Ich beschloss, auf ruhige Weise mein Bestes zu tun, um unser Vorgehen selbst zu verbessern, aber ich sah voraus, dass es sehr wenig sein würde, oder ich müsste wieder zur Spinne werden und für immer auf der Lauer liegen. Und der Schatten, von dem ich gesprochen habe, der nicht mehr zwischen uns sein sollte, sondern ausschließlich auf meinem eigenen Herzen ruhen sollte? Wie ist es gefallen? Das alte unglückliche Gefühl durchdrang mein Leben. Es vertiefte sich, wenn überhaupt; aber es war so unbestimmt wie immer und sprach mich an wie eine Klagemelodie, die schwach in der Nacht gehört wurde. Ich liebte meine Frau von ganzem Herzen, und ich war glücklich; aber das Glück, das ich vage erwartet hatte, war nicht das Glück, das ich genoss und es fehlte immer etwas. Um meine Selbstverpflichtung zu erfüllen, meinen Verstand auf dieses Papier zu übertragen, untersuche ich es erneut genau und bringe seine Geheimnisse ans Licht. Was ich vermisste, betrachtete ich immer noch - ich betrachtete es immer noch - als etwas, das ein Traum meiner jugendlichen Fantasie gewesen war, das nicht umzusetzen war und das ich jetzt entdeckt habe, dass es so ist, mit einiger natürlicher Trauer, wie alle Menschen. Aber es wäre besser für mich gewesen, wenn meine Frau mir mehr hätte helfen können und die vielen Gedanken geteilt hätte, in denen ich keinen Partner hatte, und das hätte möglich sein können, wusste ich. Zwischen diesen beiden unvereinbaren Schlussfolgerungen - dem einen, dass das, was ich fühlte, allgemein und unvermeidlich war; dem anderen, dass es spezifisch für mich war und anders hätte sein können - wog ich neugierig ab, ohne ein deutliches Gefühl ihrer Gegensätzlichkeit. Wenn ich an die luftigen Träume der Jugend dachte, die nicht umsetzbar waren, dachte ich an den besseren Zustand vor dem Mannesalter, den ich hinter mir gelassen hatte. Und dann tauchten die zufriedenen Tage mit Agnes im lieben alten Haus vor mir auf wie Geister der Toten, die in einer anderen Welt eine Wiederauferstehung haben könnten, aber hier niemals wiederbelebt werden konnten. Manchmal kam mir der Gedanke, was passiert sein könnte oder was hätte passieren können, wenn Dora und ich uns nie gekannt hätten. Aber sie war so sehr mit meinem Dasein verbunden, dass es die nutzloseste aller Fantasien war und bald außerhalb meiner Reichweite und Sicht wie im Luftschloss schwebte. Ich habe sie immer geliebt. Was ich beschreibe, schlummerte, erwachte zur Hälfte und schlief wieder in den innersten Tiefen meines Geistes. Es gab keinen Beweis dafür in mir, ich weiß von keinem Einfluss, den es auf alles hatte, was ich sagte oder tat. Ich trug das Gewicht all unserer kleinen Sorgen und all meiner Projekte; Dora führte den Stift; und wir beide spürten, dass unsere Beiträge entsprechend dem Fall angepasst waren. Sie war wirklich stolz auf mich und stolz auf mich; und als Agnes in ihren Briefen an Dora ein paar ernste Worte schrieb über den Stolz und das Interesse, mit dem meine alten Freunde von meinem wachsenden Ruf hörten und mein Buch lasen, als ob sie mich sprechen hörten, las Dora sie mir mit Tränen der Freude in ihren strahlenden Augen vor und sagte, ich wäre ein lieber alter schlauer, berühmter Junge. "Der erste falsche Impuls eines undisziplinierten Herzens." Diese Worte von Mrs. Strongs kamen mir zu dieser Zeit ständig in den Sinn; waren fast immer in meinen Gedanken präsent. Ich erwachte oft nachts damit; ich erinnere mich sogar, sie in Träumen gelesen zu haben, auf den Wänden von Häusern. Denn ich wusste nun, dass mein eigenes Herz undiszipliniert war, als es zum ersten Mal Dora liebte; und wenn es diszipliniert gewesen wäre, hätte es niemals fühlen können, was es in seiner geheimen Erfahrung fühlte, als wir geheiratet waren. Es gibt keine Ungleichheit in der Ehe wie die Ungeeignetheit des Geistes und des Ziels. Das waren auch Worte, an die ich mich erinnerte. Ich hatte versucht, Dora an mich anzupassen, und fand es undurchführbar. Es blieb mir übrig, mich an Dora anzupassen, mit ihr zu teilen, was ich konnte, und glücklich zu sein. Das war die Disziplin, der ich mein Herz zu unterwerfen versuchte, als ich anfing nachzudenken. Sie machte mein zweites Jahr viel glücklicher als mein erstes; und, was noch besser war, sie machte Doras Leben zu einem einzigen Sonnenschein. Aber im Laufe dieses Jahres wurde Dora schwächer. Ich hatte gehofft, dass leichtere Hände als meine dazu beitragen würden, ihren Charakter zu formen, und dass ein Baby-Lächeln auf ihrer Brust meine Kindfrau in eine Frau verwandeln würde. Aber es sollte nicht sein. Der Geist flatterte einen Moment lang an der Schwelle seines kleinen Gefängnisses und nahm, unbewusst gefangen, Flügel. "Wenn ich wieder herumlaufen kann wie früher, Tante", sagte Dora, "werde ich Jip zum Rennen bringen. Er wird ziemlich langsam und faul." "Ich vermute, mein Liebes", sagte meine Tante, während sie ruhig an ihrer Seite arbeitete, "er hat eine schlimmere Krankheit als das. Alter, Dora." "Du denkst, er ist alt?", sagte Dora erstaunt. "Oh, wie seltsam es ist, dass Jip alt sein sollte!" "Das ist eine Krankheit, der wir alle im Laufe des Lebens ausgesetzt sind, Kleines", sagte meine Tante fröhlich, "ich fühle mich nicht freier davon als früher, das versichere ich dir." "Aber Jip", sagte Dora und betrachtete ihn mit Mitleid, "sogar der kleine Jip! Oh, armer Kerl!" "Ich denke, er wird noch lange leben, Blüte", sagte meine Tante und tätschelte Dora auf die Wange, während sie sich aus dem Bett lehnte, um Jip anzusehen, der es erwiderte, indem er auf seinen Hinterbeinen stand und sich in verschiedenen asthmatischen Versuchen quälte, sich am Kopf und an den Schultern hochzuziehen. "Er sollte diesen Winter ein Stück Flanell in seinem Haus bekommen, und ich würde mich nicht wundern, wenn er im Frühling wieder ganz fit ist, mit den Blumen. Gott segne den kleinen Hund!", rief meine Tante aus, "hätte er so viele Leben wie eine Katze und stünde kurz davor, sie alle zu verlieren, ich glaube, er würde mir noch mit seinem letzten Atemzug ins Bein bellen!" Dora half ihm auf das Sofa, wo er meine Tante so heftig herausforderte, dass er nicht geradeaus schauen konnte, sondern sich seitwärts anbellte. Je mehr meine Tante ihn anschaute, desto mehr tadelte er sie; denn sie hatte sich in letzter Zeit eine Brille aufgesetzt, und aus irgendeinem unergründlichen Grund hielt er sie für persönlich. Dora "Du bist noch nicht so alt, Jip, oder? Dass du deine Herrin jetzt verlassen wirst?", sagte Dora. "Vielleicht können wir uns noch eine Weile Gesellschaft leisten!" Meine hübsche Dora! Als sie am darauf folgenden Sonntag zum Abendessen kam und so froh war, den alten Traddles zu sehen (der immer mit uns am Sonntag zu Abend aß), dachten wir, sie würde in ein paar Tagen wieder 'herumlaufen, wie sie es früher getan hatte'. Aber sie sagten, warte ein paar Tage mehr; und dann, warte noch ein paar Tage mehr; und dennoch rannte oder ging sie immer noch nicht. Sie sah sehr hübsch aus und war sehr fröhlich; aber die kleinen Füße, die früher so flink waren, wenn sie um Jip herumtanzten, waren träge und bewegungslos. Ich begann, sie jeden Morgen die Treppe hinunter und jeden Abend die Treppe hinaufzutragen. Sie würde sich um meinen Hals schlingen und dabei lachen, als ob ich es für eine Wette tun würde. Jip würde um uns herum bellen und herumtollen und uns vorauslaufen und sich auf der Treppe umdrehen, um zu sehen, ob wir kamen. Meine Tante, die beste und fröhlichste Krankenschwester, würde uns in einer beweglichen Masse aus Schals und Kissen folgen. Mr. Dick würde seinen Posten als Kerzenhalter für niemanden aufgeben, der am Leben war. Traddles würde oft am Ende der Treppe stehen, zuschauen und sich sportlicher Nachrichten von Dora an das liebste Mädchen der Welt annehmen. Wir machten einen ziemlich fröhlichen Zug daraus, und meine kindliche Ehefrau war die fröhlichste von allen. Aber manchmal, wenn ich sie hochhob und spürte, dass sie leichter in meinen Armen war, überkam mich ein totes Gefühl, als ob ich mich einer noch nicht gesehenen gefrorenen Region nähern würde, das mein Leben abkühlte. Ich vermied es, dieses Gefühl mit einem Namen oder durch Selbstgespräche anzuerkennen; bis eines Nachts, als es sehr stark auf mich einwirkte und meine Tante sie mit einem Abschiedsgruß von 'Gute Nacht, Kleine Blüte' zurückließ, setzte ich mich allein an meinen Schreibtisch und versuchte zu denken, oh, was für ein verhängnisvoller Name es war und wie die Blüte auf dem Baum in ihrer Blütezeit verwelkte! 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David und Mr. Peggotty holen Martha ein, als sie gerade auf das Ufer eines Flusses zugeht. David erkennt, dass sie sich umbringen will, und mit Hilfe von Mr. Peggotty zieht er sie von der Wasserkante zurück. Martha fängt an zu schluchzen und sagt, dass es am besten wäre, wenn sie in den Fluss springen würde, weil ihr Leben so elend ist. Martha gibt sich die Schuld am Verschwinden von Em'ly und ist vor Kummer außer sich, weil Em'ly so nett zu ihr war. David erklärt, dass sie nicht schuld ist und dass sie dort sind, um sie zu bitten, ihnen bei der Suche nach dem vermissten Mädchen zu helfen. Martha hat jetzt einen Grund zum Leben und schwört, niemals aufzugeben, bis Em'ly gefunden ist. David kehrt in das Haus seiner Tante zurück und beobachtet, dass der mysteriöse Fremde, der Tante Betsey so aufgeregt hat, im Garten ist. Seine Tante kommt aus dem Haus und gibt dem Mann Geld, dann geht er weg. David fragt seine Tante, wer dieser Mann ist, und sie verrät ihm, dass es ihr Ehemann ist. Sie erklärt, dass sie seit vielen Jahren von ihm getrennt ist und dass er ein Spieler und Betrüger geworden ist. Sie sagt, dass sie ihm trotzdem aus Nostalgie für ihre gemeinsame Liebe Geld gibt, aber es ihr peinlich ist, wenn er bei ihr auftaucht. Dann bittet sie David, das Thema geheim zu halten. Während seiner Arbeit für die Zeitung hat es David geschafft, einen Roman zu veröffentlichen, der ein Erfolg wird. Überraschenderweise ist er nicht "von dem Lob überwältigt". Er entscheidet jedoch, die Berichterstattung aufzugeben. David ist seit anderthalb Jahren verheiratet und er und Dora haben nach wie vor kein Glück mit dem Haushalt. Sie stellen einen Laufburschen ein, aber dieser streitet sich ständig mit der Köchin und stiehlt Essen von ihnen. Schließlich landet er im Gefängnis, weil er Doras Uhr gestohlen hat. David entscheidet dann, dass er Doras Geist "formen" sollte, damit sie verantwortungsbewusster im Haushalt wird. Er fängt damit an, ihr Shakespeare vorzulesen und "kleine nützliche Informationen oder fundierte Meinungen" weiterzugeben. Das scheitert jedoch, und David fängt an, über Agnes nachzudenken und sich zu fragen, wie die Dinge gewesen wären, wenn er Dora nicht getroffen hätte. David hofft, dass das erwartete Baby seine "Kindfrau" in eine Frau verwandeln wird, aber das Baby stirbt kurz nach der Geburt und Doras Gesundheit beginnt zu schwinden. Eines Nachts sagt Tante Betsey "Gute Nacht, kleiner Blütenzweig", und David weint, wenn er daran denkt, ". . . Oh, was für ein tödlicher Name es war und wie die Blüte an dem Baum verwelkte!"

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: WE knew that things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two girls were light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to forget their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail. I remember Antonia's excitement when she came into our kitchen one afternoon and announced: "My papa find friends up north, with Russian mans. Last night he take me for see, and I can understand very much talk. Nice mans, Mrs. Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody laugh. The first time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very nice!" I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived up by the big dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them when I was riding in that direction, but one of them was a wild-looking fellow and I was a little afraid of him. Russia seemed to me more remote than any other country--farther away than China, almost as far as the North Pole. Of all the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two men were the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were unpronounceable, so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about making signs to people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no friends. Krajiek could understand them a little, but he had cheated them in a trade, so they avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to be an anarchist; since he had no means of imparting his opinions, probably his wild gesticulations and his generally excited and rebellious manner gave rise to this supposition. He must once have been a very strong man, but now his great frame, with big, knotty joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn tight over his high cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always had a cough. Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of fellow; short, bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed pleased when he met people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to every one, men as well as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he looked like an old man; his hair and beard were of such a pale flaxen color that they seemed white in the sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face, with its snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its leaves. He was usually called "Curly Peter," or "Rooshian Peter." The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer they worked out together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they told how Peter always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other bachelor homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes Peter came to church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw him, sitting on a low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands, his bare feet tucked apologetically under the seat. After Mr. Shimerda discovered the Russians, he went to see them almost every evening, and sometimes took Antonia with him. She said they came from a part of Russia where the language was not very different from Bohemian, and if I wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for me. One afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there together on my pony. The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy slope, with a windlass well beside the door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, and a garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was working so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved up and down as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with his shaggy head and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to greet us, drops of perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down on to his curly beard. Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave his washing. He took us down to see his chickens, and his cow that was grazing on the hillside. He told Antonia that in his country only rich people had cows, but here any man could have one who would take care of her. The milk was good for Pavel, who was often sick, and he could make butter by beating sour cream with a wooden spoon. Peter was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks and talked to her in Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it in a new place. After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a load of watermelons up the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at home. He was off somewhere helping to dig a well. The house I thought very comfortable for two men who were "batching." Besides the kitchen, there was a living-room, with a wide double bed built against the wall, properly made up with blue gingham sheets and pillows. There was a little storeroom, too, with a window, where they kept guns and saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That day the floor was covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and beans and fat yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in the house, and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies and sunshine alike. Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered table and stood over them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the blade got fairly into them, they split of their own ripeness, with a delicious sound. He gave us knives, but no plates, and the top of the table was soon swimming with juice and seeds. I had never seen any one eat so many melons as Peter ate. He assured us that they were good for one--better than medicine; in his country people lived on them at this time of year. He was very hospitable and jolly. Once, while he was looking at Antonia, he sighed and told us that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would have had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him. He said he had left his country because of a "great trouble." When we got up to go, Peter looked about in perplexity for something that would entertain us. He ran into the storeroom and brought out a gaudily painted harmonica, sat down on a bench, and spreading his fat legs apart began to play like a whole band. The tunes were either very lively or very doleful, and he sang words to some of them. Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack for Mrs. Shimerda and gave us a lard-pail full of milk to cook them in. I had never heard of cooking cucumbers, but Antonia assured me they were very good. We had to walk the pony all the way home to keep from spilling the milk. ONE afternoon we were having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank where the badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a shiver of coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little horse-pond that morning, and as we went through the garden we found the tall asparagus, with its red berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy green. Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton dress and was comfortable only when we were tucked down on the baked earth, in the full blaze of the sun. She could talk to me about almost anything by this time. That afternoon she was telling me how highly esteemed our friend the badger was in her part of the world, and how men kept a special kind of dog, with very short legs, to hunt him. Those dogs, she said, went down into the hole after the badger and killed him there in a terrific struggle underground; you could hear the barks and yelps outside. Then the dog dragged himself back, covered with bites and scratches, to be rewarded and petted by his master. She knew a dog who had a star on his collar for every badger he had killed. The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They kept starting up all about us, and dashing off down the draw as if they were playing a game of some kind. But the little buzzing things that lived in the grass were all dead--all but one. While we were lying there against the warm bank, a little insect of the palest, frailest green hopped painfully out of the buffalo grass and tried to leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, fell back, and sat with his head sunk between his long legs, his antennae quivering, as if he were waiting for something to come and finish him. Tony made a warm nest for him in her hands; talked to him gayly and indulgently in Bohemian. Presently he began to sing for us--a thin, rusty little chirp. She held him close to her ear and laughed, but a moment afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told me that in her village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about selling herbs and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and gave her a warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children in a cracked voice, like this. Old Hata, she was called, and the children loved to see her coming and saved their cakes and sweets for her. When the bank on the other side of the draw began to throw a narrow shelf of shadow, we knew we ought to be starting homeward; the chill came on quickly when the sun got low, and Antonia's dress was thin. What were we to do with the frail little creature we had lured back to life by false pretenses? I offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put the green insect in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over her curls. I said I would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek, and then turn and run home. We drifted along lazily, very happy, through the magical light of the late afternoon. All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never got used to them. As far as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. The blond cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows. The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire and was not consumed. That hour always had the exultation of victory, of triumphant ending, like a hero's death--heroes who died young and gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day. How many an afternoon Antonia and I have trailed along the prairie under that magnificence! And always two long black shadows flitted before us or followed after, dark spots on the ruddy grass. We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the sun sank nearer and nearer the prairie floor, when we saw a figure moving on the edge of the upland, a gun over his shoulder. He was walking slowly, dragging his feet along as if he had no purpose. We broke into a run to overtake him. "My papa sick all the time," Tony panted as we flew. "He not look good, Jim." As we neared Mr. Shimerda she shouted, and he lifted his head and peered about. Tony ran up to him, caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek. She was the only one of his family who could rouse the old man from the torpor in which he seemed to live. He took the bag from his belt and showed us three rabbits he had shot, looked at Antonia with a wintry flicker of a smile and began to tell her something. She turned to me. "My tatinek make me little hat with the skins, little hat for win-ter!" she exclaimed joyfully. "Meat for eat, skin for hat,"--she told off these benefits on her fingers. Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught his wrist and lifted it carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I heard the name of old Hata. He untied the handkerchief, separated her hair with his fingers, and stood looking down at the green insect. When it began to chirp faintly, he listened as if it were a beautiful sound. I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece from the old country, short and heavy, with a stag's head on the cock. When he saw me examining it, he turned to me with his far-away look that always made me feel as if I were down at the bottom of a well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and Antonia translated:-- "My tatinek say when you are big boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from Bohemie. It was belong to a great man, very rich, like what you not got here; many fields, many forests, many big house. My papa play for his wedding, and he give my papa fine gun, and my papa give you." [Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over his shoulder] I was glad that this project was one of futurity. There never were such people as the Shimerdas for wanting to give away everything they had. Even the mother was always offering me things, though I knew she expected substantial presents in return. We stood there in friendly silence, while the feeble minstrel sheltered in Antonia's hair went on with its scratchy chirp. The old man's smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of pity for things, that I never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there came a sudden coolness and the strong smell of earth and drying grass. Antonia and her father went off hand in hand, and I buttoned up my jacket and raced my shadow home. MUCH as I liked Antonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took with me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her protecting manner. Before the autumn was over she began to treat me more like an equal and to defer to me in other things than reading lessons. This change came about from an adventure we had together. One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas' I found Antonia starting off on foot for Russian Peter's house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I offered to take her on the pony, and she got up behind me. There had been another black frost the night before, and the air was clear and heady as wine. Within a week all the blooming roads had been despoiled--hundreds of miles of yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, burry stalks. We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were glad to go in and get warm by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons, heaped in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade, Antonia suggested that we stop at the prairie-dog town and dig into one of the holes. We could find out whether they ran straight down, or were horizontal, like mole-holes; whether they had underground connections; whether the owls had nests down there, lined with feathers. We might get some puppies, or owl eggs, or snake-skins. The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres. The grass had been nibbled short and even, so this stretch was not shaggy and red like the surrounding country, but gray and velvety. The holes were several yards apart, and were disposed with a good deal of regularity, almost as if the town had been laid out in streets and avenues. One always felt that an orderly and very sociable kind of life was going on there. I picketed Dude down in a draw, and we went wandering about, looking for a hole that would be easy to dig. The dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on their hind legs over the doors of their houses. As we approached, they barked, shook their tails at us, and scurried underground. Before the mouths of the holes were little patches of sand and gravel, scratched up, we supposed, from a long way below the surface. Here and there, in the town, we came on larger gravel patches, several yards away from any hole. If the dogs had scratched the sand up in excavating, how had they carried it so far? It was on one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure. We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The burrow sloped into the ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see where the two corridors united, and the floor was dusty from use, like a little highway over which much travel went. I was walking backward, in a crouching position, when I heard Antonia scream. She was standing opposite me, pointing behind me and shouting something in Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of those dry gravel beds, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was sunning himself, after the cold night, and he must have been asleep when Antonia screamed. When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a letter "W." He twitched and began to coil slowly. He was not merely a big snake, I thought--he was a circus monstrosity. His abominable muscularity, his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow made me sick. He was as thick as my leg, and looked as if millstones could n't crush the disgusting vitality out of him. He lifted his hideous little head, and rattled. I did n't run because I did n't think of it--if my back had been against a stone wall I could n't have felt more cornered. I saw his coils tighten--now he would spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up and drove at his head with my spade, struck him fairly across the neck, and in a minute he was all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck now from hate. Antonia, barefooted as she was, ran up behind me. Even after I had pounded his ugly head flat, his body kept on coiling and winding, doubling and falling back on itself. I walked away and turned my back. I felt seasick. Antonia came after me, crying, "O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you not run when I say?" "What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have told me there was a snake behind me!" I said petulantly. "I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so scared." She took my handkerchief from my pocket and tried to wipe my face with it, but I snatched it away from her. I suppose I looked as sick as I felt. "I never know you was so brave, Jim," she went on comfortingly. "You is just like big mans; you wait for him lift his head and then you go for him. Ain't you feel scared a bit? Now we take that snake home and show everybody. Nobody ain't seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you kill." She went on in this strain until I began to think that I had longed for this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy. Cautiously we went back to the snake; he was still groping with his tail, turning up his ugly belly in the light. A faint, fetid smell came from him, and a thread of green liquid oozed from his crushed head. "Look, Tony, that's his poison," I said. I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she lifted his head with the spade while I tied a noose around it. We pulled him out straight and measured him by my riding-quirt; he was about five and a half feet long. He had twelve rattles, but they were broken off before they began to taper, so I insisted that he must once have had twenty-four. I explained to Antonia how this meant that he was twenty-four years old, that he must have been there when white men first came, left on from buffalo and Indian times. As I turned him over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind of respect for his age and size. He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. Certainly his kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all warm-blooded life. When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off to the end of his tether and shivered all over--would n't let us come near him. We decided that Antonia should ride Dude home, and I would walk. As she rode along slowly, her bare legs swinging against the pony's sides, she kept shouting back to me about how astonished everybody would be. I followed with the spade over my shoulder, dragging my snake. Her exultation was contagious. The great land had never looked to me so big and free. If the red grass were full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. Nevertheless, I stole furtive glances behind me now and then to see that no avenging mate, older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the rear. The sun had set when we reached our garden and went down the draw toward the house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge of the cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. Antonia called him to come quick and look. He did not say anything for a minute, but scratched his head and turned the snake over with his boot. "Where did you run onto that beauty, Jim?" "Up at the dog-town," I answered laconically. "Kill him yourself? How come you to have a weepon?" "We'd been up to Russian Peter's, to borrow a spade for Ambrosch." Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted down to count the rattles. "It was just luck you had a tool," he said cautiously. "Gosh! I would n't want to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a fence-post along. Your grandmother's snake-cane would n't more than tickle him. He could stand right up and talk to you, he could. Did he fight hard?" Antonia broke in: "He fight something awful! He is all over Jimmy's boots. I scream for him to run, but he just hit and hit that snake like he was crazy." Otto winked at me. After Antonia rode on he said: "Got him in the head first crack, did n't you? That was just as well." We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down to the kitchen I found Antonia standing in the middle of the floor, telling the story with a great deal of color. Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me that my first encounter was fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler was old, and had led too easy a life; there was not much fight in him. He had probably lived there for years, with a fat prairie dog for breakfast whenever he felt like it, a sheltered home, even an owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that the world does n't owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting trim, would be more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a mock adventure; the game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably was for many a dragon-slayer. I had been adequately armed by Russian Peter; the snake was old and lazy; and I had Antonia beside me, to appreciate and admire. That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; some of the neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the biggest rattler ever killed in those parts. This was enough for Antonia. She liked me better from that time on, and she never took a supercilious air with me again. I had killed a big snake--I was now a big fellow. WHILE the autumn color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, things went badly with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles to Mr. Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow. His creditor was Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk money-lender, a man of evil name throughout the county, of whom I shall have more to say later. Peter could give no very clear account of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew that he had first borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then fifty--that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with mortgages. Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers for a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood from the lungs that his fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. They hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill indeed. Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the log house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to put them out of mind. One afternoon Antonia and her father came over to our house to get buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low. Just as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove up. Pavel was very bad, he said, and wanted to talk to Mr. Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch them. When Antonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my supper, I would sleep in the Shimerdas' barn and run home in the morning. My plan must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was often large-minded about humoring the desires of other people. She asked Peter to wait a moment, and when she came back from the kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches and doughnuts for us. Mr. Shimerda and Peter were on the front seat; Antonia and I sat in the straw behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a cold wind sprang up and moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the weather had come sooner, I should not have got away. We burrowed down in the straw and curled up close together, watching the angry red die out of the west and the stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept sighing and groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would never get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of the world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those shining groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to be. Perhaps Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had brought from his land, too, some such belief. The little house on the hillside was so much the color of the night that we could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows guided us--the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning. We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and I sat down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in front of us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They made me think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were trying desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on. Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all together--to tell us that winter was coming. This sound brought an answer from the bed,--a long complaining cry,--as if Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some old misery. Peter listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor by the kitchen stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap--then the high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his elbow. "He is scared of the wolves," Antonia whispered to me. "In his country there are very many, and they eat men and women." We slid closer together along the bench. I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell of spirits went through the room. Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle and slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted some one. His eyes followed Peter about the room with a contemptuous, unfriendly expression. It seemed to me that he despised him for being so simple and docile. Presently Pavel began to talk to Mr. Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. He was telling a long story, and as he went on, Antonia took my hand under the table and held it tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to hear him. He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his bed, as if there were things there and he wanted Mr. Shimerda to see them. "It's wolves, Jimmy," Antonia whispered. "It's awful, what he says!" The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to be cursing people who had wronged him. Mr. Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could hardly hold him in bed. At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which fairly choked him. He pulled a cloth from under his pillow and held it to his mouth. Quickly it was covered with bright red spots--I thought I had never seen any blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to the wall, all the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for breath, like a child with croup. Antonia's father uncovered one of his long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we could see what a hollow case his body was. His spine and shoulder-blades stood out like the bones under the hide of a dead steer left in the fields. That sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay on it. Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, the worst was over. Mr. Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep. Without a word Peter got up and lit his lantern. He was going out to get his team to drive us home. Mr. Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the long bowed back under the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe. On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and rattling Antonia told me as much of the story as she could. What she did not tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days afterward. When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another village. It was in the dead of winter and the groom's party went over to the wedding in sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom's sledge, and six sledges followed with all his relatives and friends. After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a supper and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and drinking. At midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and blessed her. The groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his sledge and tucked her under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. The party set out with singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom's sledge going first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for merry-making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride. The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew it, yet when they heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too much good food and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and echoed and with quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove came up over the hill behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them. Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control,--he was probably very drunk,--the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a clump of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, and the fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed made everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest--all the others carried from six to a dozen people. Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible to hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the wolves. It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who were falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. The little bride hid her face on the groom's shoulder and sobbed. Pavel sat still and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the groom's three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm and to guide them carefully. At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked back. "There are only three sledges left," he whispered. "And the wolves?" Pavel asked. "Enough! Enough for all of us." Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down the other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a whirling black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his father's sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even then too late. The black ground-shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him, wolves at his heels. But the groom's movement had given Pavel an idea. They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left out of six was not very far behind them, and Pavel's middle horse was failing. Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy. They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned the sledge. When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone upon the familiar road. "They still come?" he asked Peter. "Yes." "How many?" "Twenty, thirty--enough." Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He called to the groom that they must lighten--and pointed to the bride. The young man cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. In the struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound that broke into the clear air, louder than they had ever heard it before--the bell of the monastery of their own village, ringing for early prayers. Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever since. They were run out of their village. Pavel's own mother would not look at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the bride to the wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed them. It took them five years to save money enough to come to America. They worked in Chicago, Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always unfortunate. When Pavel's health grew so bad, they decided to try farming. Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to Mr. Shimerda, and was buried in the Norwegian graveyard. Peter sold off everything, and left the country--went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of Russians were employed. At his sale we bought Peter's wheelbarrow and some of his harness. During the auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. He seemed not to care about anything. The Black Hawk money-lender who held mortgages on Peter's live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes at about fifty cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow before she was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but this I know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans had been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the melons that he had put away for winter. When Mr. Shimerda and Krajiek drove up in their wagon to take Peter to the train, they found him with a dripping beard, surrounded by heaps of melon rinds. The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old Mr. Shimerda. When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit there, brooding. This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows penned him in his cave. For Antonia and me, the story of the wedding party was never at an end. We did not tell Pavel's secret to any one, but guarded it jealously--as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I often found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through a country that looked something like Nebraska and something like Virginia. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Antonia und Jim fahren zu Pavel und Peter, zwei Russen, die der Vater von Antonia kennengelernt hat. Pavel ist nicht zu Hause, aber Peter freut sich, sie zu sehen. Er zeigt ihnen den Bauernhof, gibt ihnen Wassermelone zu essen und unterhält sie, indem er Mundharmonika spielt. Als sie bereit sind zu gehen, gibt er ihnen einige Gurken für Mrs. Shimerda und einen mit Milch gefüllten Eimer. Jim und Antonia haben eine Lesestunde am Ufer nahe des Dachsbau. Sie diskutieren über den Dachs und wie er in Böhmen geschätzt wird, und sie retten ein schwaches grünes Insekt, das als Dank für die Wärme von Antonias Händen für sie zirpt. Antonia erinnert sich an Old Hata, eine Bettlerin in Böhmen, die Kräuter im Wald grub und verkaufte. Kinder liebten es, die Lieder zu hören, die sie mit ihrer alten, rissigen Stimme sang. Auf dem Heimweg sehen sie Herrn Shimerda auf dem Hügel, wo er gejagt hat. Er zeigt ihnen die drei Kaninchen, die er getötet hat, und sagt Antonia, dass er ihr einen Kaninchenhut für den Winter machen wird. Er sagt, dass er Jim irgendwann dieses Gewehr geben wird, das er aus Böhmen mitgebracht hat. Die Traurigkeit des Lächelns von Herrn Shimerda drückt Jim nieder. Antonia ist vier Jahre älter und reist mehr als Jim, und er missbilligt ihre überlegene Haltung. Ihre Einstellung ändert sich jedoch an einem Tag, als sie auf dem Rückweg nach dem Ausleihen einer Schaufel von den beiden Russen sind. Bei der Präriehund-Siedlung läuft Jim fast in eine Klapperschlange hinein. Antonia schreit ihn auf Tschechisch an. Er wirbelt herum und tötet die Klapperschlange mit der Schaufel, aber er ist verärgert darüber, dass sie ihn nicht auf Englisch gewarnt hat. Nach diesem Abenteuer prahlt Antonia damit, wie Jim die Schlange getötet hat, und sie fängt an, ihn als gleichwertig zu behandeln. Während der späte Herbst anhält, geraten die Russen in Schwierigkeiten mit dem Geldverleiher von Black Hawk, Wick Cutter, der sie zwingt, eine hohe Gebühr für einen überfälligen Kredit zu zahlen und ihm eine Hypothek auf ihr Vieh zu geben. Später verletzt sich Pavel beim Bau eines Stalls. Als Herr Shimerda, Antonia und Jim die Russen besuchen, erweckt der dünne und abgemagerte Pavel sich von seinem Krankenbett und erzählt Herrn Shimerda, warum sie aus Russland geflohen sind, eine Geschichte, die Antonia für Jim übersetzt. Ein paar Tage danach stirbt Pavel. Peter verkauft alles und geht weg, um in einem Bauarbeiterlager zu kochen.

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: Some seven hours' incessant, hard travelling brought us early in the morning to the end of a range of mountains. In front of us there lay a piece of low, broken, desert land, which we must now cross. The sun was not long up, and shone straight in our eyes; a little, thin mist went up from the face of the moorland like a smoke; so that (as Alan said) there might have been twenty squadron of dragoons there and we none the wiser. We sat down, therefore, in a howe of the hill-side till the mist should have risen, and made ourselves a dish of drammach, and held a council of war. "David," said Alan, "this is the kittle bit. Shall we lie here till it comes night, or shall we risk it, and stave on ahead?" "Well," said I, "I am tired indeed, but I could walk as far again, if that was all." "Ay, but it isnae," said Alan, "nor yet the half. This is how we stand: Appin's fair death to us. To the south it's all Campbells, and no to be thought of. To the north; well, there's no muckle to be gained by going north; neither for you, that wants to get to Queensferry, nor yet for me, that wants to get to France. Well, then, we'll can strike east." "East be it!" says I, quite cheerily; but I was thinking in to myself: "O, man, if you would only take one point of the compass and let me take any other, it would be the best for both of us." "Well, then, east, ye see, we have the muirs," said Alan. "Once there, David, it's mere pitch-and-toss. Out on yon bald, naked, flat place, where can a body turn to? Let the red-coats come over a hill, they can spy you miles away; and the sorrow's in their horses' heels, they would soon ride you down. It's no good place, David; and I'm free to say, it's worse by daylight than by dark." "Alan," said I, "hear my way of it. Appin's death for us; we have none too much money, nor yet meal; the longer they seek, the nearer they may guess where we are; it's all a risk; and I give my word to go ahead until we drop." Alan was delighted. "There are whiles," said he, "when ye are altogether too canny and Whiggish to be company for a gentleman like me; but there come other whiles when ye show yoursel' a mettle spark; and it's then, David, that I love ye like a brother." The mist rose and died away, and showed us that country lying as waste as the sea; only the moorfowl and the pewees crying upon it, and far over to the east, a herd of deer, moving like dots. Much of it was red with heather; much of the rest broken up with bogs and hags and peaty pools; some had been burnt black in a heath fire; and in another place there was quite a forest of dead firs, standing like skeletons. A wearier-looking desert man never saw; but at least it was clear of troops, which was our point. We went down accordingly into the waste, and began to make our toilsome and devious travel towards the eastern verge. There were the tops of mountains all round (you are to remember) from whence we might be spied at any moment; so it behoved us to keep in the hollow parts of the moor, and when these turned aside from our direction to move upon its naked face with infinite care. Sometimes, for half an hour together, we must crawl from one heather bush to another, as hunters do when they are hard upon the deer. It was a clear day again, with a blazing sun; the water in the brandy bottle was soon gone; and altogether, if I had guessed what it would be to crawl half the time upon my belly and to walk much of the rest stooping nearly to the knees, I should certainly have held back from such a killing enterprise. Toiling and resting and toiling again, we wore away the morning; and about noon lay down in a thick bush of heather to sleep. Alan took the first watch; and it seemed to me I had scarce closed my eyes before I was shaken up to take the second. We had no clock to go by; and Alan stuck a sprig of heath in the ground to serve instead; so that as soon as the shadow of the bush should fall so far to the east, I might know to rouse him. But I was by this time so weary that I could have slept twelve hours at a stretch; I had the taste of sleep in my throat; my joints slept even when my mind was waking; the hot smell of the heather, and the drone of the wild bees, were like possets to me; and every now and again I would give a jump and find I had been dozing. The last time I woke I seemed to come back from farther away, and thought the sun had taken a great start in the heavens. I looked at the sprig of heath, and at that I could have cried aloud: for I saw I had betrayed my trust. My head was nearly turned with fear and shame; and at what I saw, when I looked out around me on the moor, my heart was like dying in my body. For sure enough, a body of horse-soldiers had come down during my sleep, and were drawing near to us from the south-east, spread out in the shape of a fan and riding their horses to and fro in the deep parts of the heather. When I waked Alan, he glanced first at the soldiers, then at the mark and the position of the sun, and knitted his brows with a sudden, quick look, both ugly and anxious, which was all the reproach I had of him. "What are we to do now?" I asked. "We'll have to play at being hares," said he. "Do ye see yon mountain?" pointing to one on the north-eastern sky. "Ay," said I. "Well, then," says he, "let us strike for that. Its name is Ben Alder. it is a wild, desert mountain full of hills and hollows, and if we can win to it before the morn, we may do yet." "But, Alan," cried I, "that will take us across the very coming of the soldiers!" "I ken that fine," said he; "but if we are driven back on Appin, we are two dead men. So now, David man, be brisk!" With that he began to run forward on his hands and knees with an incredible quickness, as though it were his natural way of going. All the time, too, he kept winding in and out in the lower parts of the moorland where we were the best concealed. Some of these had been burned or at least scathed with fire; and there rose in our faces (which were close to the ground) a blinding, choking dust as fine as smoke. The water was long out; and this posture of running on the hands and knees brings an overmastering weakness and weariness, so that the joints ache and the wrists faint under your weight. Now and then, indeed, where was a big bush of heather, we lay awhile, and panted, and putting aside the leaves, looked back at the dragoons. They had not spied us, for they held straight on; a half-troop, I think, covering about two miles of ground, and beating it mighty thoroughly as they went. I had awakened just in time; a little later, and we must have fled in front of them, instead of escaping on one side. Even as it was, the least misfortune might betray us; and now and again, when a grouse rose out of the heather with a clap of wings, we lay as still as the dead and were afraid to breathe. The aching and faintness of my body, the labouring of my heart, the soreness of my hands, and the smarting of my throat and eyes in the continual smoke of dust and ashes, had soon grown to be so unbearable that I would gladly have given up. Nothing but the fear of Alan lent me enough of a false kind of courage to continue. As for himself (and you are to bear in mind that he was cumbered with a great-coat) he had first turned crimson, but as time went on the redness began to be mingled with patches of white; his breath cried and whistled as it came; and his voice, when he whispered his observations in my ear during our halts, sounded like nothing human. Yet he seemed in no way dashed in spirits, nor did he at all abate in his activity, so that I was driven to marvel at the man's endurance. At length, in the first gloaming of the night, we heard a trumpet sound, and looking back from among the heather, saw the troop beginning to collect. A little after, they had built a fire and camped for the night, about the middle of the waste. At this I begged and besought that we might lie down and sleep. "There shall be no sleep the night!" said Alan. "From now on, these weary dragoons of yours will keep the crown of the muirland, and none will get out of Appin but winged fowls. We got through in the nick of time, and shall we jeopard what we've gained? Na, na, when the day comes, it shall find you and me in a fast place on Ben Alder." "Alan," I said, "it's not the want of will: it's the strength that I want. If I could, I would; but as sure as I'm alive I cannot." "Very well, then," said Alan. "I'll carry ye." I looked to see if he were jesting; but no, the little man was in dead earnest; and the sight of so much resolution shamed me. "Lead away!" said I. "I'll follow." He gave me one look as much as to say, "Well done, David!" and off he set again at his top speed. It grew cooler and even a little darker (but not much) with the coming of the night. The sky was cloudless; it was still early in July, and pretty far north; in the darkest part of that night, you would have needed pretty good eyes to read, but for all that, I have often seen it darker in a winter mid-day. Heavy dew fell and drenched the moor like rain; and this refreshed me for a while. When we stopped to breathe, and I had time to see all about me, the clearness and sweetness of the night, the shapes of the hills like things asleep, and the fire dwindling away behind us, like a bright spot in the midst of the moor, anger would come upon me in a clap that I must still drag myself in agony and eat the dust like a worm. By what I have read in books, I think few that have held a pen were ever really wearied, or they would write of it more strongly. I had no care of my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remembered there was such a lad as David Balfour. I did not think of myself, but just of each fresh step which I was sure would be my last, with despair--and of Alan, who was the cause of it, with hatred. Alan was in the right trade as a soldier; this is the officer's part to make men continue to do things, they know not wherefore, and when, if the choice was offered, they would lie down where they were and be killed. And I dare say I would have made a good enough private; for in these last hours it never occurred to me that I had any choice but just to obey as long as I was able, and die obeying. Day began to come in, after years, I thought; and by that time we were past the greatest danger, and could walk upon our feet like men, instead of crawling like brutes. But, dear heart have mercy! what a pair we must have made, going double like old grandfathers, stumbling like babes, and as white as dead folk. Never a word passed between us; each set his mouth and kept his eyes in front of him, and lifted up his foot and set it down again, like people lifting weights at a country play;* all the while, with the moorfowl crying "peep!" in the heather, and the light coming slowly clearer in the east. * Village fair. I say Alan did as I did. Not that ever I looked at him, for I had enough ado to keep my feet; but because it is plain he must have been as stupid with weariness as myself, and looked as little where we were going, or we should not have walked into an ambush like blind men. It fell in this way. We were going down a heathery brae, Alan leading and I following a pace or two behind, like a fiddler and his wife; when upon a sudden the heather gave a rustle, three or four ragged men leaped out, and the next moment we were lying on our backs, each with a dirk at his throat. I don't think I cared; the pain of this rough handling was quite swallowed up by the pains of which I was already full; and I was too glad to have stopped walking to mind about a dirk. I lay looking up in the face of the man that held me; and I mind his face was black with the sun, and his eyes very light, but I was not afraid of him. I heard Alan and another whispering in the Gaelic; and what they said was all one to me. Then the dirks were put up, our weapons were taken away, and we were set face to face, sitting in the heather. "They are Cluny's men," said Alan. "We couldnae have fallen better. We're just to bide here with these, which are his out-sentries, till they can get word to the chief of my arrival." Now Cluny Macpherson, the chief of the clan Vourich, had been one of the leaders of the great rebellion six years before; there was a price on his life; and I had supposed him long ago in France, with the rest of the heads of that desperate party. Even tired as I was, the surprise of what I heard half wakened me. "What," I cried, "is Cluny still here?" "Ay, is he so!" said Alan. "Still in his own country and kept by his own clan. King George can do no more." I think I would have asked farther, but Alan gave me the put-off. "I am rather wearied," he said, "and I would like fine to get a sleep." And without more words, he rolled on his face in a deep heather bush, and seemed to sleep at once. There was no such thing possible for me. You have heard grasshoppers whirring in the grass in the summer time? Well, I had no sooner closed my eyes, than my body, and above all my head, belly, and wrists, seemed to be filled with whirring grasshoppers; and I must open my eyes again at once, and tumble and toss, and sit up and lie down; and look at the sky which dazzled me, or at Cluny's wild and dirty sentries, peering out over the top of the brae and chattering to each other in the Gaelic. That was all the rest I had, until the messenger returned; when, as it appeared that Cluny would be glad to receive us, we must get once more upon our feet and set forward. Alan was in excellent good spirits, much refreshed by his sleep, very hungry, and looking pleasantly forward to a dram and a dish of hot collops, of which, it seems, the messenger had brought him word. For my part, it made me sick to hear of eating. I had been dead-heavy before, and now I felt a kind of dreadful lightness, which would not suffer me to walk. I drifted like a gossamer; the ground seemed to me a cloud, the hills a feather-weight, the air to have a current, like a running burn, which carried me to and fro. With all that, a sort of horror of despair sat on my mind, so that I could have wept at my own helplessness. I saw Alan knitting his brows at me, and supposed it was in anger; and that gave me a pang of light-headed fear, like what a child may have. I remember, too, that I was smiling, and could not stop smiling, hard as I tried; for I thought it was out of place at such a time. But my good companion had nothing in his mind but kindness; and the next moment, two of the gillies had me by the arms, and I began to be carried forward with great swiftness (or so it appeared to me, although I dare say it was slowly enough in truth), through a labyrinth of dreary glens and hollows and into the heart of that dismal mountain of Ben Alder. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Flucht in den Heide: Die Moors David und Alan wandern sieben Stunden lang und kommen ans Ende des Gebirges. Nun müssen sie entscheiden, in welche Richtung sie gehen sollen. Appin im Westen wimmelt von Soldaten. Das Land im Süden wimmelt von Campbells, und nach Norden zu gehen ist für David, der nach Edinburgh will, und Alan, der nach Frankreich muss, keine Option. Also entscheiden sie sich, nach Osten zu gehen, obwohl David erneut realisiert, dass sie vielleicht sicherer wären, wenn sie getrennte Wege gingen. Sie müssen die Moore überqueren, die weit und flach sind, und laufen dabei große Gefahr, entdeckt zu werden, aber sie haben keine Wahl. Die Hälfte der Zeit müssen sie auf dem Bauch kriechen oder auf den Knien rennen, und bald wird David sehr müde. Sie ruhen sich mittags in einem Busch aus, und Alan hält Wache. Als David dran ist, schläft er ein und erwacht, um Soldaten in ihrer Nähe zu entdecken. Er weckt Alan, der schnell beschließt, auf einen Berg im Nordosten, den Ben Alder, zuzugehen. Das führt sie an den Soldaten vorbei und zwingt sie dazu, den Großteil des Weges auf den Knien zu rennen. Kurz bevor sie den Berg erreichen, werden sie überfallen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass es Freunde sind, Männer von Cluny Macpherson. Die Männer bringen sie zu Clunys Versteck im Wald.

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: The month, as I have said, was not yet out, but it was already far through August, and beautiful warm weather, with every sign of an early and great harvest, when I was pronounced able for my journey. Our money was now run to so low an ebb that we must think first of all on speed; for if we came not soon to Mr. Rankeillor's, or if when we came there he should fail to help me, we must surely starve. In Alan's view, besides, the hunt must have now greatly slackened; and the line of the Forth and even Stirling Bridge, which is the main pass over that river, would be watched with little interest. "It's a chief principle in military affairs," said he, "to go where ye are least expected. Forth is our trouble; ye ken the saying, 'Forth bridles the wild Hielandman.' Well, if we seek to creep round about the head of that river and come down by Kippen or Balfron, it's just precisely there that they'll be looking to lay hands on us. But if we stave on straight to the auld Brig of Stirling, I'll lay my sword they let us pass unchallenged." The first night, accordingly, we pushed to the house of a Maclaren in Strathire, a friend of Duncan's, where we slept the twenty-first of the month, and whence we set forth again about the fall of night to make another easy stage. The twenty-second we lay in a heather bush on the hillside in Uam Var, within view of a herd of deer, the happiest ten hours of sleep in a fine, breathing sunshine and on bone-dry ground, that I have ever tasted. That night we struck Allan Water, and followed it down; and coming to the edge of the hills saw the whole Carse of Stirling underfoot, as flat as a pancake, with the town and castle on a hill in the midst of it, and the moon shining on the Links of Forth. "Now," said Alan, "I kenna if ye care, but ye're in your own land again. We passed the Hieland Line in the first hour; and now if we could but pass yon crooked water, we might cast our bonnets in the air." In Allan Water, near by where it falls into the Forth, we found a little sandy islet, overgrown with burdock, butterbur and the like low plants, that would just cover us if we lay flat. Here it was we made our camp, within plain view of Stirling Castle, whence we could hear the drums beat as some part of the garrison paraded. Shearers worked all day in a field on one side of the river, and we could hear the stones going on the hooks and the voices and even the words of the men talking. It behoved to lie close and keep silent. But the sand of the little isle was sun-warm, the green plants gave us shelter for our heads, we had food and drink in plenty; and to crown all, we were within sight of safety. As soon as the shearers quit their work and the dusk began to fall, we waded ashore and struck for the Bridge of Stirling, keeping to the fields and under the field fences. The bridge is close under the castle hill, an old, high, narrow bridge with pinnacles along the parapet; and you may conceive with how much interest I looked upon it, not only as a place famous in history, but as the very doors of salvation to Alan and myself. The moon was not yet up when we came there; a few lights shone along the front of the fortress, and lower down a few lighted windows in the town; but it was all mighty still, and there seemed to be no guard upon the passage. I was for pushing straight across; but Alan was more wary. "It looks unco' quiet," said he; "but for all that we'll lie down here cannily behind a dyke, and make sure." So we lay for about a quarter of an hour, whiles whispering, whiles lying still and hearing nothing earthly but the washing of the water on the piers. At last there came by an old, hobbling woman with a crutch stick; who first stopped a little, close to where we lay, and bemoaned herself and the long way she had travelled; and then set forth again up the steep spring of the bridge. The woman was so little, and the night still so dark, that we soon lost sight of her; only heard the sound of her steps, and her stick, and a cough that she had by fits, draw slowly farther away. "She's bound to be across now," I whispered. "Na," said Alan, "her foot still sounds boss* upon the bridge." * Hollow. And just then--"Who goes?" cried a voice, and we heard the butt of a musket rattle on the stones. I must suppose the sentry had been sleeping, so that had we tried, we might have passed unseen; but he was awake now, and the chance forfeited. "This'll never do," said Alan. "This'll never, never do for us, David." And without another word, he began to crawl away through the fields; and a little after, being well out of eye-shot, got to his feet again, and struck along a road that led to the eastward. I could not conceive what he was doing; and indeed I was so sharply cut by the disappointment, that I was little likely to be pleased with anything. A moment back and I had seen myself knocking at Mr. Rankeillor's door to claim my inheritance, like a hero in a ballad; and here was I back again, a wandering, hunted blackguard, on the wrong side of Forth. "Well?" said I. "Well," said Alan, "what would ye have? They're none such fools as I took them for. We have still the Forth to pass, Davie--weary fall the rains that fed and the hillsides that guided it!" "And why go east?" said I. "Ou, just upon the chance!" said he. "If we cannae pass the river, we'll have to see what we can do for the firth." "There are fords upon the river, and none upon the firth," said I. "To be sure there are fords, and a bridge forbye," quoth Alan; "and of what service, when they are watched?" "Well," said I, "but a river can be swum." "By them that have the skill of it," returned he; "but I have yet to hear that either you or me is much of a hand at that exercise; and for my own part, I swim like a stone." "I'm not up to you in talking back, Alan," I said; "but I can see we're making bad worse. If it's hard to pass a river, it stands to reason it must be worse to pass a sea." "But there's such a thing as a boat," says Alan, "or I'm the more deceived." "Ay, and such a thing as money," says I. "But for us that have neither one nor other, they might just as well not have been invented." "Ye think so?" said Alan. "I do that," said I. "David," says he, "ye're a man of small invention and less faith. But let me set my wits upon the hone, and if I cannae beg, borrow, nor yet steal a boat, I'll make one!" "I think I see ye!" said I. "And what's more than all that: if ye pass a bridge, it can tell no tales; but if we pass the firth, there's the boat on the wrong side--somebody must have brought it--the country-side will all be in a bizz---" "Man!" cried Alan, "if I make a boat, I'll make a body to take it back again! So deave me with no more of your nonsense, but walk (for that's what you've got to do)--and let Alan think for ye." All night, then, we walked through the north side of the Carse under the high line of the Ochil mountains; and by Alloa and Clackmannan and Culross, all of which we avoided: and about ten in the morning, mighty hungry and tired, came to the little clachan of Limekilns. This is a place that sits near in by the water-side, and looks across the Hope to the town of the Queensferry. Smoke went up from both of these, and from other villages and farms upon all hands. The fields were being reaped; two ships lay anchored, and boats were coming and going on the Hope. It was altogether a right pleasant sight to me; and I could not take my fill of gazing at these comfortable, green, cultivated hills and the busy people both of the field and sea. For all that, there was Mr. Rankeillor's house on the south shore, where I had no doubt wealth awaited me; and here was I upon the north, clad in poor enough attire of an outlandish fashion, with three silver shillings left to me of all my fortune, a price set upon my head, and an outlawed man for my sole company. "O, Alan!" said I, "to think of it! Over there, there's all that heart could want waiting me; and the birds go over, and the boats go over--all that please can go, but just me only! O, man, but it's a heart-break!" In Limekilns we entered a small change-house, which we only knew to be a public by the wand over the door, and bought some bread and cheese from a good-looking lass that was the servant. This we carried with us in a bundle, meaning to sit and eat it in a bush of wood on the sea-shore, that we saw some third part of a mile in front. As we went, I kept looking across the water and sighing to myself; and though I took no heed of it, Alan had fallen into a muse. At last he stopped in the way. "Did ye take heed of the lass we bought this of?" says he, tapping on the bread and cheese. "To be sure," said I, "and a bonny lass she was." "Ye thought that?" cries he. "Man, David, that's good news." "In the name of all that's wonderful, why so?" says I. "What good can that do?" "Well," said Alan, with one of his droll looks, "I was rather in hopes it would maybe get us that boat." "If it were the other way about, it would be liker it," said I. "That's all that you ken, ye see," said Alan. "I don't want the lass to fall in love with ye, I want her to be sorry for ye, David; to which end there is no manner of need that she should take you for a beauty. Let me see" (looking me curiously over). "I wish ye were a wee thing paler; but apart from that ye'll do fine for my purpose--ye have a fine, hang-dog, rag-and-tatter, clappermaclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had stolen the coat from a potato-bogle. Come; right about, and back to the change-house for that boat of ours." I followed him, laughing. "David Balfour," said he, "ye're a very funny gentleman by your way of it, and this is a very funny employ for ye, no doubt. For all that, if ye have any affection for my neck (to say nothing of your own) ye will perhaps be kind enough to take this matter responsibly. I am going to do a bit of play-acting, the bottom ground of which is just exactly as serious as the gallows for the pair of us. So bear it, if ye please, in mind, and conduct yourself according." "Well, well," said I, "have it as you will." As we got near the clachan, he made me take his arm and hang upon it like one almost helpless with weariness; and by the time he pushed open the change-house door, he seemed to be half carrying me. The maid appeared surprised (as well she might be) at our speedy return; but Alan had no words to spare for her in explanation, helped me to a chair, called for a tass of brandy with which he fed me in little sips, and then breaking up the bread and cheese helped me to eat it like a nursery-lass; the whole with that grave, concerned, affectionate countenance, that might have imposed upon a judge. It was small wonder if the maid were taken with the picture we presented, of a poor, sick, overwrought lad and his most tender comrade. She drew quite near, and stood leaning with her back on the next table. "What's like wrong with him?" said she at last. Alan turned upon her, to my great wonder, with a kind of fury. "Wrong?" cries he. "He's walked more hundreds of miles than he has hairs upon his chin, and slept oftener in wet heather than dry sheets. Wrong, quo' she! Wrong enough, I would think! Wrong, indeed!" and he kept grumbling to himself as he fed me, like a man ill-pleased. "He's young for the like of that," said the maid. "Ower young," said Alan, with his back to her. "He would be better riding," says she. "And where could I get a horse to him?" cried Alan, turning on her with the same appearance of fury. "Would ye have me steal?" I thought this roughness would have sent her off in dudgeon, as indeed it closed her mouth for the time. But my companion knew very well what he was doing; and for as simple as he was in some things of life, had a great fund of roguishness in such affairs as these. "Ye neednae tell me," she said at last--"ye're gentry." "Well," said Alan, softened a little (I believe against his will) by this artless comment, "and suppose we were? Did ever you hear that gentrice put money in folk's pockets?" She sighed at this, as if she were herself some disinherited great lady. "No," says she, "that's true indeed." I was all this while chafing at the part I played, and sitting tongue-tied between shame and merriment; but somehow at this I could hold in no longer, and bade Alan let me be, for I was better already. My voice stuck in my throat, for I ever hated to take part in lies; but my very embarrassment helped on the plot, for the lass no doubt set down my husky voice to sickness and fatigue. "Has he nae friends?" said she, in a tearful voice. "That has he so!" cried Alan, "if we could but win to them!--friends and rich friends, beds to lie in, food to eat, doctors to see to him--and here he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather like a beggarman." "And why that?" says the lass. "My dear," said Alan, "I cannae very safely say; but I'll tell ye what I'll do instead," says he, "I'll whistle ye a bit tune." And with that he leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath of a whistle, but with a wonderful pretty sentiment, gave her a few bars of "Charlie is my darling." "Wheesht," says she, and looked over her shoulder to the door. "That's it," said Alan. "And him so young!" cries the lass. "He's old enough to----" and Alan struck his forefinger on the back part of his neck, meaning that I was old enough to lose my head. "It would be a black shame," she cried, flushing high. "It's what will be, though," said Alan, "unless we manage the better." At this the lass turned and ran out of that part of the house, leaving us alone together. Alan in high good humour at the furthering of his schemes, and I in bitter dudgeon at being called a Jacobite and treated like a child. "Alan," I cried, "I can stand no more of this." "Ye'll have to sit it then, Davie," said he. "For if ye upset the pot now, ye may scrape your own life out of the fire, but Alan Breck is a dead man." This was so true that I could only groan; and even my groan served Alan's purpose, for it was overheard by the lass as she came flying in again with a dish of white puddings and a bottle of strong ale. "Poor lamb!" says she, and had no sooner set the meat before us, than she touched me on the shoulder with a little friendly touch, as much as to bid me cheer up. Then she told us to fall to, and there would be no more to pay; for the inn was her own, or at least her father's, and he was gone for the day to Pittencrieff. We waited for no second bidding, for bread and cheese is but cold comfort and the puddings smelt excellently well; and while we sat and ate, she took up that same place by the next table, looking on, and thinking, and frowning to herself, and drawing the string of her apron through her hand. "I'm thinking ye have rather a long tongue," she said at last to Alan. "Ay" said Alan; "but ye see I ken the folk I speak to." "I would never betray ye," said she, "if ye mean that." "No," said he, "ye're not that kind. But I'll tell ye what ye would do, ye would help." "I couldnae," said she, shaking her head. "Na, I couldnae." "No," said he, "but if ye could?" She answered him nothing. "Look here, my lass," said Alan, "there are boats in the Kingdom of Fife, for I saw two (no less) upon the beach, as I came in by your town's end. Now if we could have the use of a boat to pass under cloud of night into Lothian, and some secret, decent kind of a man to bring that boat back again and keep his counsel, there would be two souls saved--mine to all likelihood--his to a dead surety. If we lack that boat, we have but three shillings left in this wide world; and where to go, and how to do, and what other place there is for us except the chains of a gibbet--I give you my naked word, I kenna! Shall we go wanting, lassie? Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, when the wind gowls in the chimney and the rain tirls on the roof? Are ye to eat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick lad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger? Sick or sound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his throat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when he gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends near him but only me and God." At this appeal, I could see the lass was in great trouble of mind, being tempted to help us, and yet in some fear she might be helping malefactors; and so now I determined to step in myself and to allay her scruples with a portion of the truth. "Did ever you hear," said I, "of Mr. Rankeillor of the Ferry?" "Rankeillor the writer?" said she. "I daur say that!" "Well," said I, "it's to his door that I am bound, so you may judge by that if I am an ill-doer; and I will tell you more, that though I am indeed, by a dreadful error, in some peril of my life, King George has no truer friend in all Scotland than myself." Her face cleared up mightily at this, although Alan's darkened. "That's more than I would ask," said she. "Mr. Rankeillor is a kennt man." And she bade us finish our meat, get clear of the clachan as soon as might be, and lie close in the bit wood on the sea-beach. "And ye can trust me," says she, "I'll find some means to put you over." At this we waited for no more, but shook hands with her upon the bargain, made short work of the puddings, and set forth again from Limekilns as far as to the wood. It was a small piece of perhaps a score of elders and hawthorns and a few young ashes, not thick enough to veil us from passersby upon the road or beach. Here we must lie, however, making the best of the brave warm weather and the good hopes we now had of a deliverance, and planing more particularly what remained for us to do. We had but one trouble all day; when a strolling piper came and sat in the same wood with us; a red-nosed, bleareyed, drunken dog, with a great bottle of whisky in his pocket, and a long story of wrongs that had been done him by all sorts of persons, from the Lord President of the Court of Session, who had denied him justice, down to the Bailies of Inverkeithing who had given him more of it than he desired. It was impossible but he should conceive some suspicion of two men lying all day concealed in a thicket and having no business to allege. As long as he stayed there he kept us in hot water with prying questions; and after he was gone, as he was a man not very likely to hold his tongue, we were in the greater impatience to be gone ourselves. The day came to an end with the same brightness; the night fell quiet and clear; lights came out in houses and hamlets and then, one after another, began to be put out; but it was past eleven, and we were long since strangely tortured with anxieties, before we heard the grinding of oars upon the rowing-pins. At that, we looked out and saw the lass herself coming rowing to us in a boat. She had trusted no one with our affairs, not even her sweetheart, if she had one; but as soon as her father was asleep, had left the house by a window, stolen a neighbour's boat, and come to our assistance single-handed. I was abashed how to find expression for my thanks; but she was no less abashed at the thought of hearing them; begged us to lose no time and to hold our peace, saying (very properly) that the heart of our matter was in haste and silence; and so, what with one thing and another, she had set us on the Lothian shore not far from Carriden, had shaken hands with us, and was out again at sea and rowing for Limekilns, before there was one word said either of her service or our gratitude. Even after she was gone, we had nothing to say, as indeed nothing was enough for such a kindness. Only Alan stood a great while upon the shore shaking his head. "It is a very fine lass," he said at last. "David, it is a very fine lass." And a matter of an hour later, as we were lying in a den on the sea-shore and I had been already dozing, he broke out again in commendations of her character. For my part, I could say nothing, she was so simple a creature that my heart smote me both with remorse and fear: remorse because we had traded upon her ignorance; and fear lest we should have anyway involved her in the dangers of our situation. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In weniger als einem Monat wurde David für gesund erklärt und er und Alan bereiteten sich auf ihre Reise vor. In Alan's Augen hatte die Jagd auf sie wahrscheinlich nachgelassen. Sie würden sich der Forth nähern, einem Fluss südlich der Grenze zwischen den Highlands und den Lowlands. Hoffentlich würden sie, wenn sie direkt über die Brücke gingen, unbemerkt passieren, hoffte Alan. Die weniger offensichtlichen Routen würden stärker überwacht werden. So machten sie sich auf den Weg zur Stirling Bridge. Sie folgten dem Alan Water, bis es in den Forth floss, und versteckten sich dann nahe dem Sterling Castle. David drängte darauf, direkt über die Brücke zu gehen, aber Alan war vorsichtig. Es schien keine Wache zu geben, aber Alan riet dazu, sich bedeckt zu halten. Später in dieser Nacht beobachteten sie eine kleine Frau, die über die Brücke watschelte. Sie wurde in Ruhe gelassen, bis plötzlich ein Wächter, wahrscheinlich aufgewacht, sie aufhielt. Sie hatten keine Chance, mit dem wachen Wächter hinüberzukommen. Alan kroch weiter weg von der Brücke und David, gezwungen ihm zu folgen, sah sein Treffen mit Mr. Rankeillor weiter verschoben. Als sie eine Straße erreichten, begannen sie zu streiten über den nächsten Schritt. David dachte, es sei am besten, einen Weg zu finden, den Fluss zu überqueren, während Alan dachte, sie hätten eine bessere Chance, mit einem Boot das Meer zu überqueren. David argumentierte, dass sie nicht genug Geld hatten. Alan bestand darauf, dass er eine Lösung finden würde. Sie gingen die ganze Nacht weiter, bis sie die Stadt Limekilns erreichten. Am Morgen kauften sie Käse und Brot. Nachdem sie gegangen waren, fragte Alan David nach dem Mädchen, das ihnen bedient hatte. Alan freute sich, dass David sie hübsch fand, und entwickelte einen Plan, um sie dazu zu bringen, Mitleid mit David zu haben, damit sie ihnen hilft, ein Boot zu bekommen. David wollte sie jedoch nicht täuschen, stimmte aber schließlich zu. Alan erzählte dem Mädchen, wie krank David war und wie sehr sie den Fluss überqueren mussten, weil sie in Schwierigkeiten waren. Das Mädchen hatte sehr viel Mitleid mit David, aber sie war nicht überzeugt, ihnen zu helfen, bis David ihr erzählte, wie sehr er Mr. Rankeillor sehen wollte. Er erwähnte auch, dass er dem König George treu ergeben sei. Mit diesen beiden Referenzen entschied das Mädchen, dass er ein guter Mensch war und stimmte zu helfen. Sie sagte ihnen, sich am Wasser zu verstecken. Die Männer machten sich auf den Weg zu diesem Ort und wurden tagsüber nur von einem Dudelsackspieler gestört, der sie sah und zu viele Fragen stellte. Schließlich, spät in der Nacht, bemerkten sie ein Boot, das auf sie zukam, gerudert vom Mädchen selbst. Sie hatte niemandem sonst vertraut, aber wartete, bis ihr Vater eingeschlafen war, und brachte sie über den Fluss. Sie nahm kein Dankeschön an, ließ sie am gegenüberliegenden Ufer ab und paddelte schnell zurück.

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: The train entered the station, and Passepartout jumping out first, was followed by Mr. Fogg, who assisted his fair companion to descend. Phileas Fogg intended to proceed at once to the Hong Kong steamer, in order to get Aouda comfortably settled for the voyage. He was unwilling to leave her while they were still on dangerous ground. Just as he was leaving the station a policeman came up to him, and said, "Mr. Phileas Fogg?" "I am he." "Is this man your servant?" added the policeman, pointing to Passepartout. "Yes." "Be so good, both of you, as to follow me." Mr. Fogg betrayed no surprise whatever. The policeman was a representative of the law, and law is sacred to an Englishman. Passepartout tried to reason about the matter, but the policeman tapped him with his stick, and Mr. Fogg made him a signal to obey. "May this young lady go with us?" asked he. "She may," replied the policeman. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout were conducted to a palkigahri, a sort of four-wheeled carriage, drawn by two horses, in which they took their places and were driven away. No one spoke during the twenty minutes which elapsed before they reached their destination. They first passed through the "black town," with its narrow streets, its miserable, dirty huts, and squalid population; then through the "European town," which presented a relief in its bright brick mansions, shaded by coconut-trees and bristling with masts, where, although it was early morning, elegantly dressed horsemen and handsome equipages were passing back and forth. The carriage stopped before a modest-looking house, which, however, did not have the appearance of a private mansion. The policeman having requested his prisoners--for so, truly, they might be called--to descend, conducted them into a room with barred windows, and said: "You will appear before Judge Obadiah at half-past eight." He then retired, and closed the door. "Why, we are prisoners!" exclaimed Passepartout, falling into a chair. Aouda, with an emotion she tried to conceal, said to Mr. Fogg: "Sir, you must leave me to my fate! It is on my account that you receive this treatment, it is for having saved me!" Phileas Fogg contented himself with saying that it was impossible. It was quite unlikely that he should be arrested for preventing a suttee. The complainants would not dare present themselves with such a charge. There was some mistake. Moreover, he would not, in any event, abandon Aouda, but would escort her to Hong Kong. "But the steamer leaves at noon!" observed Passepartout, nervously. "We shall be on board by noon," replied his master, placidly. It was said so positively that Passepartout could not help muttering to himself, "Parbleu that's certain! Before noon we shall be on board." But he was by no means reassured. At half-past eight the door opened, the policeman appeared, and, requesting them to follow him, led the way to an adjoining hall. It was evidently a court-room, and a crowd of Europeans and natives already occupied the rear of the apartment. Mr. Fogg and his two companions took their places on a bench opposite the desks of the magistrate and his clerk. Immediately after, Judge Obadiah, a fat, round man, followed by the clerk, entered. He proceeded to take down a wig which was hanging on a nail, and put it hurriedly on his head. "The first case," said he. Then, putting his hand to his head, he exclaimed, "Heh! This is not my wig!" "No, your worship," returned the clerk, "it is mine." "My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how can a judge give a wise sentence in a clerk's wig?" The wigs were exchanged. Passepartout was getting nervous, for the hands on the face of the big clock over the judge seemed to go around with terrible rapidity. "The first case," repeated Judge Obadiah. "Phileas Fogg?" demanded Oysterpuff. "I am here," replied Mr. Fogg. "Passepartout?" "Present," responded Passepartout. "Good," said the judge. "You have been looked for, prisoners, for two days on the trains from Bombay." "But of what are we accused?" asked Passepartout, impatiently. "You are about to be informed." "I am an English subject, sir," said Mr. Fogg, "and I have the right--" "Have you been ill-treated?" "Not at all." "Very well; let the complainants come in." A door was swung open by order of the judge, and three Indian priests entered. "That's it," muttered Passepartout; "these are the rogues who were going to burn our young lady." The priests took their places in front of the judge, and the clerk proceeded to read in a loud voice a complaint of sacrilege against Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were accused of having violated a place held consecrated by the Brahmin religion. "You hear the charge?" asked the judge. "Yes, sir," replied Mr. Fogg, consulting his watch, "and I admit it." "You admit it?" "I admit it, and I wish to hear these priests admit, in their turn, what they were going to do at the pagoda of Pillaji." The priests looked at each other; they did not seem to understand what was said. "Yes," cried Passepartout, warmly; "at the pagoda of Pillaji, where they were on the point of burning their victim." The judge stared with astonishment, and the priests were stupefied. "What victim?" said Judge Obadiah. "Burn whom? In Bombay itself?" "Bombay?" cried Passepartout. "Certainly. We are not talking of the pagoda of Pillaji, but of the pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay." "And as a proof," added the clerk, "here are the desecrator's very shoes, which he left behind him." Whereupon he placed a pair of shoes on his desk. "My shoes!" cried Passepartout, in his surprise permitting this imprudent exclamation to escape him. The confusion of master and man, who had quite forgotten the affair at Bombay, for which they were now detained at Calcutta, may be imagined. Fix the detective, had foreseen the advantage which Passepartout's escapade gave him, and, delaying his departure for twelve hours, had consulted the priests of Malabar Hill. Knowing that the English authorities dealt very severely with this kind of misdemeanour, he promised them a goodly sum in damages, and sent them forward to Calcutta by the next train. Owing to the delay caused by the rescue of the young widow, Fix and the priests reached the Indian capital before Mr. Fogg and his servant, the magistrates having been already warned by a dispatch to arrest them should they arrive. Fix's disappointment when he learned that Phileas Fogg had not made his appearance in Calcutta may be imagined. He made up his mind that the robber had stopped somewhere on the route and taken refuge in the southern provinces. For twenty-four hours Fix watched the station with feverish anxiety; at last he was rewarded by seeing Mr. Fogg and Passepartout arrive, accompanied by a young woman, whose presence he was wholly at a loss to explain. He hastened for a policeman; and this was how the party came to be arrested and brought before Judge Obadiah. Had Passepartout been a little less preoccupied, he would have espied the detective ensconced in a corner of the court-room, watching the proceedings with an interest easily understood; for the warrant had failed to reach him at Calcutta, as it had done at Bombay and Suez. Judge Obadiah had unfortunately caught Passepartout's rash exclamation, which the poor fellow would have given the world to recall. "The facts are admitted?" asked the judge. "Admitted," replied Mr. Fogg, coldly. "Inasmuch," resumed the judge, "as the English law protects equally and sternly the religions of the Indian people, and as the man Passepartout has admitted that he violated the sacred pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay, on the 20th of October, I condemn the said Passepartout to imprisonment for fifteen days and a fine of three hundred pounds." "Three hundred pounds!" cried Passepartout, startled at the largeness of the sum. "Silence!" shouted the constable. "And inasmuch," continued the judge, "as it is not proved that the act was not done by the connivance of the master with the servant, and as the master in any case must be held responsible for the acts of his paid servant, I condemn Phileas Fogg to a week's imprisonment and a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds." Fix rubbed his hands softly with satisfaction; if Phileas Fogg could be detained in Calcutta a week, it would be more than time for the warrant to arrive. Passepartout was stupefied. This sentence ruined his master. A wager of twenty thousand pounds lost, because he, like a precious fool, had gone into that abominable pagoda! Phileas Fogg, as self-composed as if the judgment did not in the least concern him, did not even lift his eyebrows while it was being pronounced. Just as the clerk was calling the next case, he rose, and said, "I offer bail." "You have that right," returned the judge. Fix's blood ran cold, but he resumed his composure when he heard the judge announce that the bail required for each prisoner would be one thousand pounds. "I will pay it at once," said Mr. Fogg, taking a roll of bank-bills from the carpet-bag, which Passepartout had by him, and placing them on the clerk's desk. "This sum will be restored to you upon your release from prison," said the judge. "Meanwhile, you are liberated on bail." "Come!" said Phileas Fogg to his servant. "But let them at least give me back my shoes!" cried Passepartout angrily. "Ah, these are pretty dear shoes!" he muttered, as they were handed to him. "More than a thousand pounds apiece; besides, they pinch my feet." Mr. Fogg, offering his arm to Aouda, then departed, followed by the crestfallen Passepartout. Fix still nourished hopes that the robber would not, after all, leave the two thousand pounds behind him, but would decide to serve out his week in jail, and issued forth on Mr. Fogg's traces. That gentleman took a carriage, and the party were soon landed on one of the quays. The Rangoon was moored half a mile off in the harbour, its signal of departure hoisted at the mast-head. Eleven o'clock was striking; Mr. Fogg was an hour in advance of time. Fix saw them leave the carriage and push off in a boat for the steamer, and stamped his feet with disappointment. "The rascal is off, after all!" he exclaimed. "Two thousand pounds sacrificed! He's as prodigal as a thief! I'll follow him to the end of the world if necessary; but, at the rate he is going on, the stolen money will soon be exhausted." The detective was not far wrong in making this conjecture. Since leaving London, what with travelling expenses, bribes, the purchase of the elephant, bails, and fines, Mr. Fogg had already spent more than five thousand pounds on the way, and the percentage of the sum recovered from the bank robber promised to the detectives, was rapidly diminishing. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als Fogg, Passepartout und Aouda gerade den Bahnhof von Kalkutta verlassen, nähert sich ihnen ein Polizist und bittet Fogg und Passepartout, ihn zu begleiten. Auch Aouda bekommt die Erlaubnis, Fogg und Passepartout zu begleiten. Sie werden in einer 'Palki Gari' zu einem unscheinbaren Haus gebracht und es wird ihnen gesagt, dass sie sich vor einem Richter präsentieren sollen. Als sie vor Gericht erscheinen, werden auch die Kläger hereingebracht und es stellt sich heraus, dass es sich um Priester handelt. Fogg nimmt an, dass dies die Priester sind, die versucht haben, Aouda in der Pagode von Pillagi zu opfern, aber er irrt sich. Es sind tatsächlich die Priester aus der Pagode von Bombay, die mit Passepartout in Streit geraten sind, weil er den heiligen Ort mit seinen Schuhen betreten hat. Der Autor erklärt, dass Detective Fix sich entschlossen hatte, die Priester von Malabar Hill zu beraten, nachdem er den vollen Nutzen aus dem unglücklichen Fehler von Passepartout gezogen hatte. Er ist es, der die Priester im nächsten Zug nach Kalkutta schickt, um den Täter zu verfolgen. Es war Fix, der den Polizisten angewiesen hat, Fogg und Passepartout in Gewahrsam zu nehmen. Richter Odadiah nimmt die Aussage zur Kenntnis, die Passepartout entfallen ist, und verurteilt ihn zu 15 Tagen Gefängnis und einer Geldstrafe von dreihundert Pfund. Auch Fogg wird zu Gefängnis verurteilt und dazu aufgefordert, eine Geldstrafe zu zahlen. Fogg stimmt zu, Kaution für sich selbst und seinen Diener zu zahlen. Passepartout ist sehr angewidert davon, dass sein Herr so eine hohe Summe zahlen muss. Nachdem er seine Schuhe zurückbekommen hat, folgt Passepartout Fogg aus dem Gerichtssaal. Sie gehen sofort zum Rangoon, dem Schiff, das nach Hongkong abfahren soll. Detective Fix ist sehr wütend über Fogg's exzessive Ausgaben. Da ein Prozentsatz des Wiedergewonnenen als Belohnung für die Detektive festgelegt ist, befürchtet Fix, dass bis zum Ende der Reise und der Ergreifung von Fogg nur noch eine sehr geringe Summe übrig sein wird.

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: ACT III. SCENE I. The wood. TITANIA lying asleep Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING BOTTOM. Are we all met? QUINCE. Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the Duke. BOTTOM. Peter Quince! QUINCE. What sayest thou, bully Bottom? BOTTOM. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT. By'r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM. Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not kill'd indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. QUINCE. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM. No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight. SNOUT. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? STARVELING. I fear it, I promise you. BOTTOM. Masters, you ought to consider with yourself to bring in- God shield us!- a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to't. SNOUT. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same effect: 'Ladies,' or 'Fair ladies, I would wish you' or 'I would request you' or 'I would entreat you not to fear, not to tremble. My life for yours! If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are.' And there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. QUINCE. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things- that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight. SNOUT. Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BOTTOM. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QUINCE. Yes, it doth shine that night. BOTTOM. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. SNOUT. You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom? BOTTOM. Some man or other must present Wall; and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. QUINCE. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin; when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so every one according to his cue. Enter PUCK behind PUCK. What hempen homespuns have we swagg'ring here, So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. QUINCE. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. BOTTOM. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet- QUINCE. 'Odious'- odorous! BOTTOM. -odours savours sweet; So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But hark, a voice! Stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear. Exit PUCK. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here! Exit FLUTE. Must I speak now? QUINCE. Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. FLUTE. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that would never tire, I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. QUINCE. 'Ninus' tomb,' man! Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues, and all. Pyramus enter: your cue is past; it is 'never tire.' FLUTE. O- As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head BOTTOM. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine. QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help! Exeunt all but BOTTOM and PUCK PUCK. I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. Exit BOTTOM. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Re-enter SNOUT SNOUT. O Bottom, thou art chang'd! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you? Exit SNOUT Re-enter QUINCE QUINCE. Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! Thou art translated. Exit BOTTOM. I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can; I will walk up and down here, and will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [Sings] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill. TITANIA. What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed? BOTTOM. [Sings] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay- for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. BOTTOM. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. The more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. TITANIA. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. BOTTOM. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. TITANIA. Out of this wood do not desire to go; Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate; The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee; therefore, go with me. I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep; And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, and MUSTARDSEED PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And I. ALL. Where shall we go? TITANIA. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail, mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. Hail! BOTTOM. I cry your worships mercy, heartily; I beseech your worship's name. COBWEB. Cobweb. BOTTOM. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentleman? PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir? MUSTARDSEED. Mustardseed. BOTTOM. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devour'd many a gentleman of your house. I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. TITANIA. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a wat'ry eye; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower; Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die Handwerker treffen sich im Wald zu ihrer Probe. Bottom ist überzeugt, dass ihr Stück so gut aufgeführt wird, dass die Damen im Publikum über den Inhalt schockiert sein werden. Zum Beispiel muss Pyramus sich selbst töten. Um das Problem einer negativen Reaktion des Publikums zu lösen, bittet er darum, dass ein Prolog geschrieben wird, in dem erklärt wird, dass Pyramus in Wirklichkeit nicht stirbt. Es soll auch erklärt werden, dass Pyramus eigentlich gar nicht Pyramus ist, sondern Bottom, der Weber. Aber was ist dann mit dem Löwen? Wird der Löwe die Damen auch erschrecken? fragt Snug. Bottom hat auch dafür eine Lösung. Er sagt Snug, dass er dem Publikum mitteilen soll, dass er eigentlich kein Löwe ist, sondern Snug, der Zimmermann. Die Handwerker sind so wortwörtlich denkend, dass sie dann beschließen, dass, da sich Pyramus und Thisbe im Mondschein treffen, es noch einen Charakter geben muss, der den Mondschein repräsentiert, und auch einen anderen Charakter, der die Mauer darstellt, durch die die Liebenden sprechen. Die Probe beginnt, während Puck zuschaut. Bottom als Pyramus und Flute als Thisbe machen einige gravierende Fehler, die Peter Quince korrigieren muss. Dann kehrt Bottom, der die Szene vorübergehend verlassen hat, zurück, aber der schelmische Puck hat seinen Kopf in den Kopf eines Esels verwandelt. Die meisten Handwerker fliehen vor Schreck, und Puck geht mit ihnen mit, verspricht, sie zu jagen und zu quälen. Dann sehen Snout und Peter Quince den Eselskopf an Bottom und laufen ebenfalls weg. Bottom, der vermutet, dass seine Gefährten versuchen, ihn zum Narren zu halten, entscheidet sich, für sich selbst zu singen. Das Lied weckt Titania, die sofort Bottom sieht und sich in ihn verliebt. Bottom hat natürlich keine Ahnung, warum das passiert ist. Titania bittet ihn, bei ihr im Wald zu bleiben; sie wird ihn von ihren Feen betreuen und versorgen lassen. Sie ruft Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth und Mustardseed herbei und beauftragt sie, Bottom zu ihrem Pavillon zu führen.

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: THE PIAZZA. "With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele--" When I removed into the country, it was to occupy an old-fashioned farm-house, which had no piazza--a deficiency the more regretted, because not only did I like piazzas, as somehow combining the coziness of in-doors with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so pleasant to inspect your thermometer there, but the country round about was such a picture, that in berry time no boy climbs hill or crosses vale without coming upon easels planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters painting there. A very paradise of painters. The circle of the stars cut by the circle of the mountains. At least, so looks it from the house; though, once upon the mountains, no circle of them can you see. Had the site been chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would not have been. The house is old. Seventy years since, from the heart of the Hearth Stone Hills, they quarried the Kaaba, or Holy Stone, to which, each Thanksgiving, the social pilgrims used to come. So long ago, that, in digging for the foundation, the workmen used both spade and axe, fighting the Troglodytes of those subterranean parts--sturdy roots of a sturdy wood, encamped upon what is now a long land-slide of sleeping meadow, sloping away off from my poppy-bed. Of that knit wood, but one survivor stands--an elm, lonely through steadfastness. Whoever built the house, he builded better than he knew; or else Orion in the zenith flashed down his Damocles' sword to him some starry night, and said, "Build there." For how, otherwise, could it have entered the builder's mind, that, upon the clearing being made, such a purple prospect would be his?--nothing less than Greylock, with all his hills about him, like Charlemagne among his peers. Now, for a house, so situated in such a country, to have no piazza for the convenience of those who might desire to feast upon the view, and take their time and ease about it, seemed as much of an omission as if a picture-gallery should have no bench; for what but picture-galleries are the marble halls of these same limestone hills?--galleries hung, month after month anew, with pictures ever fading into pictures ever fresh. And beauty is like piety--you cannot run and read it; tranquillity and constancy, with, now-a-days, an easy chair, are needed. For though, of old, when reverence was in vogue, and indolence was not, the devotees of Nature, doubtless, used to stand and adore--just as, in the cathedrals of those ages, the worshipers of a higher Power did--yet, in these times of failing faith and feeble knees, we have the piazza and the pew. During the first year of my residence, the more leisurely to witness the coronation of Charlemagne (weather permitting, they crown him every sunrise and sunset), I chose me, on the hill-side bank near by, a royal lounge of turf--a green velvet lounge, with long, moss-padded back; while at the head, strangely enough, there grew (but, I suppose, for heraldry) three tufts of blue violets in a field-argent of wild strawberries; and a trellis, with honeysuckle, I set for canopy. Very majestical lounge, indeed. So much so, that here, as with the reclining majesty of Denmark in his orchard, a sly ear-ache invaded me. But, if damps abound at times in Westminster Abbey, because it is so old, why not within this monastery of mountains, which is older? A piazza must be had. The house was wide--my fortune narrow; so that, to build a panoramic piazza, one round and round, it could not be--although, indeed, considering the matter by rule and square, the carpenters, in the kindest way, were anxious to gratify my furthest wishes, at I've forgotten how much a foot. Upon but one of the four sides would prudence grant me what I wanted. Now, which side? To the east, that long camp of the Hearth Stone Hills, fading far away towards Quito; and every fall, a small white flake of something peering suddenly, of a coolish morning, from the topmost cliff--the season's new-dropped lamb, its earliest fleece; and then the Christmas dawn, draping those dim highlands with red-barred plaids and tartans--goodly sight from your piazza, that. Goodly sight; but, to the north is Charlemagne--can't have the Hearth Stone Hills with Charlemagne. Well, the south side. Apple-trees are there. Pleasant, of a balmy morning, in the month of May, to sit and see that orchard, white-budded, as for a bridal; and, in October, one green arsenal yard; such piles of ruddy shot. Very fine, I grant; but, to the north is Charlemagne. The west side, look. An upland pasture, alleying away into a maple wood at top. Sweet, in opening spring, to trace upon the hill-side, otherwise gray and bare--to trace, I say, the oldest paths by their streaks of earliest green. Sweet, indeed, I can't deny; but, to the north is Charlemagne. So Charlemagne, he carried it. It was not long after 1848; and, somehow, about that time, all round the world, these kings, they had the casting vote, and voted for themselves. No sooner was ground broken, than all the neighborhood, neighbor Dives, in particular, broke, too--into a laugh. Piazza to the north! Winter piazza! Wants, of winter midnights, to watch the Aurora Borealis, I suppose; hope he's laid in good store of Polar muffs and mittens. That was in the lion month of March. Not forgotten are the blue noses of the carpenters, and how they scouted at the greenness of the cit, who would build his sole piazza to the north. But March don't last forever; patience, and August comes. And then, in the cool elysium of my northern bower, I, Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, cast down the hill a pitying glance on poor old Dives, tormented in the purgatory of his piazza to the south. But, even in December, this northern piazza does not repel--nipping cold and gusty though it be, and the north wind, like any miller, bolting by the snow, in finest flour--for then, once more, with frosted beard, I pace the sleety deck, weathering Cape Horn. In summer, too, Canute-like, sitting here, one is often reminded of the sea. For not only do long ground-swells roll the slanting grain, and little wavelets of the grass ripple over upon the low piazza, as their beach, and the blown down of dandelions is wafted like the spray, and the purple of the mountains is just the purple of the billows, and a still August noon broods upon the deep meadows, as a calm upon the Line; but the vastness and the lonesomeness are so oceanic, and the silence and the sameness, too, that the first peep of a strange house, rising beyond the trees, is for all the world like spying, on the Barbary coast, an unknown sail. And this recalls my inland voyage to fairy-land. A true voyage; but, take it all in all, interesting as if invented. From the piazza, some uncertain object I had caught, mysteriously snugged away, to all appearance, in a sort of purpled breast-pocket, high up in a hopper-like hollow, or sunken angle, among the northwestern mountains--yet, whether, really, it was on a mountain-side, or a mountain-top, could not be determined; because, though, viewed from favorable points, a blue summit, peering up away behind the rest, will, as it were, talk to you over their heads, and plainly tell you, that, though he (the blue summit) seems among them, he is not of them (God forbid!), and, indeed, would have you know that he considers himself--as, to say truth, he has good right--by several cubits their superior, nevertheless, certain ranges, here and there double-filed, as in platoons, so shoulder and follow up upon one another, with their irregular shapes and heights, that, from the piazza, a nigher and lower mountain will, in most states of the atmosphere, effacingly shade itself away into a higher and further one; that an object, bleak on the former's crest, will, for all that, appear nested in the latter's flank. These mountains, somehow, they play at hide-and-seek, and all before one's eyes. But, be that as it may, the spot in question was, at all events, so situated as to be only visible, and then but vaguely, under certain witching conditions of light and shadow. Indeed, for a year or more, I knew not there was such a spot, and might, perhaps, have never known, had it not been for a wizard afternoon in autumn--late in autumn--a mad poet's afternoon; when the turned maple woods in the broad basin below me, having lost their first vermilion tint, dully smoked, like smouldering towns, when flames expire upon their prey; and rumor had it, that this smokiness in the general air was not all Indian summer--which was not used to be so sick a thing, however mild--but, in great part, was blown from far-off forests, for weeks on fire, in Vermont; so that no wonder the sky was ominous as Hecate's cauldron--and two sportsmen, crossing a red stubble buck-wheat field, seemed guilty Macbeth and foreboding Banquo; and the hermit-sun, hutted in an Adullum cave, well towards the south, according to his season, did little else but, by indirect reflection of narrow rays shot down a Simplon pass among the clouds, just steadily paint one small, round, strawberry mole upon the wan cheek of northwestern hills. Signal as a candle. One spot of radiance, where all else was shade. Fairies there, thought I; some haunted ring where fairies dance. Time passed; and the following May, after a gentle shower upon the mountains--a little shower islanded in misty seas of sunshine; such a distant shower--and sometimes two, and three, and four of them, all visible together in different parts--as I love to watch from the piazza, instead of thunder storms, as I used to, which wrap old Greylock, like a Sinai, till one thinks swart Moses must be climbing among scathed hemlocks there; after, I say, that, gentle shower, I saw a rainbow, resting its further end just where, in autumn, I had marked the mole. Fairies there, thought I; remembering that rainbows bring out the blooms, and that, if one can but get to the rainbow's end, his fortune is made in a bag of gold. Yon rainbow's end, would I were there, thought I. And none the less I wished it, for now first noticing what seemed some sort of glen, or grotto, in the mountain side; at least, whatever it was, viewed through the rainbow's medium, it glowed like the Potosi mine. But a work-a-day neighbor said, no doubt it was but some old barn--an abandoned one, its broadside beaten in, the acclivity its background. But I, though I had never been there, I knew better. A few days after, a cheery sunrise kindled a golden sparkle in the same spot as before. The sparkle was of that vividness, it seemed as if it could only come from glass. The building, then--if building, after all, it was--could, at least, not be a barn, much less an abandoned one; stale hay ten years musting in it. No; if aught built by mortal, it must be a cottage; perhaps long vacant and dismantled, but this very spring magically fitted up and glazed. Again, one noon, in the same direction, I marked, over dimmed tops of terraced foliage, a broader gleam, as of a silver buckler, held sunwards over some croucher's head; which gleam, experience in like cases taught, must come from a roof newly shingled. This, to me, made pretty sure the recent occupancy of that far cot in fairy land. Day after day, now, full of interest in my discovery, what time I could spare from reading the Midsummer's Night Dream, and all about Titania, wishfully I gazed off towards the hills; but in vain. Either troops of shadows, an imperial guard, with slow pace and solemn, defiled along the steeps; or, routed by pursuing light, fled broadcast from east to west--old wars of Lucifer and Michael; or the mountains, though unvexed by these mirrored sham fights in the sky, had an atmosphere otherwise unfavorable for fairy views. I was sorry; the more so, because I had to keep my chamber for some time after--which chamber did not face those hills. At length, when pretty well again, and sitting out, in the September morning, upon the piazza, and thinking to myself, when, just after a little flock of sheep, the farmer's banded children passed, a-nutting, and said, "How sweet a day"--it was, after all, but what their fathers call a weather-breeder--and, indeed, was become so sensitive through my illness, as that I could not bear to look upon a Chinese creeper of my adoption, and which, to my delight, climbing a post of the piazza, had burst out in starry bloom, but now, if you removed the leaves a little, showed millions of strange, cankerous worms, which, feeding upon those blossoms, so shared their blessed hue, as to make it unblessed evermore--worms, whose germs had doubtless lurked in the very bulb which, so hopefully, I had planted: in this ingrate peevishness of my weary convalescence, was I sitting there; when, suddenly looking off, I saw the golden mountain-window, dazzling like a deep-sea dolphin. Fairies there, thought I, once more; the queen of fairies at her fairy-window; at any rate, some glad mountain-girl; it will do me good, it will cure this weariness, to look on her. No more; I'll launch my yawl--ho, cheerly, heart! and push away for fairy-land--for rainbow's end, in fairy-land. How to get to fairy-land, by what road, I did not know; nor could any one inform me; not even one Edmund Spenser, who had been there--so he wrote me--further than that to reach fairy-land, it must be voyaged to, and with faith. I took the fairy-mountain's bearings, and the first fine day, when strength permitted, got into my yawl--high-pommeled, leather one--cast off the fast, and away I sailed, free voyager as an autumn leaf. Early dawn; and, sallying westward, I sowed the morning before me. Some miles brought me nigh the hills; but out of present sight of them. I was not lost; for road-side golden-rods, as guide-posts, pointed, I doubted not, the way to the golden window. Following them, I came to a lone and languid region, where the grass-grown ways were traveled but by drowsy cattle, that, less waked than stirred by day, seemed to walk in sleep. Browse, they did not--the enchanted never eat. At least, so says Don Quixote, that sagest sage that ever lived. On I went, and gained at last the fairy mountain's base, but saw yet no fairy ring. A pasture rose before me. Letting down five mouldering bars--so moistly green, they seemed fished up from some sunken wreck--a wigged old Aries, long-visaged, and with crumpled horn, came snuffing up; and then, retreating, decorously led on along a milky-way of white-weed, past dim-clustering Pleiades and Hyades, of small forget-me-nots; and would have led me further still his astral path, but for golden flights of yellow-birds--pilots, surely, to the golden window, to one side flying before me, from bush to bush, towards deep woods--which woods themselves were luring--and, somehow, lured, too, by their fence, banning a dark road, which, however dark, led up. I pushed through; when Aries, renouncing me now for some lost soul, wheeled, and went his wiser way.. Forbidding and forbidden ground--to him. A winter wood road, matted all along with winter-green. By the side of pebbly waters--waters the cheerier for their solitude; beneath swaying fir-boughs, petted by no season, but still green in all, on I journeyed--my horse and I; on, by an old saw-mill, bound down and hushed with vines, that his grating voice no more was heard; on, by a deep flume clove through snowy marble, vernal-tinted, where freshet eddies had, on each side, spun out empty chapels in the living rock; on, where Jacks-in-the-pulpit, like their Baptist namesake, preached but to the wilderness; on, where a huge, cross-grain block, fern-bedded, showed where, in forgotten times, man after man had tried to split it, but lost his wedges for his pains--which wedges yet rusted in their holes; on, where, ages past, in step-like ledges of a cascade, skull-hollow pots had been churned out by ceaseless whirling of a flintstone--ever wearing, but itself unworn; on, by wild rapids pouring into a secret pool, but soothed by circling there awhile, issued forth serenely; on, to less broken ground, and by a little ring, where, truly, fairies must have danced, or else some wheel-tire been heated--for all was bare; still on, and up, and out into a hanging orchard, where maidenly looked down upon me a crescent moon, from morning. My horse hitched low his head. Red apples rolled before him; Eve's apples; seek-no-furthers. He tasted one, I another; it tasted of the ground. Fairy land not yet, thought I, flinging my bridle to a humped old tree, that crooked out an arm to catch it. For the way now lay where path was none, and none might go but by himself, and only go by daring. Through blackberry brakes that tried to pluck me back, though I but strained towards fruitless growths of mountain-laurel; up slippery steeps to barren heights, where stood none to welcome. Fairy land not yet, thought I, though the morning is here before me. Foot-sore enough and weary, I gained not then my journey's end, but came ere long to a craggy pass, dipping towards growing regions still beyond. A zigzag road, half overgrown with blueberry bushes, here turned among the cliffs. A rent was in their ragged sides; through it a little track branched off, which, upwards threading that short defile, came breezily out above, to where the mountain-top, part sheltered northward, by a taller brother, sloped gently off a space, ere darkly plunging; and here, among fantastic rocks, reposing in a herd, the foot-track wound, half beaten, up to a little, low-storied, grayish cottage, capped, nun-like, with a peaked roof. On one slope, the roof was deeply weather-stained, and, nigh the turfy eaves-trough, all velvet-napped; no doubt the snail-monks founded mossy priories there. The other slope was newly shingled. On the north side, doorless and windowless, the clap-boards, innocent of paint, were yet green as the north side of lichened pines or copperless hulls of Japanese junks, becalmed. The whole base, like those of the neighboring rocks, was rimmed about with shaded streaks of richest sod; for, with hearth-stones in fairy land, the natural rock, though housed, preserves to the last, just as in open fields, its fertilizing charm; only, by necessity, working now at a remove, to the sward without. So, at least, says Oberon, grave authority in fairy lore. Though setting Oberon aside, certain it is, that, even in the common world, the soil, close up to farm-houses, as close up to pasture rocks, is, even though untended, ever richer than it is a few rods off--such gentle, nurturing heat is radiated there. But with this cottage, the shaded streaks were richest in its front and about its entrance, where the ground-sill, and especially the doorsill had, through long eld, quietly settled down. No fence was seen, no inclosure. Near by--ferns, ferns, ferns; further--woods, woods, woods; beyond--mountains, mountains, mountains; then--sky, sky, sky. Turned out in aerial commons, pasture for the mountain moon. Nature, and but nature, house and, all; even a low cross-pile of silver birch, piled openly, to season; up among whose silvery sticks, as through the fencing of some sequestered grave, sprang vagrant raspberry bushes--willful assertors of their right of way. The foot-track, so dainty narrow, just like a sheep-track, led through long ferns that lodged. Fairy land at last, thought I; Una and her lamb dwell here. Truly, a small abode--mere palanquin, set down on the summit, in a pass between two worlds, participant of neither. A sultry hour, and I wore a light hat, of yellow sinnet, with white duck trowsers--both relics of my tropic sea-going. Clogged in the muffling ferns, I softly stumbled, staining the knees a sea-green. Pausing at the threshold, or rather where threshold once had been, I saw, through the open door-way, a lonely girl, sewing at a lonely window. A pale-cheeked girl, and fly-specked window, with wasps about the mended upper panes. I spoke. She shyly started, like some Tahiti girl, secreted for a sacrifice, first catching sight, through palms, of Captain Cook. Recovering, she bade me enter; with her apron brushed off a stool; then silently resumed her own. With thanks I took the stool; but now, for a space, I, too, was mute. This, then, is the fairy-mountain house, and here, the fairy queen sitting at her fairy window. I went up to it. Downwards, directed by the tunneled pass, as through a leveled telescope, I caught sight of a far-off, soft, azure world. I hardly knew it, though I came from it. "You must find this view very pleasant," said I, at last. "Oh, sir," tears starting in her eyes, "the first time I looked out of this window, I said 'never, never shall I weary of this.'" "And what wearies you of it now?" "I don't know," while a tear fell; "but it is not the view, it is Marianna." Some months back, her brother, only seventeen, had come hither, a long way from the other side, to cut wood and burn coal, and she, elder sister, had accompanied, him. Long had they been orphans, and now, sole inhabitants of the sole house upon the mountain. No guest came, no traveler passed. The zigzag, perilous road was only used at seasons by the coal wagons. The brother was absent the entire day, sometimes the entire night. When at evening, fagged out, he did come home, he soon left his bench, poor fellow, for his bed; just as one, at last, wearily quits that, too, for still deeper rest. The bench, the bed, the grave. Silent I stood by the fairy window, while these things were being told. "Do you know," said she at last, as stealing from her story, "do you know who lives yonder?--I have never been down into that country--away off there, I mean; that house, that marble one," pointing far across the lower landscape; "have you not caught it? there, on the long hill-side: the field before, the woods behind; the white shines out against their blue; don't you mark it? the only house in sight." I looked; and after a time, to my surprise, recognized, more by its position than its aspect, or Marianna's description, my own abode, glimmering much like this mountain one from the piazza. The mirage haze made it appear less a farm-house than King Charming's palace. "I have often wondered who lives there; but it must be some happy one; again this morning was I thinking so." "Some happy one," returned I, starting; "and why do you think that? You judge some rich one lives there?" "Rich or not, I never thought; but it looks so happy, I can't tell how; and it is so far away. Sometimes I think I do but dream it is there. You should see it in a sunset." "No doubt the sunset gilds it finely; but not more than the sunrise does this house, perhaps." "This house? The sun is a good sun, but it never gilds this house. Why should it? This old house is rotting. That makes it so mossy. In the morning, the sun comes in at this old window, to be sure--boarded up, when first we came; a window I can't keep clean, do what I may--and half burns, and nearly blinds me at my sewing, besides setting the flies and wasps astir--such flies and wasps as only lone mountain houses know. See, here is the curtain--this apron--I try to shut it out with then. It fades it, you see. Sun gild this house? not that ever Marianna saw." "Because when this roof is gilded most, then you stay here within." "The hottest, weariest hour of day, you mean? Sir, the sun gilds not this roof. It leaked so, brother newly shingled all one side. Did you not see it? The north side, where the sun strikes most on what the rain has wetted. The sun is a good sun; but this roof, in first scorches, and then rots. An old house. They went West, and are long dead, they say, who built it. A mountain house. In winter no fox could den in it. That chimney-place has been blocked up with snow, just like a hollow stump." "Yours are strange fancies, Marianna." "They but reflect the things." "Then I should have said, 'These are strange things,' rather than, 'Yours are strange fancies.'" "As you will;" and took up her sewing. Something in those quiet words, or in that quiet act, it made me mute again; while, noting, through the fairy window, a broad shadow stealing on, as cast by some gigantic condor, floating at brooding poise on outstretched wings, I marked how, by its deeper and inclusive dusk, it wiped away into itself all lesser shades of rock or fern. "You watch the cloud," said Marianna. "No, a shadow; a cloud's, no doubt--though that I cannot see. How did you know it? Your eyes are on your work." "It dusked my work. There, now the cloud is gone, Tray comes back." "How?" "The dog, the shaggy dog. At noon, he steals off, of himself, to change his shape--returns, and lies down awhile, nigh the door. Don't you see him? His head is turned round at you; though, when you came, he looked before him." "Your eyes rest but on your work; what do you speak of?" "By the window, crossing." "You mean this shaggy shadow--the nigh one? And, yes, now that I mark it, it is not unlike a large, black Newfoundland dog. The invading shadow gone, the invaded one returns. But I do not see what casts it." "For that, you must go without." "One of those grassy rocks, no doubt." "You see his head, his face?" "The shadow's? You speak as if _you_ saw it, and all the time your eyes are on your work." "Tray looks at you," still without glancing up; "this is his hour; I see him." "Have you then, so long sat at this mountain-window, where but clouds and, vapors pass, that, to you, shadows are as things, though you speak of them as of phantoms; that, by familiar knowledge, working like a second sight, you can, without looking for them, tell just where they are, though, as having mice-like feet, they creep about, and come and go; that, to you, these lifeless shadows are as living friends, who, though out of sight, are not out of mind, even in their faces--is it so?" "That way I never thought of it. But the friendliest one, that used to soothe my weariness so much, coolly quivering on the ferns, it was taken from me, never to return, as Tray did just now. The shadow of a birch. The tree was struck by lightning, and brother cut it up. You saw the cross-pile out-doors--the buried root lies under it; but not the shadow. That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir again." Another cloud here stole along, once more blotting out the dog, and blackening all the mountain; while the stillness was so still, deafness might have forgot itself, or else believed that noiseless shadow spoke. "Birds, Marianna, singing-birds, I hear none; I hear nothing. Boys and bob-o-links, do they never come a-berrying up here?" "Birds, I seldom hear; boys, never. The berries mostly ripe and fall--few, but me, the wiser." "But yellow-birds showed me the way--part way, at least." "And then flew back. I guess they play about the mountain-side, but don't make the top their home. And no doubt you think that, living so lonesome here, knowing nothing, hearing nothing--little, at least, but sound of thunder and the fall of trees--never reading, seldom speaking, yet ever wakeful, this is what gives me my strange thoughts--for so you call them--this weariness and wakefulness together Brother, who stands and works in open air, would I could rest like him; but mine is mostly but dull woman's work--sitting, sitting, restless sitting." "But, do you not go walk at times? These woods are wide." "And lonesome; lonesome, because so wide. Sometimes, 'tis true, of afternoons, I go a little way; but soon come back again. Better feel lone by hearth, than rock. The shadows hereabouts I know--those in the woods are strangers." "But the night?" "Just like the day. Thinking, thinking--a wheel I cannot stop; pure want of sleep it is that turns it." "I have heard that, for this wakeful weariness, to say one's prayers, and then lay one's head upon a fresh hop pillow--" "Look!" Through the fairy window, she pointed down the steep to a small garden patch near by--mere pot of rifled loam, half rounded in by sheltering rocks--where, side by side, some feet apart, nipped and puny, two hop-vines climbed two poles, and, gaining their tip-ends, would have then joined over in an upward clasp, but the baffled shoots, groping awhile in empty air, trailed back whence they sprung. "You have tried the pillow, then?" "Yes." "And prayer?" "Prayer and pillow." "Is there no other cure, or charm?" "Oh, if I could but once get to yonder house, and but look upon whoever the happy being is that lives there! A foolish thought: why do I think it? Is it that I live so lonesome, and know nothing?" "I, too, know nothing; and, therefore, cannot answer; but, for your sake, Marianna, well could wish that I were that happy one of the happy house you dream you see; for then you would behold him now, and, as you say, this weariness might leave you." Genug. Mein Yawl für Fairy-Land zu starten, lasse ich es sein und bleibe auf der Piazza. Sie ist meine königliche Schachtel; und dieses Amphitheater hier ist mein Theater von San Carlo. Ja, die Kulisse ist magisch - die Illusion so vollkommen. Und Frau Meadow Lark, meine Primadonna, spielt hier ihre große Rolle. Und wenn ich ihren Sonnenaufgangston aufnehme, der, wie Memnon, aus dem goldenen Fenster geschlagen zu sein scheint, ist das müde Gesicht dahinter für mich so weit entfernt. Aber jede Nacht, wenn der Vorhang fällt, kommt die Wahrheit mit der Dunkelheit herein. Kein Licht zeigt sich mehr von dem Berg. Hin und her gehe ich über das Piazetta-Deck und werde von Mariannas Gesicht heimgesucht, und von vielen anderen genauso realen Geschichten. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Erzähler zitiert aus Shakespeares "Cymbeline". Es gibt viele Zitate in dieser Geschichte. Der Erzähler sagt, er ist aufs Land gezogen, in ein Haus ohne eine Veranda oder Terrasse. Das Fehlen einer Veranda macht ihn traurig. Ja, das ist ein wichtiger Handlungspunkt. Das Haus hat keine Veranda - Konflikt! Das ist keine actionreiche Geschichte mit Kämpfen, wenn du es noch nicht bemerkt hast. Das Haus ist alt; es hat einen großen Ulmenbaum. Man kann vom Haus aus auch den Mount Greylock sehen, den höchsten Gipfel von Massachusetts. Der Erzähler vergleicht Greylock mit dem alten König Karl dem Großen, denn so eine gezwungene, niedliche Erzählstimme hast du hier. Nach drei Absätzen kennt Shmoop den Namen des Erzählers nicht, aber trotzdem möchte Shmoop seinen Namen nie erfahren und nie wieder von ihm hören. Der Erzähler beschließt, eine Veranda zu bauen. Er überlegt, auf welcher Seite des Hauses er sie anbringen soll. Er zaudert, entscheidet sich aber letztendlich für den Norden, damit er den Mount Greylock sehen kann. Die Leute lachen über den Erzähler, weil er eine Veranda nach Norden baut, denn normalerweise baut man eine Veranda nicht dort hin. Aber der Erzähler ist unkonventionell. Gut für ihn. Wenn er auf seiner Veranda sitzt, erinnert ihn das an das Meer, denn Melville war zur See gefahren und ist berühmt für seine Seegeschichten. Also ist dieser Teil irgendwie eine Marketing-Maßnahme; er lässt die Leser wissen, dass sie nicht in das falsche Restaurant geraten sind. Irgendwann entdeckt er beim Sitzen auf der Veranda einen interessanten Ort. Er versucht, ihn über etwa ein Jahr hinweg zu betrachten, kann ihn aber nie wirklich festlegen. Was könnte das sein? Er liest "Ein Sommernachtstraum", also muss es etwas Fantastisches sein, voller Feenstaub. Feenstaub...ah...ah...hatschi! Entschuldige Shmoop. Es klingt auch so, als ob der Erzähler etwas krank ist. Es ist nicht klar, ob er niest. Aber trotz Krankheit beschließt er, ins Feenland aufzubrechen. Er kämpft in einem Duell auf Leben und Tod gegen Harry Potter. Nein, eigentlich nicht. Aber irgendwie gelangt er auf eine Weide und kommt zu einem Haus. Er findet ein Mädchen namens Marianna, das an einem Fenster näht. Sie lebt mit ihrem Bruder, der den größten Teil des Tages unterwegs ist, und ist daher sehr einsam. Sie kann das Haus des Erzählers von ihrem Fenster aus sehen und denkt, dass derjenige, der dort lebt, glücklich sein muss. Das ist Ironie, Leute, denn der Erzähler ist auch melancholisch. Sie reden über eine vorbeiziehende Wolke. Dann reden sie noch mehr über die Wolke. In einer Geschichte passiert nicht viel, wenn man eine Seite lang über eine Wolke sprechen muss. Der Schatten der Wolke sieht aus wie ein Hund. Wahrheit. Mehr Gespräche über Wolken, mehr Traurigkeit und Einsamkeit bei Marianna. Sie wünscht sich, dass sie die Person sehen könnte, die in dem Haus lebt. Der Erzähler sagt ihr, er wünschte, er wäre der Bewohner dieses glücklichen Hauses. Aber dann ist er wieder auf seiner Veranda, und du erkennst, dass das ganze Gespräch mit Marianna eine eitle Phantasie war. Manche Menschen stellen sich Einhörner, Fliegen und Explosionen und aufregende Dinge vor, wenn sie Tagträumen. Der Erzähler stellt sich nur eine einsame Person vor, die weit weg Wolken beobachtet. Sie verfolgt ihn mit ihrer unwirklichen Wirklichkeit. Das ist es. Ja, es ist eine ganze Geschichte darüber, auf einer Veranda sitzend hinauszuschauen und sich vorzustellen, wie jemand anders an einem Fenster sitzt und dich betrachtet. Und ab und zu redet man über Wolken. Die nächste Geschichte ist besser, verspricht Shmoop.

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: Having infused by persistent importunities some sort of heat into the chilly interest of several licensed victuallers (the acquaintances once upon a time of her late unlucky husband), Mrs Verloc's mother had at last secured her admission to certain almshouses founded by a wealthy innkeeper for the destitute widows of the trade. This end, conceived in the astuteness of her uneasy heart, the old woman had pursued with secrecy and determination. That was the time when her daughter Winnie could not help passing a remark to Mr Verloc that "mother has been spending half-crowns and five shillings almost every day this last week in cab fares." But the remark was not made grudgingly. Winnie respected her mother's infirmities. She was only a little surprised at this sudden mania for locomotion. Mr Verloc, who was sufficiently magnificent in his way, had grunted the remark impatiently aside as interfering with his meditations. These were frequent, deep, and prolonged; they bore upon a matter more important than five shillings. Distinctly more important, and beyond all comparison more difficult to consider in all its aspects with philosophical serenity. Her object attained in astute secrecy, the heroic old woman had made a clean breast of it to Mrs Verloc. Her soul was triumphant and her heart tremulous. Inwardly she quaked, because she dreaded and admired the calm, self-contained character of her daughter Winnie, whose displeasure was made redoubtable by a diversity of dreadful silences. But she did not allow her inward apprehensions to rob her of the advantage of venerable placidity conferred upon her outward person by her triple chin, the floating ampleness of her ancient form, and the impotent condition of her legs. The shock of the information was so unexpected that Mrs Verloc, against her usual practice when addressed, interrupted the domestic occupation she was engaged upon. It was the dusting of the furniture in the parlour behind the shop. She turned her head towards her mother. "Whatever did you want to do that for?" she exclaimed, in scandalised astonishment. The shock must have been severe to make her depart from that distant and uninquiring acceptance of facts which was her force and her safeguard in life. "Weren't you made comfortable enough here?" She had lapsed into these inquiries, but next moment she saved the consistency of her conduct by resuming her dusting, while the old woman sat scared and dumb under her dingy white cap and lustreless dark wig. Winnie finished the chair, and ran the duster along the mahogany at the back of the horse-hair sofa on which Mr Verloc loved to take his ease in hat and overcoat. She was intent on her work, but presently she permitted herself another question. "How in the world did you manage it, mother?" As not affecting the inwardness of things, which it was Mrs Verloc's principle to ignore, this curiosity was excusable. It bore merely on the methods. The old woman welcomed it eagerly as bringing forward something that could be talked about with much sincerity. She favoured her daughter by an exhaustive answer, full of names and enriched by side comments upon the ravages of time as observed in the alteration of human countenances. The names were principally the names of licensed victuallers--"poor daddy's friends, my dear." She enlarged with special appreciation on the kindness and condescension of a large brewer, a Baronet and an M. P., the Chairman of the Governors of the Charity. She expressed herself thus warmly because she had been allowed to interview by appointment his Private Secretary--"a very polite gentleman, all in black, with a gentle, sad voice, but so very, very thin and quiet. He was like a shadow, my dear." Winnie, prolonging her dusting operations till the tale was told to the end, walked out of the parlour into the kitchen (down two steps) in her usual manner, without the slightest comment. Shedding a few tears in sign of rejoicing at her daughter's mansuetude in this terrible affair, Mrs Verloc's mother gave play to her astuteness in the direction of her furniture, because it was her own; and sometimes she wished it hadn't been. Heroism is all very well, but there are circumstances when the disposal of a few tables and chairs, brass bedsteads, and so on, may be big with remote and disastrous consequences. She required a few pieces herself, the Foundation which, after many importunities, had gathered her to its charitable breast, giving nothing but bare planks and cheaply papered bricks to the objects of its solicitude. The delicacy guiding her choice to the least valuable and most dilapidated articles passed unacknowledged, because Winnie's philosophy consisted in not taking notice of the inside of facts; she assumed that mother took what suited her best. As to Mr Verloc, his intense meditation, like a sort of Chinese wall, isolated him completely from the phenomena of this world of vain effort and illusory appearances. Her selection made, the disposal of the rest became a perplexing question in a particular way. She was leaving it in Brett Street, of course. But she had two children. Winnie was provided for by her sensible union with that excellent husband, Mr Verloc. Stevie was destitute--and a little peculiar. His position had to be considered before the claims of legal justice and even the promptings of partiality. The possession of the furniture would not be in any sense a provision. He ought to have it--the poor boy. But to give it to him would be like tampering with his position of complete dependence. It was a sort of claim which she feared to weaken. Moreover, the susceptibilities of Mr Verloc would perhaps not brook being beholden to his brother-in-law for the chairs he sat on. In a long experience of gentlemen lodgers, Mrs Verloc's mother had acquired a dismal but resigned notion of the fantastic side of human nature. What if Mr Verloc suddenly took it into his head to tell Stevie to take his blessed sticks somewhere out of that? A division, on the other hand, however carefully made, might give some cause of offence to Winnie. No, Stevie must remain destitute and dependent. And at the moment of leaving Brett Street she had said to her daughter: "No use waiting till I am dead, is there? Everything I leave here is altogether your own now, my dear." Winnie, with her hat on, silent behind her mother's back, went on arranging the collar of the old woman's cloak. She got her hand-bag, an umbrella, with an impassive face. The time had come for the expenditure of the sum of three-and-sixpence on what might well be supposed the last cab drive of Mrs Verloc's mother's life. They went out at the shop door. The conveyance awaiting them would have illustrated the proverb that "truth can be more cruel than caricature," if such a proverb existed. Crawling behind an infirm horse, a metropolitan hackney carriage drew up on wobbly wheels and with a maimed driver on the box. This last peculiarity caused some embarrassment. Catching sight of a hooked iron contrivance protruding from the left sleeve of the man's coat, Mrs Verloc's mother lost suddenly the heroic courage of these days. She really couldn't trust herself. "What do you think, Winnie?" She hung back. The passionate expostulations of the big-faced cabman seemed to be squeezed out of a blocked throat. Leaning over from his box, he whispered with mysterious indignation. What was the matter now? Was it possible to treat a man so? His enormous and unwashed countenance flamed red in the muddy stretch of the street. Was it likely they would have given him a licence, he inquired desperately, if-- The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly glance; then addressing himself to the two women without marked consideration, said: "He's been driving a cab for twenty years. I never knew him to have an accident." "Accident!" shouted the driver in a scornful whisper. The policeman's testimony settled it. The modest assemblage of seven people, mostly under age, dispersed. Winnie followed her mother into the cab. Stevie climbed on the box. His vacant mouth and distressed eyes depicted the state of his mind in regard to the transactions which were taking place. In the narrow streets the progress of the journey was made sensible to those within by the near fronts of the houses gliding past slowly and shakily, with a great rattle and jingling of glass, as if about to collapse behind the cab; and the infirm horse, with the harness hung over his sharp backbone flapping very loose about his thighs, appeared to be dancing mincingly on his toes with infinite patience. Later on, in the wider space of Whitehall, all visual evidences of motion became imperceptible. The rattle and jingle of glass went on indefinitely in front of the long Treasury building--and time itself seemed to stand still. At last Winnie observed: "This isn't a very good horse." Her eyes gleamed in the shadow of the cab straight ahead, immovable. On the box, Stevie shut his vacant mouth first, in order to ejaculate earnestly: "Don't." The driver, holding high the reins twisted around the hook, took no notice. Perhaps he had not heard. Stevie's breast heaved. "Don't whip." The man turned slowly his bloated and sodden face of many colours bristling with white hairs. His little red eyes glistened with moisture. His big lips had a violet tint. They remained closed. With the dirty back of his whip-hand he rubbed the stubble sprouting on his enormous chin. "You mustn't," stammered out Stevie violently. "It hurts." "Mustn't whip," queried the other in a thoughtful whisper, and immediately whipped. He did this, not because his soul was cruel and his heart evil, but because he had to earn his fare. And for a time the walls of St Stephen's, with its towers and pinnacles, contemplated in immobility and silence a cab that jingled. It rolled too, however. But on the bridge there was a commotion. Stevie suddenly proceeded to get down from the box. There were shouts on the pavement, people ran forward, the driver pulled up, whispering curses of indignation and astonishment. Winnie lowered the window, and put her head out, white as a ghost. In the depths of the cab, her mother was exclaiming, in tones of anguish: "Is that boy hurt? Is that boy hurt?" Stevie was not hurt, he had not even fallen, but excitement as usual had robbed him of the power of connected speech. He could do no more than stammer at the window. "Too heavy. Too heavy." Winnie put out her hand on to his shoulder. "Stevie! Get up on the box directly, and don't try to get down again." "No. No. Walk. Must walk." In trying to state the nature of that necessity he stammered himself into utter incoherence. No physical impossibility stood in the way of his whim. Stevie could have managed easily to keep pace with the infirm, dancing horse without getting out of breath. But his sister withheld her consent decisively. "The idea! Whoever heard of such a thing! Run after a cab!" Her mother, frightened and helpless in the depths of the conveyance, entreated: "Oh, don't let him, Winnie. He'll get lost. Don't let him." "Certainly not. What next! Mr Verloc will be sorry to hear of this nonsense, Stevie,--I can tell you. He won't be happy at all." The idea of Mr Verloc's grief and unhappiness acting as usual powerfully upon Stevie's fundamentally docile disposition, he abandoned all resistance, and climbed up again on the box, with a face of despair. The cabby turned at him his enormous and inflamed countenance truculently. "Don't you go for trying this silly game again, young fellow." After delivering himself thus in a stern whisper, strained almost to extinction, he drove on, ruminating solemnly. To his mind the incident remained somewhat obscure. But his intellect, though it had lost its pristine vivacity in the benumbing years of sedentary exposure to the weather, lacked not independence or sanity. Gravely he dismissed the hypothesis of Stevie being a drunken young nipper. Inside the cab the spell of silence, in which the two women had endured shoulder to shoulder the jolting, rattling, and jingling of the journey, had been broken by Stevie's outbreak. Winnie raised her voice. "You've done what you wanted, mother. You'll have only yourself to thank for it if you aren't happy afterwards. And I don't think you'll be. That I don't. Weren't you comfortable enough in the house? Whatever people'll think of us--you throwing yourself like this on a Charity?" "My dear," screamed the old woman earnestly above the noise, "you've been the best of daughters to me. As to Mr Verloc--there--" Words failing her on the subject of Mr Verloc's excellence, she turned her old tearful eyes to the roof of the cab. Then she averted her head on the pretence of looking out of the window, as if to judge of their progress. It was insignificant, and went on close to the curbstone. Night, the early dirty night, the sinister, noisy, hopeless and rowdy night of South London, had overtaken her on her last cab drive. In the gas-light of the low-fronted shops her big cheeks glowed with an orange hue under a black and mauve bonnet. Mrs Verloc's mother's complexion had become yellow by the effect of age and from a natural predisposition to biliousness, favoured by the trials of a difficult and worried existence, first as wife, then as widow. It was a complexion, that under the influence of a blush would take on an orange tint. And this woman, modest indeed but hardened in the fires of adversity, of an age, moreover, when blushes are not expected, had positively blushed before her daughter. In the privacy of a four-wheeler, on her way to a charity cottage (one of a row) which by the exiguity of its dimensions and the simplicity of its accommodation, might well have been devised in kindness as a place of training for the still more straitened circumstances of the grave, she was forced to hide from her own child a blush of remorse and shame. Whatever people will think? She knew very well what they did think, the people Winnie had in her mind--the old friends of her husband, and others too, whose interest she had solicited with such flattering success. She had not known before what a good beggar she could be. But she guessed very well what inference was drawn from her application. On account of that shrinking delicacy, which exists side by side with aggressive brutality in masculine nature, the inquiries into her circumstances had not been pushed very far. She had checked them by a visible compression of the lips and some display of an emotion determined to be eloquently silent. And the men would become suddenly incurious, after the manner of their kind. She congratulated herself more than once on having nothing to do with women, who being naturally more callous and avid of details, would have been anxious to be exactly informed by what sort of unkind conduct her daughter and son-in-law had driven her to that sad extremity. It was only before the Secretary of the great brewer M. P. and Chairman of the Charity, who, acting for his principal, felt bound to be conscientiously inquisitive as to the real circumstances of the applicant, that she had burst into tears outright and aloud, as a cornered woman will weep. The thin and polite gentleman, after contemplating her with an air of being "struck all of a heap," abandoned his position under the cover of soothing remarks. She must not distress herself. The deed of the Charity did not absolutely specify "childless widows." In fact, it did not by any means disqualify her. But the discretion of the Committee must be an informed discretion. One could understand very well her unwillingness to be a burden, etc. etc. Thereupon, to his profound disappointment, Mrs Verloc's mother wept some more with an augmented vehemence. The tears of that large female in a dark, dusty wig, and ancient silk dress festooned with dingy white cotton lace, were the tears of genuine distress. She had wept because she was heroic and unscrupulous and full of love for both her children. Girls frequently get sacrificed to the welfare of the boys. In this case she was sacrificing Winnie. By the suppression of truth she was slandering her. Of course, Winnie was independent, and need not care for the opinion of people that she would never see and who would never see her; whereas poor Stevie had nothing in the world he could call his own except his mother's heroism and unscrupulousness. The first sense of security following on Winnie's marriage wore off in time (for nothing lasts), and Mrs Verloc's mother, in the seclusion of the back bedroom, had recalled the teaching of that experience which the world impresses upon a widowed woman. But she had recalled it without vain bitterness; her store of resignation amounted almost to dignity. She reflected stoically that everything decays, wears out, in this world; that the way of kindness should be made easy to the well disposed; that her daughter Winnie was a most devoted sister, and a very self-confident wife indeed. As regards Winnie's sisterly devotion, her stoicism flinched. She excepted that sentiment from the rule of decay affecting all things human and some things divine. She could not help it; not to do so would have frightened her too much. But in considering the conditions of her daughter's married state, she rejected firmly all flattering illusions. She took the cold and reasonable view that the less strain put on Mr Verloc's kindness the longer its effects were likely to last. That excellent man loved his wife, of course, but he would, no doubt, prefer to keep as few of her relations as was consistent with the proper display of that sentiment. It would be better if its whole effect were concentrated on poor Stevie. And the heroic old woman resolved on going away from her children as an act of devotion and as a move of deep policy. The "virtue" of this policy consisted in this (Mrs Verloc's mother was subtle in her way), that Stevie's moral claim would be strengthened. The poor boy--a good, useful boy, if a little peculiar--had not a sufficient standing. He had been taken over with his mother, somewhat in the same way as the furniture of the Belgravian mansion had been taken over, as if on the ground of belonging to her exclusively. What will happen, she asked herself (for Mrs Verloc's mother was in a measure imaginative), when I die? And when she asked herself that question it was with dread. It was also terrible to think that she would not then have the means of knowing what happened to the poor boy. But by making him over to his sister, by going thus away, she gave him the advantage of a directly dependent position. This was the more subtle sanction of Mrs Verloc's mother's heroism and unscrupulousness. Her act of abandonment was really an arrangement for settling her son permanently in life. Other people made material sacrifices for such an object, she in that way. It was the only way. Moreover, she would be able to see how it worked. Ill or well she would avoid the horrible incertitude on the death-bed. But it was hard, hard, cruelly hard. The cab rattled, jingled, jolted; in fact, the last was quite extraordinary. By its disproportionate violence and magnitude it obliterated every sensation of onward movement; and the effect was of being shaken in a stationary apparatus like a mediaeval device for the punishment of crime, or some very newfangled invention for the cure of a sluggish liver. It was extremely distressing; and the raising of Mrs Verloc's mother's voice sounded like a wail of pain. "I know, my dear, you'll come to see me as often as you can spare the time. Won't you?" "Of course," answered Winnie shortly, staring straight before her. And the cab jolted in front of a steamy, greasy shop in a blaze of gas and in the smell of fried fish. The old woman raised a wail again. "And, my dear, I must see that poor boy every Sunday. He won't mind spending the day with his old mother--" Winnie screamed out stolidly: "Mind! I should think not. That poor boy will miss you something cruel. I wish you had thought a little of that, mother." Not think of it! The heroic woman swallowed a playful and inconvenient object like a billiard ball, which had tried to jump out of her throat. Winnie sat mute for a while, pouting at the front of the cab, then snapped out, which was an unusual tone with her: "I expect I'll have a job with him at first, he'll be that restless--" "Whatever you do, don't let him worry your husband, my dear." Thus they discussed on familiar lines the bearings of a new situation. And the cab jolted. Mrs Verloc's mother expressed some misgivings. Could Stevie be trusted to come all that way alone? Winnie maintained that he was much less "absent-minded" now. They agreed as to that. It could not be denied. Much less--hardly at all. They shouted at each other in the jingle with comparative cheerfulness. But suddenly the maternal anxiety broke out afresh. There were two omnibuses to take, and a short walk between. It was too difficult! The old woman gave way to grief and consternation. Winnie stared forward. "Don't you upset yourself like this, mother. You must see him, of course." "No, my dear. I'll try not to." She mopped her streaming eyes. "But you can't spare the time to come with him, and if he should forget himself and lose his way and somebody spoke to him sharply, his name and address may slip his memory, and he'll remain lost for days and days--" The vision of a workhouse infirmary for poor Stevie--if only during inquiries--wrung her heart. For she was a proud woman. Winnie's stare had grown hard, intent, inventive. "I can't bring him to you myself every week," she cried. "But don't you worry, mother. I'll see to it that he don't get lost for long." They felt a peculiar bump; a vision of brick pillars lingered before the rattling windows of the cab; a sudden cessation of atrocious jolting and uproarious jingling dazed the two women. What had happened? They sat motionless and scared in the profound stillness, till the door came open, and a rough, strained whispering was heard: "Here you are!" A range of gabled little houses, each with one dim yellow window, on the ground floor, surrounded the dark open space of a grass plot planted with shrubs and railed off from the patchwork of lights and shadows in the wide road, resounding with the dull rumble of traffic. Before the door of one of these tiny houses--one without a light in the little downstairs window--the cab had come to a standstill. Mrs Verloc's mother got out first, backwards, with a key in her hand. Winnie lingered on the flagstone path to pay the cabman. Stevie, after helping to carry inside a lot of small parcels, came out and stood under the light of a gas-lamp belonging to the Charity. The cabman looked at the pieces of silver, which, appearing very minute in his big, grimy palm, symbolised the insignificant results which reward the ambitious courage and toil of a mankind whose day is short on this earth of evil. He had been paid decently--four one-shilling pieces--and he contemplated them in perfect stillness, as if they had been the surprising terms of a melancholy problem. The slow transfer of that treasure to an inner pocket demanded much laborious groping in the depths of decayed clothing. His form was squat and without flexibility. Stevie, slender, his shoulders a little up, and his hands thrust deep in the side pockets of his warm overcoat, stood at the edge of the path, pouting. The cabman, pausing in his deliberate movements, seemed struck by some misty recollection. "Oh! 'Ere you are, young fellow," he whispered. "You'll know him again--won't you?" Stevie was staring at the horse, whose hind quarters appeared unduly elevated by the effect of emaciation. The little stiff tail seemed to have been fitted in for a heartless joke; and at the other end the thin, flat neck, like a plank covered with old horse-hide, drooped to the ground under the weight of an enormous bony head. The ears hung at different angles, negligently; and the macabre figure of that mute dweller on the earth steamed straight up from ribs and backbone in the muggy stillness of the air. The cabman struck lightly Stevie's breast with the iron hook protruding from a ragged, greasy sleeve. "Look 'ere, young feller. 'Ow'd _you_ like to sit behind this 'oss up to two o'clock in the morning p'raps?" Stevie looked vacantly into the fierce little eyes with red-edged lids. "He ain't lame," pursued the other, whispering with energy. "He ain't got no sore places on 'im. 'Ere he is. 'Ow would _you_ like--" His strained, extinct voice invested his utterance with a character of vehement secrecy. Stevie's vacant gaze was changing slowly into dread. "You may well look! Till three and four o'clock in the morning. Cold and 'ungry. Looking for fares. Drunks." His jovial purple cheeks bristled with white hairs; and like Virgil's Silenus, who, his face smeared with the juice of berries, discoursed of Olympian Gods to the innocent shepherds of Sicily, he talked to Stevie of domestic matters and the affairs of men whose sufferings are great and immortality by no means assured. "I am a night cabby, I am," he whispered, with a sort of boastful exasperation. "I've got to take out what they will blooming well give me at the yard. I've got my missus and four kids at 'ome." The monstrous nature of that declaration of paternity seemed to strike the world dumb. A silence reigned during which the flanks of the old horse, the steed of apocalyptic misery, smoked upwards in the light of the charitable gas-lamp. The cabman grunted, then added in his mysterious whisper: "This ain't an easy world." Stevie's face had been twitching for some time, and at last his feelings burst out in their usual concise form. "Bad! Bad!" His gaze remained fixed on the ribs of the horse, self-conscious and sombre, as though he were afraid to look about him at the badness of the world. And his slenderness, his rosy lips and pale, clear complexion, gave him the aspect of a delicate boy, notwithstanding the fluffy growth of golden hair on his cheeks. He pouted in a scared way like a child. The cabman, short and broad, eyed him with his fierce little eyes that seemed to smart in a clear and corroding liquid. "'Ard on 'osses, but dam' sight 'arder on poor chaps like me," he wheezed just audibly. "Poor! Poor!" stammered out Stevie, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets with convulsive sympathy. He could say nothing; for the tenderness to all pain and all misery, the desire to make the horse happy and the cabman happy, had reached the point of a bizarre longing to take them to bed with him. And that, he knew, was impossible. For Stevie was not mad. It was, as it were, a symbolic longing; and at the same time it was very distinct, because springing from experience, the mother of wisdom. Thus when as a child he cowered in a dark corner scared, wretched, sore, and miserable with the black, black misery of the soul, his sister Winnie used to come along, and carry him off to bed with her, as into a heaven of consoling peace. Stevie, though apt to forget mere facts, such as his name and address for instance, had a faithful memory of sensations. To be taken into a bed of compassion was the supreme remedy, with the only one disadvantage of being difficult of application on a large scale. And looking at the cabman, Stevie perceived this clearly, because he was reasonable. The cabman went on with his leisurely preparations as if Stevie had not existed. He made as if to hoist himself on the box, but at the last moment from some obscure motive, perhaps merely from disgust with carriage exercise, desisted. He approached instead the motionless partner of his labours, and stooping to seize the bridle, lifted up the big, weary head to the height of his shoulder with one effort of his right arm, like a feat of strength. "Come on," he whispered secretly. Limping, he led the cab away. There was an air of austerity in this departure, the scrunched gravel of the drive crying out under the slowly turning wheels, the horse's lean thighs moving with ascetic deliberation away from the light into the obscurity of the open space bordered dimly by the pointed roofs and the feebly shining windows of the little alms-houses. The plaint of the gravel travelled slowly all round the drive. Between the lamps of the charitable gateway the slow cortege reappeared, lighted up for a moment, the short, thick man limping busily, with the horse's head held aloft in his fist, the lank animal walking in stiff and forlorn dignity, the dark, low box on wheels rolling behind comically with an air of waddling. They turned to the left. There was a pub down the street, within fifty yards of the gate. Stevie left alone beside the private lamp-post of the Charity, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, glared with vacant sulkiness. At the bottom of his pockets his incapable weak hands were clinched hard into a pair of angry fists. In the face of anything which affected directly or indirectly his morbid dread of pain, Stevie ended by turning vicious. A magnanimous indignation swelled his frail chest to bursting, and caused his candid eyes to squint. Supremely wise in knowing his own powerlessness, Stevie was not wise enough to restrain his passions. The tenderness of his universal charity had two phases as indissolubly joined and connected as the reverse and obverse sides of a medal. The anguish of immoderate compassion was succeeded by the pain of an innocent but pitiless rage. Those two states expressing themselves outwardly by the same signs of futile bodily agitation, his sister Winnie soothed his excitement without ever fathoming its twofold character. Mrs Verloc wasted no portion of this transient life in seeking for fundamental information. This is a sort of economy having all the appearances and some of the advantages of prudence. Obviously it may be good for one not to know too much. And such a view accords very well with constitutional indolence. On that evening on which it may be said that Mrs Verloc's mother having parted for good from her children had also departed this life, Winnie Verloc did not investigate her brother's psychology. The poor boy was excited, of course. After once more assuring the old woman on the threshold that she would know how to guard against the risk of Stevie losing himself for very long on his pilgrimages of filial piety, she took her brother's arm to walk away. Stevie did not even mutter to himself, but with the special sense of sisterly devotion developed in her earliest infancy, she felt that the boy was very much excited indeed. Holding tight to his arm, under the appearance of leaning on it, she thought of some words suitable to the occasion. "Now, Stevie, you must look well after me at the crossings, and get first into the 'bus, like a good brother." This appeal to manly protection was received by Stevie with his usual docility. It flattered him. He raised his head and threw out his chest. "Don't be nervous, Winnie. Mustn't be nervous! 'Bus all right," he answered in a brusque, slurring stammer partaking of the timorousness of a child and the resolution of a man. He advanced fearlessly with the woman on his arm, but his lower lip dropped. Nevertheless, on the pavement of the squalid and wide thoroughfare, whose poverty in all the amenities of life stood foolishly exposed by a mad profusion of gas-lights, their resemblance to each other was so pronounced as to strike the casual passers-by. Before the doors of the public-house at the corner, where the profusion of gas-light reached the height of positive wickedness, a four-wheeled cab standing by the curbstone with no one on the box, seemed cast out into the gutter on account of irremediable decay. Mrs Verloc recognised the conveyance. Its aspect was so profoundly lamentable, with such a perfection of grotesque misery and weirdness of macabre detail, as if it were the Cab of Death itself, that Mrs Verloc, with that ready compassion of a woman for a horse (when she is not sitting behind him), exclaimed vaguely: "Poor brute!" Hanging back suddenly, Stevie inflicted an arresting jerk upon his sister. "Poor! Poor!" he ejaculated appreciatively. "Cabman poor too. He told me himself." The contemplation of the infirm and lonely steed overcame him. Jostled, but obstinate, he would remain there, trying to express the view newly opened to his sympathies of the human and equine misery in close association. But it was very difficult. "Poor brute, poor people!" was all he could repeat. It did not seem forcible enough, and he came to a stop with an angry splutter: "Shame!" Stevie was no master of phrases, and perhaps for that very reason his thoughts lacked clearness and precision. But he felt with greater completeness and some profundity. That little word contained all his sense of indignation and horror at one sort of wretchedness having to feed upon the anguish of the other--at the poor cabman beating the poor horse in the name, as it were, of his poor kids at home. And Stevie knew what it was to be beaten. He knew it from experience. It was a bad world. Bad! Bad! Mrs Verloc, his only sister, guardian, and protector, could not pretend to such depths of insight. Moreover, she had not experienced the magic of the cabman's eloquence. She was in the dark as to the inwardness of the word "Shame." And she said placidly: "Come along, Stevie. You can't help that." The docile Stevie went along; but now he went along without pride, shamblingly, and muttering half words, and even words that would have been whole if they had not been made up of halves that did not belong to each other. It was as though he had been trying to fit all the words he could remember to his sentiments in order to get some sort of corresponding idea. And, as a matter of fact, he got it at last. He hung back to utter it at once. "Bad world for poor people." Directly he had expressed that thought he became aware that it was familiar to him already in all its consequences. This circumstance strengthened his conviction immensely, but also augmented his indignation. Somebody, he felt, ought to be punished for it--punished with great severity. Being no sceptic, but a moral creature, he was in a manner at the mercy of his righteous passions. "Beastly!" he added concisely. It was clear to Mrs Verloc that he was greatly excited. "Nobody can help that," she said. "Do come along. Is that the way you're taking care of me?" Stevie mended his pace obediently. He prided himself on being a good brother. His morality, which was very complete, demanded that from him. Yet he was pained at the information imparted by his sister Winnie who was good. Nobody could help that! He came along gloomily, but presently he brightened up. Like the rest of mankind, perplexed by the mystery of the universe, he had his moments of consoling trust in the organised powers of the earth. "Police," he suggested confidently. "The police aren't for that," observed Mrs Verloc cursorily, hurrying on her way. Stevie's face lengthened considerably. He was thinking. The more intense his thinking, the slacker was the droop of his lower jaw. And it was with an aspect of hopeless vacancy that he gave up his intellectual enterprise. "Not for that?" he mumbled, resigned but surprised. "Not for that?" He had formed for himself an ideal conception of the metropolitan police as a sort of benevolent institution for the suppression of evil. The notion of benevolence especially was very closely associated with his sense of the power of the men in blue. He had liked all police constables tenderly, with a guileless trustfulness. And he was pained. He was irritated, too, by a suspicion of duplicity in the members of the force. For Stevie was frank and as open as the day himself. What did they mean by pretending then? Unlike his sister, who put her trust in face values, he wished to go to the bottom of the matter. He carried on his inquiry by means of an angry challenge. "What for are they then, Winn? What are they for? Tell me." Winnie disliked controversy. But fearing most a fit of black depression consequent on Stevie missing his mother very much at first, she did not altogether decline the discussion. Guiltless of all irony, she answered yet in a form which was not perhaps unnatural in the wife of Mr Verloc, Delegate of the Central Red Committee, personal friend of certain anarchists, and a votary of social revolution. "Don't you know what the police are for, Stevie? They are there so that them as have nothing shouldn't take anything away from them who have." She avoided using the verb "to steal," because it always made her brother uncomfortable. For Stevie was delicately honest. Certain simple principles had been instilled into him so anxiously (on account of his "queerness") that the mere names of certain transgressions filled him with horror. He had been always easily impressed by speeches. He was impressed and startled now, and his intelligence was very alert. "What?" he asked at once anxiously. "Not even if they were hungry? Mustn't they?" The two had paused in their walk. "Not if they were ever so," said Mrs Verloc, with the equanimity of a person untroubled by the problem of the distribution of wealth, and exploring the perspective of the roadway for an omnibus of the right colour. "Certainly not. But what's the use of talking about all that? You aren't ever hungry." She cast a swift glance at the boy, like a young man, by her side. She saw him amiable, attractive, affectionate, and only a little, a very little, peculiar. And she could not see him otherwise, for he was connected with what there was of the salt of passion in her tasteless life--the passion of indignation, of courage, of pity, and even of self-sacrifice. She did not add: "And you aren't likely ever to be as long as I live." But she might very well have done so, since she had taken effectual steps to that end. Mr Verloc was a very good husband. It was her honest impression that nobody could help liking the boy. She cried out suddenly: "Quick, Stevie. Stop that green 'bus." And Stevie, tremulous and important with his sister Winnie on his arm, flung up the other high above his head at the approaching 'bus, with complete success. An hour afterwards Mr Verloc raised his eyes from a newspaper he was reading, or at any rate looking at, behind the counter, and in the expiring clatter of the door-bell beheld Winnie, his wife, enter and cross the shop on her way upstairs, followed by Stevie, his brother-in-law. The sight of his wife was agreeable to Mr Verloc. It was his idiosyncrasy. The figure of his brother-in-law remained imperceptible to him because of the morose thoughtfulness that lately had fallen like a veil between Mr Verloc and the appearances of the world of senses. He looked after his wife fixedly, without a word, as though she had been a phantom. His voice for home use was husky and placid, but now it was heard not at all. It was not heard at supper, to which he was called by his wife in the usual brief manner: "Adolf." He sat down to consume it without conviction, wearing his hat pushed far back on his head. It was not devotion to an outdoor life, but the frequentation of foreign cafes which was responsible for that habit, investing with a character of unceremonious impermanency Mr Verloc's steady fidelity to his own fireside. Twice at the clatter of the cracked bell he arose without a word, disappeared into the shop, and came back silently. During these absences Mrs Verloc, becoming acutely aware of the vacant place at her right hand, missed her mother very much, and stared stonily; while Stevie, from the same reason, kept on shuffling his feet, as though the floor under the table were uncomfortably hot. When Mr Verloc returned to sit in his place, like the very embodiment of silence, the character of Mrs Verloc's stare underwent a subtle change, and Stevie ceased to fidget with his feet, because of his great and awed regard for his sister's husband. He directed at him glances of respectful compassion. Mr Verloc was sorry. His sister Winnie had impressed upon him (in the omnibus) that Mr Verloc would be found at home in a state of sorrow, and must not be worried. His father's anger, the irritability of gentlemen lodgers, and Mr Verloc's predisposition to immoderate grief, had been the main sanctions of Stevie's self-restraint. Of these sentiments, all easily provoked, but not always easy to understand, the last had the greatest moral efficiency--because Mr Verloc was _good_. His mother and his sister had established that ethical fact on an unshakable foundation. They had established, erected, consecrated it behind Mr Verloc's back, for reasons that had nothing to do with abstract morality. And Mr Verloc was not aware of it. It is but bare justice to him to say that he had no notion of appearing good to Stevie. Yet so it was. He was even the only man so qualified in Stevie's knowledge, because the gentlemen lodgers had been too transient and too remote to have anything very distinct about them but perhaps their boots; and as regards the disciplinary measures of his father, the desolation of his mother and sister shrank from setting up a theory of goodness before the victim. It would have been too cruel. And it was even possible that Stevie would not have believed them. As far as Mr Verloc was concerned, nothing could stand in the way of Stevie's belief. Mr Verloc was obviously yet mysteriously _good_. And the grief of a good man is august. Stevie gave glances of reverential compassion to his brother-in-law. Mr Verloc was sorry. The brother of Winnie had never before felt himself in such close communion with the mystery of that man's goodness. It was an understandable sorrow. And Stevie himself was sorry. He was very sorry. The same sort of sorrow. And his attention being drawn to this unpleasant state, Stevie shuffled his feet. His feelings were habitually manifested by the agitation of his limbs. "Keep your feet quiet, dear," said Mrs Verloc, with authority and tenderness; then turning towards her husband in an indifferent voice, the masterly achievement of instinctive tact: "Are you going out to-night?" she asked. The mere suggestion seemed repugnant to Mr Verloc. He shook his head moodily, and then sat still with downcast eyes, looking at the piece of cheese on his plate for a whole minute. At the end of that time he got up, and went out--went right out in the clatter of the shop-door bell. He acted thus inconsistently, not from any desire to make himself unpleasant, but because of an unconquerable restlessness. It was no earthly good going out. He could not find anywhere in London what he wanted. But he went out. He led a cortege of dismal thoughts along dark streets, through lighted streets, in and out of two flash bars, as if in a half-hearted attempt to make a night of it, and finally back again to his menaced home, where he sat down fatigued behind the counter, and they crowded urgently round him, like a pack of hungry black hounds. After locking up the house and putting out the gas he took them upstairs with him--a dreadful escort for a man going to bed. His wife had preceded him some time before, and with her ample form defined vaguely under the counterpane, her head on the pillow, and a hand under the cheek offered to his distraction the view of early drowsiness arguing the possession of an equable soul. Her big eyes stared wide open, inert and dark against the snowy whiteness of the linen. She did not move. She had an equable soul. She felt profoundly that things do not stand much looking into. She made her force and her wisdom of that instinct. But the taciturnity of Mr Verloc had been lying heavily upon her for a good many days. It was, as a matter of fact, affecting her nerves. Recumbent and motionless, she said placidly: "You'll catch cold walking about in your socks like this." This speech, becoming the solicitude of the wife and the prudence of the woman, took Mr Verloc unawares. He had left his boots downstairs, but he had forgotten to put on his slippers, and he had been turning about the bedroom on noiseless pads like a bear in a cage. At the sound of his wife's voice he stopped and stared at her with a somnambulistic, expressionless gaze so long that Mrs Verloc moved her limbs slightly under the bed-clothes. But she did not move her black head sunk in the white pillow one hand under her cheek and the big, dark, unwinking eyes. Under her husband's expressionless stare, and remembering her mother's empty room across the landing, she felt an acute pang of loneliness. She had never been parted from her mother before. They had stood by each other. She felt that they had, and she said to herself that now mother was gone--gone for good. Mrs Verloc had no illusions. Stevie remained, however. And she said: "Mother's done what she wanted to do. There's no sense in it that I can see. I'm sure she couldn't have thought you had enough of her. It's perfectly wicked, leaving us like that." Mr Verloc was not a well-read person; his range of allusive phrases was limited, but there was a peculiar aptness in circumstances which made him think of rats leaving a doomed ship. He very nearly said so. He had grown suspicious and embittered. Could it be that the old woman had such an excellent nose? But the unreasonableness of such a suspicion was patent, and Mr Verloc held his tongue. Not altogether, however. He muttered heavily: "Perhaps it's just as well." He began to undress. Mrs Verloc kept very still, perfectly still, with her eyes fixed in a dreamy, quiet stare. And her heart for the fraction of a second seemed to stand still too. That night she was "not quite herself," as the saying is, and it was borne upon her with some force that a simple sentence may hold several diverse meanings--mostly disagreeable. How was it just as well? And why? But she did not allow herself to fall into the idleness of barren speculation. She was rather confirmed in her belief that things did not stand being looked into. Practical and subtle in her way, she brought Stevie to the front without loss of time, because in her the singleness of purpose had the unerring nature and the force of an instinct. "What I am going to do to cheer up that boy for the first few days I'm sure I don't know. He'll be worrying himself from morning till night before he gets used to mother being away. And he's such a good boy. I couldn't do without him." Mr Verloc went on divesting himself of his clothing with the unnoticing inward concentration of a man undressing in the solitude of a vast and hopeless desert. For thus inhospitably did this fair earth, our common inheritance, present itself to the mental vision of Mr Verloc. All was so still without and within that the lonely ticking of the clock on the landing stole into the room as if for the sake of company. Mr Verloc, getting into bed on his own side, remained prone and mute behind Mrs Verloc's back. His thick arms rested abandoned on the outside of the counterpane like dropped weapons, like discarded tools. At that moment he was within a hair's breadth of making a clean breast of it all to his wife. The moment seemed propitious. Looking out of the corners of his eyes, he saw her ample shoulders draped in white, the back of her head, with the hair done for the night in three plaits tied up with black tapes at the ends. And he forbore. Mr Verloc loved his wife as a wife should be loved--that is, maritally, with the regard one has for one's chief possession. This head arranged for the night, those ample shoulders, had an aspect of familiar sacredness--the sacredness of domestic peace. She moved not, massive and shapeless like a recumbent statue in the rough; he remembered her wide-open eyes looking into the empty room. She was mysterious, with the mysteriousness of living beings. The far-famed secret agent [delta] of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim's alarmist despatches was not the man to break into such mysteries. He was easily intimidated. And he was also indolent, with the indolence which is so often the secret of good nature. He forbore touching that mystery out of love, timidity, and indolence. There would be always time enough. For several minutes he bore his sufferings silently in the drowsy silence of the room. And then he disturbed it by a resolute declaration. "I am going on the Continent to-morrow." His wife might have fallen asleep already. He could not tell. As a matter of fact, Mrs Verloc had heard him. Her eyes remained very wide open, and she lay very still, confirmed in her instinctive conviction that things don't bear looking into very much. And yet it was nothing very unusual for Mr Verloc to take such a trip. He renewed his stock from Paris and Brussels. Often he went over to make his purchases personally. A little select connection of amateurs was forming around the shop in Brett Street, a secret connection eminently proper for any business undertaken by Mr Verloc, who, by a mystic accord of temperament and necessity, had been set apart to be a secret agent all his life. He waited for a while, then added: "I'll be away a week or perhaps a fortnight. Get Mrs Neale to come for the day." Mrs Neale was the charwoman of Brett Street. Victim of her marriage with a debauched joiner, she was oppressed by the needs of many infant children. Red-armed, and aproned in coarse sacking up to the arm-pits, she exhaled the anguish of the poor in a breath of soap-suds and rum, in the uproar of scrubbing, in the clatter of tin pails. Mrs Verloc, full of deep purpose, spoke in the tone of the shallowest indifference. "There is no need to have the woman here all day. I shall do very well with Stevie." She let the lonely clock on the landing count off fifteen ticks into the abyss of eternity, and asked: "Shall I put the light out?" Mr Verloc snapped at his wife huskily. "Put it out." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Wir erfahren, dass Winnies Mutter einen Platz im Wohlfahrtshaus gefunden hat, was sozusagen eine Version eines Altenheims während Conrads Zeit ist. Die Nachricht schockiert Winnie, die ihre Mutter fragt, ob sie sich nicht wohl gefühlt hat, bei den Verlocs zu leben. Danach verfällt Winnie in enttäuschtes Schweigen. Das stellt die Frage, wem das Möbelstücke der Mutter gehören. Der Mutter wurde nur eine Wohnung ohne jegliche Einrichtung gegeben, also muss sie ein paar Sachen mitnehmen. Sie achtet jedoch darauf, nur die schäbigsten Stücke mitzunehmen. Dann muss die Mutter entscheiden, was sie mit den Möbeln machen soll, die sie zurücklässt. Sie könnte sie Stevie geben, aber möchte nicht, dass es so aussieht, als hätte Stevie eine Art Druckmittel gegen Mr. Verloc. Nein, es ist wichtig, sich auf Verlocs Wohltätigkeit zu verlassen, und so entscheidet Winnies Mutter, dass "Stevie mittellos und abhängig bleiben muss". Sie rufen nach einer Kutsche, um die Mutter und all ihre Sachen ins Wohlfahrtshaus zu bringen, und werden mit einer wirklich schäbigen alten Kutsche konfrontiert. Als ob wir nicht bemerkt hätten, wie schlecht diese Kutsche ist, stellt Conrad sicher, dass der Kutscher einen Metallhaken anstelle einer Hand hat. Das Pferd, das die Kutsche zieht, ist auch kein Preis, sieht ziemlich krank und abgemagert aus. Diese wackelige Kutsche macht die Mutter nervös und sie fragt Winnie, was sie denkt. Nach einem kurzen Moment sind sie überzeugt, auf den Wagen zu steigen und sich auf den Weg zu machen. Stevie kommt mit ihnen und klettert auf den Kutschbock, um neben dem Kutschfahrer zu sitzen. Während sie reisen, wird Stevie aufgeregt und sagt dem Mann, er solle sein Pferd nicht peitschen. Der Mann peitscht jedoch weiter, und das veranlasst Stevie, von der Kutsche zu springen. Er rennt zum Fenster und ruft "Zu schwer. Zu schwer" zu Winnie und ihrer Mutter. Die Frauen fordern ihn auf, wieder auf den Wagen zu steigen, aber er möchte laufen und denkt, dass dies dem Pferd die Sache erleichtern würde. Winnie hält das für absurd und droht Stevie, dass Mr. Verloc sehr unzufrieden sein wird, wenn er nicht wieder auf die Kutsche steigt. Stevie tut es. Der Erzähler spricht darüber, wie Winnies Mutter sich im Grunde genommen für Stevies Schutz opfert. Es ist möglich, dass die Mutter den Stress gespürt hat, der sich bei Verloc aufgetürmt hat, und dass sie den Druck von ihm nehmen möchte, indem sie sich selbst aus der Gleichung nimmt. So verlässt die alte Frau schmerzhaft ihre Kinder "als eine Handlung der Hingabe und als ein taktischer Schachzug". Zurück in der Gegenwart beschreibt der Erzähler, wie die Mutter Winnie bittet, sie jeden Sonntag zu besuchen. Winnie sagt, sie werde es versuchen, aber nicht immer kommen können, wenn Stevie zu Besuch ist. Das macht die Mutter traurig und sie sorgt sich, dass Stevie sich verirren wird. Winnie antwortet ihr: "Ich werde dafür sorgen, dass er nicht lange verloren geht". Hat da jemand Andeutungen gemacht? In diesem Moment hält die Kutsche an und sie kommen im Wohlfahrtshaus an. Nachdem sie alle Pakete herausgenommen und die Sachen ins Haus geladen haben, steht Stevie unter einer Straßenlampe und der Kutscher stößt ihn mit seinem Haken an und unterhält sich mit ihm darüber, wie schrecklich sein Leben ist. Er erzählt Stevie, wie er den ganzen Tag und die ganze Nacht sein Pferd herumfahren muss, nur um genug Geld zu verdienen, um seine Frau und seine vier Kinder vor dem Verhungern zu bewahren. Das bringt Stevie sehr in Aufregung und er fängt an zu schreien "Schlecht! Schlecht!" Stevie versucht sich einen Reim auf die Bosheit der Welt zu machen, um sie irgendwie besser zu machen, aber er kann seine Gedanken nicht zusammenbringen. Überzeugt davon, dass Stevie ihn jetzt bedauert, klettert der Kutscher wieder auf den Wagen und fährt für eine Weile weiter, dann hält er vor einer Kneipe die Straße hinunter an, wahrscheinlich um etwas von dem Geld zu trinken, von dem er angeblich braucht, um seine Familie zu ernähren. Stevie bleibt mit seinen aufgewühlten Gedanken allein zurück. Winnie kommt zu ihm, um ihn zu beruhigen. Im Gegensatz zu Stevie, der immer versucht, zum Kern der Dinge vorzudringen, "verschwendet Winnie keinen Teil ihres vergänglichen Lebens damit, nach grundlegenden Informationen zu suchen". Winnie beruhigt Stevie, indem sie ihn bittet, sich um sie zu kümmern. Dadurch steht Stevie aufrecht und stolz wie ein Mann da, glücklich, die Rolle eines beschützenden Bruders zu übernehmen. Sie gehen an der Kneipe vorbei, wo die Kutsche geparkt ist. Winnie bemerkt das arme, kranke Pferd. Aber Stevie beeilt sich ihr zu sagen, dass der Kutscher auch ein schweres Leben hat. Er wird wieder von den Schmerzen der Welt überwältigt, aber Winnie sagt ihm, dass er nichts dagegen tun kann. Plötzlich schlägt Stevie vor, dass die Polizei das Böse aus der Welt verbannen kann, aber Winnie sagt, dass die Polizei auch nicht helfen kann, weil ihre Aufgabe darin besteht, die Menschen, die etwas haben, vor den Menschen, die nichts haben, zu schützen. Stevie wird von der Schrecklichkeit der Welt überwältigt. Winnie sagt ihm wiederholt, dass er sich keine Sorgen machen soll, weil er selbst nie hungrig ist. Als sie nach Hause kommen, ist Verloc da und schaut eine Zeitung an. Er bemerkt sie kaum, weil er so von seinen Gedanken abgelenkt ist. Als Verloc in den Laden verschwindet, vermisst Winnie plötzlich ihre Mutter. Winnie fragt Mr. Verloc, ob er an diesem Abend ausgehen wird. Er hasst die Vorstellung, ausgehen zu müssen, geht aber trotzdem aus, auf der Suche nach einer Art Trost, den ihm London nicht geben kann. Als er zurückkommt, steht er eine Weile in Socken am Bett. Winnie sagt, sie verstehe nicht, warum ihre Mutter gegangen ist, aber Verloc antwortet: "Vielleicht ist es besser so". Winnie fragt sich, was Verloc damit meint, aber sie stellt keine Fragen, weil sie glaubt, dass "manche Dinge nicht genauer betrachtet werden sollten". Sie verschließt absichtlich die Augen vor dieser vagen Aussage von Verloc. Der Erzähler erwähnt, dass Verloc in diesem Moment fast seiner Frau von seinem gesamten Dilemma erzählt hätte. "Mr Verloc liebte seine Frau so, wie eine Ehefrau geliebt werden sollte - das heißt martialisch, mit der Rücksicht, die man seinem wertvollsten Besitz entgegenbringt". Als er sich neben sie ins Bett legt, sagt er Winnie, dass er am nächsten Tag nach "Kontinent" England verlassen möchte.

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: Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness. The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them." Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion. It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude. She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks. The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again. Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend. Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible. Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts. Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them. Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force. If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him. Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it. Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem der Schnee aufgehört hat, kehren Herr und Frau John Knightley nach London zurück. Mr. Woodhouse trauert um ihren Verlust. Emma geht zu Mrs. Goddard, wo Harriet wohnt. Sie beschließt, Harriet die schlechte Nachricht zu überbringen - und Harriet reagiert überraschend schlecht darauf. Vielleicht hat sie doch Gefühle? Harriet beginnt eine lange Tirade über Mr. Eltons Vorzüge und über all die Wege, auf denen sie nicht gleichwertig ist. Das überspringen wir einfach mal. Emma bedauert, dass sie, Harriet und Mr. Elton alle in Highbury feststecken. Leider ist Mr. Elton der momentane Star an Mrs. Goddards Schule - also muss Harriet ständig hören, wie toll er ist. Es ist wirklich schade für sie.

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: Cacambo expressed his curiosity to the landlord, who made answer: "I am very ignorant, but not the worse on that account. However, we have in this neighbourhood an old man retired from Court who is the most learned and most communicative person in the kingdom." At once he took Cacambo to the old man. Candide acted now only a second character, and accompanied his valet. They entered a very plain house, for the door was only of silver, and the ceilings were only of gold, but wrought in so elegant a taste as to vie with the richest. The antechamber, indeed, was only encrusted with rubies and emeralds, but the order in which everything was arranged made amends for this great simplicity. The old man received the strangers on his sofa, which was stuffed with humming-birds' feathers, and ordered his servants to present them with liqueurs in diamond goblets; after which he satisfied their curiosity in the following terms: "I am now one hundred and seventy-two years old, and I learnt of my late father, Master of the Horse to the King, the amazing revolutions of Peru, of which he had been an eyewitness. The kingdom we now inhabit is the ancient country of the Incas, who quitted it very imprudently to conquer another part of the world, and were at length destroyed by the Spaniards. "More wise by far were the princes of their family, who remained in their native country; and they ordained, with the consent of the whole nation, that none of the inhabitants should ever be permitted to quit this little kingdom; and this has preserved our innocence and happiness. The Spaniards have had a confused notion of this country, and have called it _El Dorado_; and an Englishman, whose name was Sir Walter Raleigh, came very near it about a hundred years ago; but being surrounded by inaccessible rocks and precipices, we have hitherto been sheltered from the rapaciousness of European nations, who have an inconceivable passion for the pebbles and dirt of our land, for the sake of which they would murder us to the last man." The conversation was long: it turned chiefly on their form of government, their manners, their women, their public entertainments, and the arts. At length Candide, having always had a taste for metaphysics, made Cacambo ask whether there was any religion in that country. The old man reddened a little. "How then," said he, "can you doubt it? Do you take us for ungrateful wretches?" Cacambo humbly asked, "What was the religion in El Dorado?" The old man reddened again. "Can there be two religions?" said he. "We have, I believe, the religion of all the world: we worship God night and morning." "Do you worship but one God?" said Cacambo, who still acted as interpreter in representing Candide's doubts. "Surely," said the old man, "there are not two, nor three, nor four. I must confess the people from your side of the world ask very extraordinary questions." Candide was not yet tired of interrogating the good old man; he wanted to know in what manner they prayed to God in El Dorado. "We do not pray to Him," said the worthy sage; "we have nothing to ask of Him; He has given us all we need, and we return Him thanks without ceasing." Candide having a curiosity to see the priests asked where they were. The good old man smiled. "My friend," said he, "we are all priests. The King and all the heads of families sing solemn canticles of thanksgiving every morning, accompanied by five or six thousand musicians." "What! have you no monks who teach, who dispute, who govern, who cabal, and who burn people that are not of their opinion?" "We must be mad, indeed, if that were the case," said the old man; "here we are all of one opinion, and we know not what you mean by monks." During this whole discourse Candide was in raptures, and he said to himself: "This is vastly different from Westphalia and the Baron's castle. Had our friend Pangloss seen El Dorado he would no longer have said that the castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was the finest upon earth. It is evident that one must travel." After this long conversation the old man ordered a coach and six sheep to be got ready, and twelve of his domestics to conduct the travellers to Court. "Excuse me," said he, "if my age deprives me of the honour of accompanying you. The King will receive you in a manner that cannot displease you; and no doubt you will make an allowance for the customs of the country, if some things should not be to your liking." Candide and Cacambo got into the coach, the six sheep flew, and in less than four hours they reached the King's palace situated at the extremity of the capital. The portal was two hundred and twenty feet high, and one hundred wide; but words are wanting to express the materials of which it was built. It is plain such materials must have prodigious superiority over those pebbles and sand which we call gold and precious stones. Twenty beautiful damsels of the King's guard received Candide and Cacambo as they alighted from the coach, conducted them to the bath, and dressed them in robes woven of the down of humming-birds; after which the great crown officers, of both sexes, led them to the King's apartment, between two files of musicians, a thousand on each side. When they drew near to the audience chamber Cacambo asked one of the great officers in what way he should pay his obeisance to his Majesty; whether they should throw themselves upon their knees or on their stomachs; whether they should put their hands upon their heads or behind their backs; whether they should lick the dust off the floor; in a word, what was the ceremony? "The custom," said the great officer, "is to embrace the King, and to kiss him on each cheek." Candide and Cacambo threw themselves round his Majesty's neck. He received them with all the goodness imaginable, and politely invited them to supper. While waiting they were shown the city, and saw the public edifices raised as high as the clouds, the market places ornamented with a thousand columns, the fountains of spring water, those of rose water, those of liqueurs drawn from sugar-cane, incessantly flowing into the great squares, which were paved with a kind of precious stone, which gave off a delicious fragrancy like that of cloves and cinnamon. Candide asked to see the court of justice, the parliament. They told him they had none, and that they were strangers to lawsuits. He asked if they had any prisons, and they answered no. But what surprised him most and gave him the greatest pleasure was the palace of sciences, where he saw a gallery two thousand feet long, and filled with instruments employed in mathematics and physics. After rambling about the city the whole afternoon, and seeing but a thousandth part of it, they were reconducted to the royal palace, where Candide sat down to table with his Majesty, his valet Cacambo, and several ladies. Never was there a better entertainment, and never was more wit shown at a table than that which fell from his Majesty. Cacambo explained the King's _bon-mots_ to Candide, and notwithstanding they were translated they still appeared to be _bon-mots_. Of all the things that surprised Candide this was not the least. They spent a month in this hospitable place. Candide frequently said to Cacambo: "I own, my friend, once more that the castle where I was born is nothing in comparison with this; but, after all, Miss Cunegonde is not here, and you have, without doubt, some mistress in Europe. If we abide here we shall only be upon a footing with the rest, whereas, if we return to our old world, only with twelve sheep laden with the pebbles of El Dorado, we shall be richer than all the kings in Europe. We shall have no more Inquisitors to fear, and we may easily recover Miss Cunegonde." This speech was agreeable to Cacambo; mankind are so fond of roving, of making a figure in their own country, and of boasting of what they have seen in their travels, that the two happy ones resolved to be no longer so, but to ask his Majesty's leave to quit the country. "You are foolish," said the King. "I am sensible that my kingdom is but a small place, but when a person is comfortably settled in any part he should abide there. I have not the right to detain strangers. It is a tyranny which neither our manners nor our laws permit. All men are free. Go when you wish, but the going will be very difficult. It is impossible to ascend that rapid river on which you came as by a miracle, and which runs under vaulted rocks. The mountains which surround my kingdom are ten thousand feet high, and as steep as walls; they are each over ten leagues in breadth, and there is no other way to descend them than by precipices. However, since you absolutely wish to depart, I shall give orders to my engineers to construct a machine that will convey you very safely. When we have conducted you over the mountains no one can accompany you further, for my subjects have made a vow never to quit the kingdom, and they are too wise to break it. Ask me besides anything that you please." "We desire nothing of your Majesty," says Candide, "but a few sheep laden with provisions, pebbles, and the earth of this country." The King laughed. "I cannot conceive," said he, "what pleasure you Europeans find in our yellow clay, but take as much as you like, and great good may it do you." At once he gave directions that his engineers should construct a machine to hoist up these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three thousand good mathematicians went to work; it was ready in fifteen days, and did not cost more than twenty million sterling in the specie of that country. They placed Candide and Cacambo on the machine. There were two great red sheep saddled and bridled to ride upon as soon as they were beyond the mountains, twenty pack-sheep laden with provisions, thirty with presents of the curiosities of the country, and fifty with gold, diamonds, and precious stones. The King embraced the two wanderers very tenderly. Their departure, with the ingenious manner in which they and their sheep were hoisted over the mountains, was a splendid spectacle. The mathematicians took their leave after conveying them to a place of safety, and Candide had no other desire, no other aim, than to present his sheep to Miss Cunegonde. "Now," said he, "we are able to pay the Governor of Buenos Ayres if Miss Cunegonde can be ransomed. Let us journey towards Cayenne. Let us embark, and we will afterwards see what kingdom we shall be able to purchase." Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Cacambo und Candide werden zum ältesten Mann im Königreich geleitet, um Fragen zu stellen. Der Alte Mann erklärt, dass das Land namens El Dorado früher das Land der Inka war und durch seine glückliche Lage zwischen massiven Bergen vor der europäischen Eroberung geschützt wurde. Der Alte Mann erklärt den Besuchern die Systeme der Regierung, Religion und Kultur. Sie erfahren, dass das Land keine Gefängnisse und keine Gerichte hat und dass die Bewohner eine Religion praktizieren. Dies ist gut, da es die Kreuzzüge, die Intoleranz und die religiöse Verfolgung reduziert. Die Männer werden zum König gebracht, der sie freundlich empfängt. Obwohl El Dorado die Männer tief beeindruckt, bitten sie den König um Erlaubnis, zu gehen. Cacambo ist unruhig und Candide ist darauf erpicht, bei Cunegonde zu sein. Beide Männer möchten auch reiche, beeindruckende Männer in Europa werden. Der König versteht nicht, warum sie gehen wollen oder warum sie das Schlamm und die Felsen von El Dorado mitnehmen möchten. Dennoch beauftragt er Wissenschaftler, eine Maschine zu bauen, die ihnen den Transport zum Gipfel der Berge um El Dorado erleichtert. Die El Doradaner schicken die Männer mit 102 Schafen, die Juwelen tragen, auf den Weg. Außerdem sind die Schafe rot.

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: At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind. Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her. "Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these 'mad English'. "I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am." "How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?" "Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were out." "I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company. Flo's saving up for tonight." "What happens then, a ball?" "A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt will be charmed." "Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her infinite satisfaction. "I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there?" "Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it." "Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin." "Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally." "That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what. "Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city. "The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It's going to the Church of St. John." While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church. "Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad. "That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an admiring look. She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was 'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look. "If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay. At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June. "Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say 'stay'. So I do, for I shall never have another chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page. "I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear." He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'. Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him. "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish. Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh collar of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene. As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?" "I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm. "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also. "Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight. "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk. But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening. It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman. Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities. "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head. "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded. Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself. "My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said, surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand. In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away. She seldom ran--it did not suit her style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue. "Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her. "Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart. "Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay'," said Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window. "How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty as this, I'm afraid." "Thank you. It isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Please don't." "I thought you liked that sort of thing." "Not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better." "I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home. The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their Christmas ball. A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters. Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to dance?" "One usually does at a ball." Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible. "I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?" "I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with. "Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support... A daughter of the gods, Divinely tall, and most divinely fair," was all the satisfaction she got, however. The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka redowa. But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief. That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that 'little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'. It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he 'carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses. Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment. It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that would do him good!" "You look like Balzac's '_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_'," he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other. "My rouge won't come off." and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright. "What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee. "Illusion." "Good name for it. It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?" "It's as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now--stupide!" "I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see." "None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous." Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having 'little Amy' order him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection. "Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical look. "As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable. "Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession, the--the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word. Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self. I study as well as play, and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things." Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving. 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.

Zu Weihnachten trafen sich Laurie und Amy in Europa und fuhren zusammen. Laurie sprach nicht über seine Erfahrungen, bemerkte aber, dass Amy noch immer so reif war wie zuvor. Beide bemerkten angenehme Veränderungen am anderen und als ein Weihnachtsball anstand, gab Amy sich besonders viel Mühe, gut auszusehen, um Laurie zu gefallen. Als er sie sah, war Laurie verzaubert und blieb so viel wie möglich in ihrer Nähe. Er versuchte, ihr Komplimente zu machen, aber Amy bevorzugte es, dass er wie gewöhnlich direkt war, und am Ende des Abends hatten beide unterschiedliche Gedanken über den anderen.

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: One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister. "Howards End, "Tuesday. "Dearest Meg, "It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and altogether delightful--red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives to-morrow. From hall you go right or left into dining-room or drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a row there, and three attics in a row above. That isn't all the house really, but it's all that one notices--nine windows as you look up from the front garden. "Then there's a very big wych-elm--to the left as you look up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden and meadow. I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks--no nastier than ordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn't the least what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we associate them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We females are that unjust. "I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They are as angry as I am that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal disease every month. How could he have got hay fever in London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you won't agree, and I'd better change the subject. "This long letter is because I'm writing before breakfast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday--I suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then, 'a-tissue, a-tissue': he has to stop too. Then Evie comes out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a green-gage-tree--they put everything to use--and then she says 'a-tissue,' and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this on you because once you said that life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish tother from which, and up to now I have always put that down as 'Meg's clever nonsense.' But this morning, it really does seem not life but a play, and it did amuse me enormously to watch the W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in. "I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected. Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a great hedge of them over the lawn--magnificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only house near us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified love to Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday. "HELEN." "Howards End "Friday "Dearest Meg, "I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. Wilcox, if quieter than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, and I never saw anything like her steady unselfishness, and the best of it is that the others do not take advantage of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that you can imagine. I do really feel that we are making friends. The fun of it is that they think me a noodle, and say so--at least, Mr. Wilcox does--and when that happens, and one doesn't mind, it's a pretty sure test, isn't it? He says the most horrid things about woman's suffrage so nicely, and when I said I believed in equality he just folded his arms and gave me such a setting down as I've never had. Meg, shall we ever learn to talk less? I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I couldn't point to a time when men had been equal, nor even to a time when the wish to be equal had made them happier in other ways. I couldn't say a word. I had just picked up the notion that equality is good from some book--probably from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it's been knocked into pieces, and, like all people who are really strong, Mr. Wilcox did it without hurting me. On the other hand, I laugh at them for catching hay fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us out every day in the motor--a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's house, a wonderful road that was made by the Kings of Mercia--tennis--a cricket match--bridge and at night we squeeze up in this lovely house. The whole clan's here now--it's like a rabbit warren. Evie is a dear. They want me to stop over Sunday--I suppose it won't matter if I do. Marvellous weather and the views marvellous--views westward to the high ground. Thank you for your letter. Burn this. "Your affectionate "HELEN." "Howards End, "Sunday. "Dearest, dearest Meg,--I do not know what you will say: Paul and I are in love--the younger son who only came here Wednesday." 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.

Der Erzähler informiert uns, dass wir mit Helen's Briefen an ihre Schwester, Meg, beginnen. Der erste Brief beschreibt ein Haus - eine schöne, gemütliche Unterkunft umgeben von Bäumen. Klingt ziemlich gut für uns. Helen ist anscheinend dort zu Besuch bei einigen wohlhabenden Freunden: Herr und Frau Wilcox und ihren Kindern. Sie plant, am kommenden Samstag nach London zurückzukehren, wo Margaret mit ihrem schwächlichen Bruder Tibby zuhause festgehalten wird. Helen behauptet, dass energiegeladene Männer wie Herr Wilcox und sein Sohn Charles einen guten Einfluss auf Tibby hätten. Helen beschreibt die Wilcoxes, die wie eine nette Familie klingen, wenn auch ein wenig schrullig. Sie lieben alle die Natur und beschäftigen sich trotz ihres Heuschnupfens damit. Die Familie besteht aus Mrs. Wilcox, Mr. Wilcox und drei Kindern: Charles, Evie und dem noch nicht geborenen Paul. Helen's zweiter Brief enthüllt, dass sie vollständig von den Wilcoxes überzeugt ist - sie sind anscheinend völlig anders als die liberalen, verrückten Schlegels, und sie ist fasziniert von diesem Einblick in ihren Lebensstil. Zum ersten Mal wird Helen im Gespräch von Herrn Wilcox "auseinander gerissen" und sie genießt es. Helen's dritter Brief ist kurz und dramatisch - sie ist in Paul Wilcox verliebt.

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: PART II Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez's--Paule Mere--and don't come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller's address at the American banker's and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them," he said to Mrs. Costello. "If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people's houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache." "And where is the mother?" "I haven't the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne's impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. "I know you!" said Randolph. "I'm sure you know a great many things," exclaimed Winterbourne, taking him by the hand. "How is your education coming on?" Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne's voice she quickly turned her head. "Well, I declare!" she said. "I told you I should come, you know," Winterbourne rejoined, smiling. "Well, I didn't believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don't believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We've got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It's all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!" she murmured. "I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She's got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I've got it too. Father's got it. I've got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it's this climate; it's less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don't know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn't found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn't believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn't do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I'm sure there was nothing he wouldn't try. He was just going to try something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that it seems as if I couldn't get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and there's a great deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep." Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis's patient, during which Daisy chattered unremittingly to her own companion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with Rome. "Well, I must say I am disappointed," she answered. "We had heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard too much. But we couldn't help that. We had been led to expect something different." "Ah, wait a little, and you will become very fond of it," said Winterbourne. "I hate it worse and worse every day!" cried Randolph. "You are like the infant Hannibal," said Winterbourne. "No, I ain't!" Randolph declared at a venture. "You are not much like an infant," said his mother. "But we have seen places," she resumed, "that I should put a long way before Rome." And in reply to Winterbourne's interrogation, "There's Zurich," she concluded, "I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn't heard half so much about it." "The best place we've seen is the City of Richmond!" said Randolph. "He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond." "It's the best place I've seen," the child repeated. "Only it was turned the wrong way." "Well, we've got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. "It's on account of the society--the society's splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there's nothing like Rome. Of course, it's a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I've been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller's want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn't do anything. You wouldn't stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady's dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?" murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne. "Well, I don't know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker's ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you've got to go. Eugenio'll raise--something!" "I'm not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I'm coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I've got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy's mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It's an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He's an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He's a great friend of mine; he's the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He's tremendously clever. He's perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker's party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we'll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I'm going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She's going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don't think it's safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You'll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect," she said. "I'm not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won't keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don't walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian." "Well, he speaks English," said Mrs. Miller. "Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don't to do anything improper. There's an easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne's politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller's carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I'm going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy's mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. "Why haven't you been to see me?" asked Daisy. "You can't get out of that." "I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train." "You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!" cried the young girl with her little laugh. "I suppose you were asleep. You have had time to go to see Mrs. Walker." "I knew Mrs. Walker--" Winterbourne began to explain. "I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well, you knew me at Vevey. That's just as good. So you ought to have come." She asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle about her own affairs. "We've got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they're the best rooms in Rome. We are going to stay all winter, if we don't die of the fever; and I guess we'll stay then. It's a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I'm enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming. The society's extremely select. There are all kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There's something or other every day. There's not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker's, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won't leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you'll get lost--or run over? But there's Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He's staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don't suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she's a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don't like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It's too imperious." "I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning." The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter's companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he's not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!" Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman's not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. "Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably low-lived foreigner? The rendezvous in this case, indeed, had been in broad daylight and in the most crowded corner of Rome, but was it not impossible to regard the choice of these circumstances as a proof of extreme cynicism? Singular though it may seem, Winterbourne was vexed that the young girl, in joining her amoroso, should not appear more impatient of his own company, and he was vexed because of his inclination. It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly well-conducted young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly to be able to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by romancers "lawless passions." That she should seem to wish to get rid of him would help him to think more lightly of her, and to be able to think more lightly of her would make her much less perplexing. But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence. She had been walking some quarter of an hour, attended by her two cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety, as it seemed to Winterbourne, to the pretty speeches of Mr. Giovanelli, when a carriage that had detached itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path. At the same moment Winterbourne perceived that his friend Mrs. Walker--the lady whose house he had lately left--was seated in the vehicle and was beckoning to him. Leaving Miss Miller's side, he hastened to obey her summons. Mrs. Walker was flushed; she wore an excited air. "It is really too dreadful," she said. "That girl must not do this sort of thing. She must not walk here with you two men. Fifty people have noticed her." Winterbourne raised his eyebrows. "I think it's a pity to make too much fuss about it." "It's a pity to let the girl ruin herself!" "She is very innocent," said Winterbourne. "She's very crazy!" cried Mrs. Walker. "Did you ever see anything so imbecile as her mother? After you had all left me just now, I could not sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt to save her. I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet, and came here as quickly as possible. Thank Heaven I have found you!" "What do you propose to do with us?" asked Winterbourne, smiling. "To ask her to get in, to drive her about here for half an hour, so that the world may see she is not running absolutely wild, and then to take her safely home." "I don't think it's a very happy thought," said Winterbourne; "but you can try." Mrs. Walker tried. The young man went in pursuit of Miss Miller, who had simply nodded and smiled at his interlocutor in the carriage and had gone her way with her companion. Daisy, on learning that Mrs. Walker wished to speak to her, retraced her steps with a perfect good grace and with Mr. Giovanelli at her side. She declared that she was delighted to have a chance to present this gentleman to Mrs. Walker. She immediately achieved the introduction, and declared that she had never in her life seen anything so lovely as Mrs. Walker's carriage rug. "I am glad you admire it," said this lady, smiling sweetly. "Will you get in and let me put it over you?" "Oh, no, thank you," said Daisy. "I shall admire it much more as I see you driving round with it." "Do get in and drive with me!" said Mrs. Walker. "That would be charming, but it's so enchanting just as I am!" and Daisy gave a brilliant glance at the gentlemen on either side of her. "It may be enchanting, dear child, but it is not the custom here," urged Mrs. Walker, leaning forward in her victoria, with her hands devoutly clasped. "Well, it ought to be, then!" said Daisy. "If I didn't walk I should expire." "You should walk with your mother, dear," cried the lady from Geneva, losing patience. "With my mother dear!" exclaimed the young girl. Winterbourne saw that she scented interference. "My mother never walked ten steps in her life. And then, you know," she added with a laugh, "I am more than five years old." "You are old enough to be more reasonable. You are old enough, dear Miss Miller, to be talked about." Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely. "Talked about? What do you mean?" "Come into my carriage, and I will tell you." Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli was bowing to and fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably; Winterbourne thought it a most unpleasant scene. "I don't think I want to know what you mean," said Daisy presently. "I don't think I should like it." Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her carriage rug and drive away, but this lady did not enjoy being defied, as she afterward told him. "Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?" she demanded. "Gracious!" exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she turned to Winterbourne. There was a little pink flush in her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. "Does Mr. Winterbourne think," she asked slowly, smiling, throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot, "that, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the carriage?" Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of her "reputation." But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here, was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the few indications I have been able to give have made him known to the reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker's advice. He looked at her exquisite prettiness, and then he said, very gently, "I think you should get into the carriage." Daisy gave a violent laugh. "I never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker," she pursued, "then I am all improper, and you must give me up. Goodbye; I hope you'll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr. Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away. Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker's eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker's victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages. "In such a case," his companion answered, "I don't wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one can act accordingly." "I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined. "So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far." "What has she been doing?" "Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o'clock at night. Her mother goes away when visitors come." "But her brother," said Winterbourne, laughing, "sits up till midnight." "He must be edified by what he sees. I'm told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile goes round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller." "The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl's only fault," he presently added, "is that she is very uncultivated." "She is naturally indelicate," Mrs. Walker declared. "Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vevey?" "A couple of days." "Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should have left the place!" Winterbourne was silent for some moments; then he said, "I suspect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived too long at Geneva!" And he added a request that she should inform him with what particular design she had made him enter her carriage. "I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller--not to flirt with her--to give her no further opportunity to expose herself--to let her alone, in short." "I'm afraid I can't do that," said Winterbourne. "I like her extremely." "All the more reason that you shouldn't help her to make a scandal." "There shall be nothing scandalous in my attentions to her." "There certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said what I had on my conscience," Mrs. Walker pursued. "If you wish to rejoin the young lady I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a chance." The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden that overhangs the wall of Rome and overlooks the beautiful Villa Borghese. It is bordered by a large parapet, near which there are several seats. One of the seats at a distance was occupied by a gentleman and a lady, toward whom Mrs. Walker gave a toss of her head. At the same moment these persons rose and walked toward the parapet. Winterbourne had asked the coachman to stop; he now descended from the carriage. His companion looked at him a moment in silence; then, while he raised his hat, she drove majestically away. Winterbourne stood there; he had turned his eyes toward Daisy and her cavalier. They evidently saw no one; they were too deeply occupied with each other. When they reached the low garden wall, they stood a moment looking off at the great flat-topped pine clusters of the Villa Borghese; then Giovanelli seated himself, familiarly, upon the broad ledge of the wall. The western sun in the opposite sky sent out a brilliant shaft through a couple of cloud bars, whereupon Daisy's companion took her parasol out of her hands and opened it. She came a little nearer, and he held the parasol over her; then, still holding it, he let it rest upon her shoulder, so that both of their heads were hidden from Winterbourne. This young man lingered a moment, then he began to walk. But he walked--not toward the couple with the parasol; toward the residence of his aunt, Mrs. Costello. He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling among the servants when he, at least, asked for Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker's party took place on the evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his last interview with the hostess, Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing abroad, make a point, in their own phrase, of studying European society, and she had on this occasion collected several specimens of her diversely born fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as textbooks. When Winterbourne arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a few moments he saw her mother come in alone, very shyly and ruefully. Mrs. Miller's hair above her exposed-looking temples was more frizzled than ever. As she approached Mrs. Walker, Winterbourne also drew near. "You see, I've come all alone," said poor Mrs. Miller. "I'm so frightened; I don't know what to do. It's the first time I've ever been to a party alone, especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph or Eugenio, or someone, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain't used to going round alone." "And does not your daughter intend to favor us with her society?" demanded Mrs. Walker impressively. "Well, Daisy's all dressed," said Mrs. Miller with that accent of the dispassionate, if not of the philosophic, historian with which she always recorded the current incidents of her daughter's career. "She got dressed on purpose before dinner. But she's got a friend of hers there; that gentleman--the Italian--that she wanted to bring. They've got going at the piano; it seems as if they couldn't leave off. Mr. Giovanelli sings splendidly. But I guess they'll come before very long," concluded Mrs. Miller hopefully. "I'm sorry she should come in that way," said Mrs. Walker. "Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed before dinner if she was going to wait three hours," responded Daisy's mamma. "I didn't see the use of her putting on such a dress as that to sit round with Mr. Giovanelli." "This is most horrible!" said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. "Elle s'affiche. It's her revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I shall not speak to her." Daisy came after eleven o'clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. "I'm afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he's got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel." Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It's a pity these rooms are so small; we can't dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can't dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don't dance." "Of course you don't dance; you're too stiff," said Miss Daisy. "I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn't enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker's wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don't see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I'm a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You're a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don't do that; when I am angry I'm stiffer than ever. But if you won't flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don't understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn't exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!" interposed Daisy. "Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn't preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won't you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl's arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we've had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don't want her to go away without me." Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker's drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller's hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader's part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him. She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker's little party. One Sunday afternoon, having gone to St. Peter's with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said: "That's what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady's--Miss Baker's, Miss Chandler's--what's her name?--Miss Miller's intrigue with that little barber's block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That's their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it's not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don't believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don't believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don't believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is 'engaged.'" "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn't move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady's. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn't a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can't believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy's "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter's sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller's going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne's inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy's absence. "She's gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She's always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn't live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he's a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she's engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn't engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I've made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn't. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn't you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy's mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy's defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one's self to a belief in Daisy's "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can't you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn't flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don't believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don't really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don't go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven't you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn't think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn't believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph's skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don't believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don't!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o'clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron's famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman's voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy's behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn't cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--"All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it. I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne's rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don't mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don't look like much, but I'm healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn't have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven't we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That's one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne's silence, she asked him why he didn't speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn't matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl's pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don't forget Eugenio's pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don't care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement. Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that he had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colosseum with a gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her having been there under these circumstances was known to every member of the little American circle, and commented accordingly. Winterbourne reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after Daisy's return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter and the cab driver. But the young man was conscious, at the same moment, that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt should be "talked about" by low-minded menials. These people, a day or two later, had serious information to give: the little American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came to him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that two or three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they were being entertained in Mrs. Miller's salon by Randolph. "It's going round at night," said Randolph--"that's what made her sick. She's always going round at night. I shouldn't think she'd want to, it's so plaguy dark. You can't see anything here at night, except when there's a moon. In America there's always a moon!" Mrs. Miller was invisible; she was now, at least, giving her daughter the advantage of her society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill. Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse. She talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such a monstrous goose. "Daisy spoke of you the other day," she said to him. "Half the time she doesn't know what she's saying, but that time I think she did. She gave me a message she told me to tell you. She told me to tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure I am very glad; Mr. Giovanelli hasn't been near us since she was taken ill. I thought he was so much of a gentleman; but I don't call that very polite! A lady told me that he was afraid I was angry with him for taking Daisy round at night. Well, so I am, but I suppose he knows I'm a lady. I would scorn to scold him. Anyway, she says she's not engaged. I don't know why she wanted you to know, but she said to me three times, 'Mind you tell Mr. Winterbourne.' And then she told me to ask if you remembered the time you went to that castle in Switzerland. But I said I wouldn't give any such messages as that. Only, if she is not engaged, I'm sure I'm glad to know it." But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little. A week after this, the poor girl died; it had been a terrible case of the fever. Daisy's grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of the wall of imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring flowers. Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a number of other mourners, a number larger than the scandal excited by the young lady's career would have led you to expect. Near him stood Giovanelli, who came nearer still before Winterbourne turned away. Giovanelli was very pale: on this occasion he had no flower in his buttonhole; he seemed to wish to say something. At last he said, "She was the most beautiful young lady I ever saw, and the most amiable;" and then he added in a moment, "and she was the most innocent." Winterbourne looked at him and presently repeated his words, "And the most innocent?" "The most innocent!" Winterbourne felt sore and angry. "Why the devil," he asked, "did you take her to that fatal place?" Mr. Giovanelli's urbanity was apparently imperturbable. He looked on the ground a moment, and then he said, "For myself I had no fear; and she wanted to go." "That was no reason!" Winterbourne declared. The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes. "If she had lived, I should have got nothing. She would never have married me, I am sure." "She would never have married you?" "For a moment I hoped so. But no. I am sure." Winterbourne listened to him: he stood staring at the raw protuberance among the April daisies. When he turned away again, Mr. Giovanelli, with his light, slow step, had retired. Winterbourne almost immediately left Rome; but the following summer he again met his aunt, Mrs. Costello at Vevey. Mrs. Costello was fond of Vevey. In the interval Winterbourne had often thought of Daisy Miller and her mystifying manners. One day he spoke of her to his aunt--said it was on his conscience that he had done her injustice. "I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Costello. "How did your injustice affect her?" "She sent me a message before her death which I didn't understand at the time; but I have understood it since. She would have appreciated one's esteem." "Is that a modest way," asked Mrs. Costello, "of saying that she would have reciprocated one's affection?" Winterbourne offered no answer to this question; but he presently said, "You were right in that remark that you made last summer. I was booked to make a mistake. I have lived too long in foreign parts." Nevertheless, he went back to live at Geneva, whence there continue to come the most contradictory accounts of his motives of sojourn: a report that he is "studying" hard--an intimation that he is much interested in a very clever foreign lady. Kannst du eine passende 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.

Es ist Winter und Winterbourne kommt an, um bei seiner Tante zu bleiben, die jetzt in Rom ist. Die alte Mrs. Costello fängt sofort wieder an, über Daisy herzuziehen, und erzählt, wie sie mit vielen schnauzbärtigen Italienern herumgegangen sei. Offensichtlich erhöht dies aus Sicht von Mrs. Costello ihren Anflug von Zwielichtigkeit. Winterbourne beschließt jedoch, nicht sofort loszustürmen und Daisy zu besuchen. Immerhin scheint es ihr laut Tantes Erzählungen gut zu gehen, auch ohne ihn. Er geht seine Freundin Mrs. Walker besuchen, eine mittelalte Frau mit fast genauso viel gesellschaftlichem Ansehen wie seine Tante. In einer atemberaubenden Koinzidenz kommt das Trio Miller ein paar Minuten nach Winterbournes Ankunft zu Besuch bei Mrs. Walker vorbei. Daisy spielt wieder das Spiel, bei dem man nicht weiß, ob sie scherzt oder wirklich wütend ist, dass Winterbourne ihr nicht sofort nach seiner Ankunft in Rom schreibt oder sie besucht. Nach einer Weile schwärmt sie von ihrem neuen "Freund" Mr. Giovanelli, einem der Schnauzbart-Typen. Sie schafft es sogar, ihrer selbst und diesem neuen Love Interest eine Einladung zu einer anstehenden Party bei Mrs. Walker zu erschleichen. Dann verkündet sie, dass sie Giovanelli jetzt gleich am Pincio - einem beliebten öffentlichen Platz - treffen werde. Wie Sie sich vorstellen können, skandalisiert der Gedanke, einen allein stehenden Italiener in der Öffentlichkeit zu treffen, Mrs. Walker total, die der Denkweise von Mrs. Costello bezüglich Manieren und Männern mit Schnurrbärten angehört. Winterbourne begleitet Daisy zum Pincio, damit sie nicht alleine gehen muss, aber wir haben auch das Gefühl, dass er neugierig darauf ist, diesen Mr. Giovanelli kennenzulernen. Er wird unterwegs ein wenig herrisch mit Daisy und sagt zu ihr: "Du solltest manchmal auf einen Gentleman - den Richtigen - hören". Yowza. Daisy stellt die beiden Männer einander vor und zeigt erneut ihre erstaunliche Gelassenheit, indem sie es nicht peinlich macht. Winterbourne beschließt in sich selbst, dass Giovanelli gutaussehend ist, aber ein hinterlistiger Charmeur und ein unechter Gentleman. Echte Gentlemen treffen Mädchen nicht allein in der Öffentlichkeit und haben keine aufwendigen italienischen Schnurrbärte. Aber, fragen Sie sich, was ist mit Winterbourne, der alleine mit Daisy zum Schloss gegangen ist? Wir wissen es, wir wissen es. Die Heuchelei ist allgegenwärtig. Mrs. Walker hält mit ihrer Kutsche neben dem Trio an und winkt Winterbourne herüber, um ihn zu überzeugen, Daisy nicht in der Öffentlichkeit mit zwei Männern herumlaufen zu lassen. Winterbourne entgegnet, dass es vielleicht gar nicht so schlimm sei. Daisy kommt mit Giovanelli zur Kutsche und die Dinge werden zwischen ihr und Mrs. Walker ziemlich schnell angespannt. Es endet damit, dass Mrs. Walker sie praktisch auffordert, in die Kutsche zu steigen. Daisy fragt Winterbourne, ob er denkt, dass sie in die Kutsche einsteigen soll, und er antwortet mit einem klaren Ja. Daisy lacht und sagt, sie ziehe es vor, unpassend zu sein und ihren Spaziergang mit Giovanelli zu genießen. Eine weinende Mrs. Walker bittet Winterbourne, mit ihr zu fahren. Er tut dies und hört ihr dabei zu, wie sie über Daisys Ungezogenheiten klagt. Winterbourne steigt aus und geht allein nach Hause. Auf dem Weg sieht er Giovanelli und Daisy, wie sie sich bei Sonnenuntergang eng aneinander schmiegen, wie auf dem Cover einer dieser Liebeslied-Kompilationsalben, die nachts im Fernsehen beworben werden. Drei Tage später findet die Party bei Mrs. Walker statt. Mrs. Miller kommt ohne ihre Tochter und erzählt Winterbourne, dass Daisy alleine mit Mr. Giovanelli zu Hause sei - womp womp - und bald auftauchen würde. Daisy erscheint spät - nach elf Uhr, oh je! - allein mit Giovanelli. Es ist einer dieser Party-Fehltritte, bei denen alle aufhören zu reden und starren. Mrs. Walker begrüßt sie unhöflich, aber Daisy scheint es nichts auszumachen. Sie sagt, dass sie Giovanellis Proben für eine musikalische Aufführung gecoacht hat, die er dann auch gibt. Winterbourne gerät nach der Darbietung mit Daisy in einen Streit und tadelt sie erneut für ihr schlechtes Benehmen. Schließlich, nachdem er sie beschuldigt hat, eine flirtende Kokotte zu sein, schafft er es, die Wahrheit herauszulassen: "Ich wünschte, du würdest mit mir flirten, und nur mit mir". Katze aus dem Sack. Daisy antwortet kalt: "Du bist der letzte Mann, mit dem ich flirten würde", obwohl sie im Grunde genommen die ganze Zeit geflirtet haben. Ja, wir wissen es. Daisy geht in den anderen Raum, wo sie mit Giovanelli für den Rest der Party sitzt. Als sie gehen und sich von Mrs. Walker verabschieden wollen, ignoriert die ältere Frau das junge Paar völlig. Aua. Winterbourne sagt zu Mrs. Walker, dass es zu grausam war, und Walker antwortet, dass Daisy nie wieder in ihr Haus eingeladen wird. Totale Ignoranz. Winterbourne besucht Daisy im Hotel auf allgemeine Weise, aber sie ist oft nicht da. Wenn sie da ist, ist Giovanelli immer bei ihr. Boo. Eines Tages läuft er das fröhliche Paar - das darauf besteht, dass sie nicht verlobt sind - in einem öffentlichen Garten über den Weg. Giovanelli beschäftigt sich damit, Blumen für sein Revers zu pflücken, während Winterbourne Daisy warnt, dass über sie getratscht wird und sie bald nicht mehr von den Amerikanern in Rom besucht werden wird. Daisy sagt ihm, er solle sich für sie einsetzen, und er sagt, dass er den Leuten sagt, dass sie vielleicht mit Giovanelli verlobt ist. Sie antwortet, dass sie verlobt sind, und obwohl weder wir noch Winterbourne sagen können, ob sie es ernst meint, ist er ziemlich niedergeschlagen. Und ehrlich gesagt, wir auch. In der folgenden Woche macht sich Winterbourne auf einen nachdenklichen nächtlichen Spaziergang am Kolosseum vorbei, als er Daisy und Giovanelli noch mehr in der Öffentlichkeit kuscheln sieht. Dieses Mal flippt er richtig aus. Es ist nicht nur spät, sondern auch Malaria-Saison. Er ist besorgt, dass sie von den Mücken gestochen wird, die nachts herauskommen und zu dem führen, was sie als "Römische Fieber" und wir als einzellige Parasiten der Gattung Plasmodium bezeichnen - genau, Malaria. Er versucht, sie zu überreden, nach Hause zu gehen und Malariapillen zu nehmen, aber sie weigert sich. Schließlich sagt Giovanelli, dass die Pillen vielleicht keine schlechte Idee sind, und er ruft ein Taxi. Bevor sie gehen, fragt Daisy Winterbourne, ob er glaubt, dass sie wirklich mit Giovanelli verlobt ist. Er sagt, dass er nicht mehr weiß, woran er glauben soll. Tratsch über Daisys nächtliche Eskapaden machen die Runde in der amerikanischen Szene in Rom, aber Winterbourne hat den Mund gehalten. Winterbourne bekommt Wind davon, dass Daisy krank ist, und als er zu ihrem Hotel geht, um sie zu besuchen, erfährt er, dass es stimmt. Er kann nicht mit Daisy sprechen, aber Mrs. Miller sagt ihm, dass Daisy sehr darauf bestanden hat, dass sie die Nachricht weitergibt, dass sie nie mit Giovanelli verlobt war; "Ich weiß nicht, warum sie wollte, dass du es weißt", sagt Mrs. Miller zu ihm, "aber sie sagte mir dreimal: 'Sag Mr. Winterbourne, er soll wissen.'" Eine Woche später erhält Winterbourne die Nachricht, dass Daisy gestorben ist. Er geht zur Beerdigung, und sie ist kurz und traurig. Herr Giovanelli sagt Winterbourne, dass er sich sicher ist, dass Daisy nie vorhatte, ihn zu heiraten. Als Frau Costello Winterbourne über die Beerdigung befragt, überlegt er, dass Daisys letzte Nachricht an ihn bedeutet, dass sie ihn wirklich immer wollte und nicht Mr. Giovanelli. Hoppla. Der letzte Satz impliziert, dass Winterbourne, der jetzt in Genf lebt, mit "einer sehr klugen ausländischen Dame" zusammen ist. Rebound, jemand?

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: I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!) When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way. I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and--sickened me, at last, how they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness for something? I am sure you are fancying that ... However, I assure you I do not care if you are.... It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let me take breath ... You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am--then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old country-woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors.... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away. But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure? Answer: Of himself. Well, so I will talk about myself. 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.

Dostojewski beginnt mit einer Fußnote, in der er erklärt, dass der Erzähler imaginär ist; aber er behauptet, solche Menschen wie den Erzähler müssten existieren, denn er repräsentiert all jene, die gezwungen sind, "unterirdisch" zu leben, weil sie sich nicht mit der Gesellschaft identifizieren können oder sie so akzeptieren können, wie sie existiert.

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: Elizabeth erwachte am nächsten Morgen mit den gleichen Gedanken und Meditationen, die schließlich ihre Augen geschlossen hatten. Sie konnte sich noch nicht von der Überraschung erholen, was passiert war. Es war unmöglich, an etwas anderes zu denken, und sie hatte keinerlei Lust, sich zu beschäftigen. Nach dem Frühstück beschloss sie, sich bald in der frischen Luft zu entspannen und sich zu bewegen. Sie war gerade dabei, zu ihrem Lieblingsweg zu gehen, als sie sich daran erinnerte, dass Mr. Darcy manchmal dort auftauchte. Anstatt in den Park zu gehen, bog sie in die Straße ein, die sie weiter von der Hauptstraße entfernte. Der Parkzaun war immer noch auf der einen Seite die Grenze, und sie passierte bald eines der Tore in das Gelände. Nachdem sie zwei oder drei Mal entlang dieses Teils der Straße gelaufen war, wurde sie von der Schönheit des Morgens dazu verleitet, an den Toren anzuhalten und in den Park zu schauen. Die fünf Wochen, die sie jetzt in Kent verbracht hatte, hatten einen großen Unterschied in der Landschaft gemacht, und jeden Tag war das Grün der frühen Bäume größer geworden. Sie war gerade dabei, ihren Spaziergang fortzusetzen, als sie einen Blick auf einen Herrn erhaschte, der sich in der Art von Hain bewegte, der den Park säumte. Er bewegte sich in diese Richtung, und aus Furcht, es könnte Mr. Darcy sein, zog sie sich sofort zurück. Aber die Person, die näherkam, war jetzt nahe genug, um sie zu sehen, und trat mit Eifer auf sie zu und sprach ihren Namen aus. Sie hatte sich abgewendet, aber als sie ihren Namen hörte, wenn auch in einer Stimme, die bewies, dass es Mr. Darcy war, ging sie wieder auf das Tor zu. Er hatte es inzwischen auch erreicht und hielt ihr einen Brief hin, den sie instinktiv annahm, und sagte mit einem Blick von hoher Gelassenheit: "Ich habe mich einige Zeit im Hain spazieren gehen, in der Hoffnung, Ihnen zu begegnen. Wollen Sie mir die Ehre erweisen, diesen Brief zu lesen?" - Und dann, mit einem leichten Bogen, ging er wieder in die Plantage und war bald außer Sichtweite. Ohne Erwartung von Vergnügen, aber mit stärkstem Interesse, öffnete Elizabeth den Brief, und zu ihrem immer größer werdenden Erstaunen bemerkte sie einen Umschlag, der zwei Blätter Schreibpapier enthielt, vollständig in sehr enger Handschrift beschrieben war. Der Umschlag selbst war ebenfalls voll. Als sie ihren Weg entlang der Straße fortsetzte, fing sie dann an zu lesen. Er war datiert aus Rosings um acht Uhr morgens und lautete wie folgt: "Seien Sie nicht beunruhigt, Madame, beim Erhalt dieses Briefes, aus der Befürchtung, dass er Wiederholungen jener Gefühle enthält oder die Erneuerung jener Angebote, die Ihnen gestern Abend so widerlich waren. Ich schreibe, ohne die Absicht, Sie zu verletzen oder mich selbst zu erniedrigen, indem ich auf Wünsche eingehe, die zum Glück von uns beiden nicht schnell genug vergessen werden können; und der Aufwand, den die Abfassung und Lektüre dieses Briefes verursachen, hätte vermieden werden sollen, wenn es mein Charakter erfordert hätte, ihn zu schreiben und zu lesen. Sie müssen daher die Freiheit, mit der ich Ihre Aufmerksamkeit fordere, entschuldigen; Ihre Gefühle werden es widerwillig gewähren, aber ich fordere es von Ihrer Gerechtigkeit." "Zwei Vergehen von sehr unterschiedlicher Natur und keineswegs von gleicher Schwere haben Sie mir letzte Nacht vorgeworfen. Das erste Vergehen war, dass ich, ungeachtet der Gefühle beider Seiten, Mr. Bingley von Ihrer Schwester abgebracht habe - und das andere, dass ich trotz verschiedener Ansprüche, trotz Ehre und Menschlichkeit, den unmittelbaren Wohlstand und die Aussichten von Mr. Wickham ruiniert habe. Es wäre eine Verderbtheit gewesen, vorsätzlich und willkürlich den Gefährten meiner Jugend, den anerkannten Liebling meines Vaters, einen jungen Mann, der kaum andere Abhängigkeiten hatte als von unserer Unterstützung, abzuschütteln, obwohl er darauf vorbereitet war, dass sie aktiv werden würde, im Vergleich zur Trennung zweier junger Menschen, deren Zuneigung nur wenige Wochen lang gewachsen sein konnte. Aber von der Härte dieses Vorwurfs, der gestern Abend so großzügig gegenüber jeder einzelnen Umstand geäußert wurde, hoffe ich in Zukunft befreit zu sein, wenn der folgende Bericht über meine Handlungen und ihre Beweggründe gelesen wurde. Wenn ich dabei Gefühle erwähnen muss, die für Sie beleidigend sein könnten, kann ich nur sagen, dass es mir leid tut. Die Notwendigkeit muss befolgt werden - und weitere Entschuldigung wäre absurd. Ich war nicht lange in Hertfordshire, bevor ich, wie andere auch, erkannte, dass Bingley Ihre älteste Schwester vor jeder anderen jungen Frau im Land bevorzugte. Aber erst am Abend des Balls in Netherfield hatte ich eine Ahnung davon, dass er eine ernsthafte Bindung empfand. Ich hatte ihn zuvor oft verliebt gesehen. Bei diesem Ball, als ich die Ehre hatte, mit Ihnen zu tanzen, wurde ich zum ersten Mal durch eine zufällige Information von Sir William Lucas darüber informiert, dass Bingleys Aufmerksamkeiten gegenüber Ihrer Schwester eine allgemeine Erwartung ihrer Heirat hervorgerufen hatten. Er sprach davon als eines sicheren Ereignisses, bei dem nur die Zeit ungewiss sein konnte. Ab diesem Moment beobachtete ich das Verhalten meines Freundes aufmerksam und konnte damals erkennen, dass seine Vorliebe für Miss Bennet über das hinausging, was ich je bei ihm beobachtet hatte. Auch Ihre Schwester habe ich beobachtet. Ihr Blick und ihre Manieren waren offen, fröhlich und einladend wie immer, aber ohne jegliche Anzeichen besonderer Zuneigung. Und ich blieb nach dieser Abendlichen Untersuchung überzeugt, dass sie seine Aufmerksamkeiten mit Vergnügen entgegennahm, sie aber nicht durch irgendeine Art von gemeinsamen Gefühlen dazu einlud. Wenn Sie sich hier nicht geirrt haben, muss ich mich geirrt haben. Ihr besseres Wissen über Ihre Schwester lässt letzteres wahrscheinlicher erscheinen. Wenn dem so ist, wenn ich durch diesen Irrtum Schmerzen verursacht habe, so war Ihre Empörung nicht unbegründet. Aber ich werde nicht zögern zu behaupten, dass die Gelassenheit im Gesicht und in der Haltung Ihrer Schwester eine Überzeugung vermitteln konnte, dass, wie liebenswert ihr Wesen auch sein mochte, ihr Herz nicht leicht zu berühren war. Dass ich sie für gleichgültig hielt, ist gewiss - aber ich wage zu sagen, dass meine Untersuchungen und Entscheidungen in der Regel nicht von meinen Hoffnungen oder Ängsten beeinflusst werden. Ich glaubte nicht, dass sie gleichgültig war, weil ich es mir wünschte - ich glaubte es aus einer unparteiischen Überzeugung heraus, ebenso wahrhaft, wie ich es vernünftigerweise wünschte. Meine Bedenken gegen die Ehe waren nicht nur jene, die ich gestern Abend zugegeben habe, dass sie in meinem eigenen Fall die höchste Leidenschaft erforderten, um sie beiseite zu schieben; für meinen Freund konnte der Mangel an Verbindung nicht ein so großes Übel sein wie für mich. Aber es gab auch andere Gründe für meinen Widerwillen - Gründe, die, obwohl sie noch bestehen und in beiden Fällen in gleichem Maße bestehen, von mir selbst vergessen wurden, weil sie mir nicht unmittelbar bevorstanden. Diese Gründe müssen kurz genannt werden. Die Situation der Familie Ihrer Mutter, obwohl anfechtbar, war nichts im Vergleich zur völligen Mangel an Anstand, die von ihr selbst, von Ihren drei jüngeren Schwestern und gelegentlich auch von Ihrem Vater fast einheitlich verraten wurde. Verzeihen Sie mir. Es schmerzt mich, Sie zu verärgern. Aber während Sie sich um die Mängel Ihrer nächsten Verwandten sorgen und sich über diese Darstellung ärgern, sollte es Ihnen Trost geben zu bedenken, dass es Ihnen und Ihrer ältesten Schwester ebenso allgemein gelobt wird, sich so verhalten zu haben, dass Sie sich jeglicher Schuld ähnlich machen können. Ich werde nur noch sagen, dass meine Meinung über alle Parteien durch das, was an diesem Abend geschah, bestätigt wurde und dass jegliche Motivation, mich zuvor dazu gebracht hätte, meinen Freund vor einer Verbindung zu bewahren, die ich als äußerst unglücklich einschätzte, noch verstärkt wurde. Er verließ Netherfield am Tag darauf mit der Absicht, bald zurückzukehren. Nun muss ich meine Rolle erklären. Seine Schwestern waren ebenso besorgt wie ich; unsere Übereinstimmung wurde bald entdeckt; und da wir beide wussten, dass keine Zeit zu verlieren war, um ihren Bruder zu gewinnen, beschlossen wir kurz darauf, sich ihm direkt in London anzuschließen. Wir gingen also - und dort übernahm ich gerne die Aufgabe, meinem Freund die gewissen Übel einer solchen Wahl aufzuzeigen. Ich beschrieb und betonte sie nachdrücklich. Aber wie sehr diese Mahnung ihn auch ins Wanken gebracht oder seine Entscheidung verzögert haben mochte, ich glaube nicht, dass sie letztendlich die Heirat verhindert hätte, wenn sie nicht durch die Zusicherung unterstützt worden wäre, die ich nicht zögerte zu geben - dass Ihre Schwester gleichgültig sei. Er hatte zuvor geglaubt, dass sie seine Zuneigung aufrichtig erwiderte, wenn nicht in gleichem Maße. Aber Bingley hat eine große natürliche Bescheidenheit und hält sich stärker an mein Urteilsvermögen als an das eigene. Ihm daher zu überzeugen, dass er sich getäuscht hatte, war kein sehr schwieriges Unterfangen. Ihn davon abzubringen, nach Hertfordshire zurückzukehren, nachdem diese Überzeugung ausgesprochen worden war, war kaum die Arbeit eines Augenblicks. Ich kann mich nicht dafür tadeln, so viel getan zu haben. Es gibt nur einen Teil meines Handelns in dieser ganzen Angelegenheit, auf den ich nicht mit Zufriedenheit zurückblicke; dass ich es unterlassen habe, ihm zu sagen, dass Ihre Schwester in der Stadt ist. Ich wusste es selbst, wie auch Miss Bingley es wusste, aber ihr Bruder weiß es immer noch nicht. Es ist vielleicht möglich, dass sie sich ohne schlimme Folgen hätten treffen können. Aber seine Zuneigung schien mir noch nicht genug erloschen zu sein, um sie ohne Gefahr zu sehen. Vielleicht war diese Verheimlichung, diese Maskerade unter meiner Würde. Sie ist jedoch getan, und es wurde für das Beste getan. Zu diesem Thema habe ich nichts weiter zu sagen, keine weitere Entschuldigung anzubieten. Wenn ich die Gefühle Ihrer Schwester verletzt habe, war es unbewusst geschehen; und obwohl die Motive, die mich lenkten, Ihnen sehr natürlich gesehen unzureichend erscheinen mögen, habe ich noch nicht gelernt, sie zu verurteilen. Was die andere, schwerwiegendere Anklage betrifft, dass ich Mr. Wickham geschädigt habe, so kann ich sie nur Wahrer Charakter. Es fügt noch ein weiteres Motiv hinzu. Mein ausgezeichneter Vater starb vor etwa fünf Jahren; und seine Verbundenheit mit Mr. Wickham war bis zuletzt so beständig, dass er in seinem Testament besonders empfohlen hat, seinen Fortschritt auf die bestmögliche Weise zu fördern, die sein Beruf zulassen könnte, und wenn er Priester würde, wünsche er sich, dass ihm ein wertvoller Familienbesitz zukommen möge, sobald er frei würde. Außerdem gab es ein Vermächtnis von eintausend Pfund. Sein eigener Vater überlebte meinen nicht lange, und innerhalb eines halben Jahres nach diesen Ereignissen schrieb Mr. Wickham mir einen Brief, um mich darüber zu informieren, dass er sich endgültig gegen die Ordination entschieden habe und hoffe, ich würde es nicht für unvernünftig halten, wenn er anstelle der Beförderung eine sofortige finanzielle Entschädigung erwarte, von der er profitieren könnte. Er hatte die Absicht, fügte er hinzu, Jura zu studieren, und ich müsse bedenken, dass das Zinsen von eintausend Pfund eine sehr unzureichende Unterstützung sein würde. Ich wünschte mir eher, als dass ich es für ehrlich hielt, aber auf jeden Fall war ich bereit, seinem Vorschlag zuzustimmen. Ich wusste, dass Mr. Wickham kein Geistlicher sein sollte. Das Geschäft war daher bald erledigt. Er verzichtete auf jeglichen Anspruch auf Unterstützung in der Kirche, auch wenn er sich in einer Situation befände, in der er sie erhalten könnte, und akzeptierte im Gegenzug drei Tausend Pfund. Jede Verbindung zwischen uns schien jetzt aufgelöst. Ich dachte zu schlecht von ihm, um ihn nach Pemberley einzuladen oder seine Gesellschaft in der Stadt zuzulassen. In der Stadt lebte er meiner Meinung nach hauptsächlich, aber das Jura-Studium war nur eine vorgeschobene Ausrede, und da er nun frei von jeglicher Beschränkung war, führte er ein Leben von Faulheit und Ausschweifung. Etwa drei Jahre hörte ich wenig von ihm; aber nach dem Tod des Amtsinhabers der Pfarre, die für ihn vorgesehen war, bewarb er sich wieder per Brief um die Pfründe. Seine Umstände, versicherte er mir, und ich hatte keine Schwierigkeiten, es zu glauben, waren außerordentlich schlecht. Er hatte festgestellt, dass das Studium der Rechtswissenschaften eine höchst unprofitable Angelegenheit war, und war nun absolut entschlossen, sich ordinieren zu lassen, wenn ich ihn für die fragliche Pfarre vorschlagen würde - wofür es kaum Zweifel geben könne, da er gut davon überzeugt sei, dass ich niemand anderen versorgen müsse und die Absichten meines verehrten Vaters nicht vergessen hätte. Sie werden mich kaum dafür tadeln, dass ich dieser Bitte nicht nachgekommen bin, oder dass ich jeder Wiederholung standgehalten habe. Sein Groll stand im Verhältnis zu den Bedrängnissen seiner Umstände - und er war zweifellos genauso heftig in seinem Missbrauch gegenüber anderen wie in seinen Vorwürfen gegenüber mir. Nach dieser Zeit war jede Bekanntschaft verschwunden. Wie er lebte, weiß ich nicht. Aber letzten Sommer wurde er wieder schmerzlich in meiner Aufmerksamkeit aufgedrängt. Ich darf jetzt eine Umstand erwähnen, den ich selbst vergessen möchte und für den mich außer der gegenwärtigen Verpflichtung nichts dazu bewegen sollte, es einem Menschen mitzuteilen. Nachdem ich so viel gesagt habe, habe ich keinen Zweifel an Ihrer Verschwiegenheit. Meine Schwester, die mehr als zehn Jahre jünger ist als ich, wurde der Vormundschaft meines Mutterneffen, Colonel Fitzwilliam, und meiner selbst übergeben. Vor etwa einem Jahr wurde sie von der Schule genommen und es wurde eine Einrichtung für sie in London geschaffen; und letzten Sommer ging sie mit der Dame, die darin präsidierte, nach Ramsgate; und auch dorthin ging Mr. Wickham, zweifellos in Absicht; denn es hat sich herausgestellt, dass es eine vorherige Bekanntschaft zwischen ihm und Mrs. Younge gab, in deren Charakter wir höchst unglücklicherweise getäuscht wurden; und durch ihr Einverständnis und ihre Hilfe empfahl er sich in hohem Maße Georgiana, deren liebevolles Herz einen starken Eindruck von seiner Freundlichkeit als Kind behielt, dass sie überzeugt war, sich verliebt zu haben, und einer Flucht zustimmte. Zu dieser Zeit war sie erst fünfzehn, was als Entschuldigung gelten muss; und nachdem sie ihre Unbesonnenheit dargelegt hatte, bin ich glücklich, hinzufügen zu können, dass ich das Wissen davon ihr selbst verdankte. Ich trat ihnen unerwartet einen Tag oder zwei vor der geplanten Flucht bei und dann gestand Georgiana, dass sie nicht imstande sei, die Vorstellung zu ertragen, ihren Bruder zu betrüben oder zu beleidigen, zu dem sie fast wie zu einem Vater aufschaute, und sie gestand mir alles. Sie können sich vorstellen, wie ich mich gefühlt habe und wie ich gehandelt habe. Die Rücksicht auf das Ansehen und die Gefühle meiner Schwester verhinderte jede öffentliche Bloßstellung, aber ich schrieb an Mr. Wickham, der den Ort sofort verließ, und natürlich wurde Mrs. Younge von ihrer Aufgabe entbunden. Mr. Wickhams Hauptziel war zweifellos das Vermögen meiner Schwester, das dreißigtausend Pfund beträgt; aber ich kann nicht umhin anzunehmen, dass die Hoffnung, sich an mir zu rächen, ein starkes Motiv war. Seine Rache wäre in der Tat vollständig gewesen. Das, meine Dame, ist eine getreue Erzählung jeder Ereignisse, an denen wir gemeinsam beteiligt waren; und wenn Sie sie nicht als falsch zurückweisen, hoffe ich, dass Sie mich von nun an der Grausamkeit gegenüber Mr. Wickham freisprechen. Ich weiß nicht, auf welche Weise und unter welcher Form der Lüge er sich Ihnen gegenüber ausgegeben hat; aber sein Erfolg ist vielleicht nicht erstaunlich. Da Sie zuvor nichts von beiden wussten, konnten Sie es nicht entdecken, und Misstrauen war sicherlich nicht in Ihrem Interesse. Sie mögen sich vielleicht fragen, warum ich Ihnen dies nicht gestern Abend erzählt habe. Aber ich war zu der Zeit nicht genug Herr meiner selbst, um zu wissen, was offenbart werden konnte oder sollte. Für die Wahrheit aller hier aufgeführten Ereignisse kann ich mich besonders auf das Zeugnis von Colonel Fitzwilliam berufen, der aufgrund unserer engen Verwandtschaft und ständigen Intimität und noch mehr als einer der Testamentsvollstrecker des Willens meines Vaters zwangsläufig von jedem Detail dieser Transaktionen Kenntnis hatte. Wenn Ihre Abneigung gegenüber _mir_ meine Aussagen wertlos macht, können Sie durch dieselbe Ursache nicht davon abgehalten werden, meinem Cousin zu vertrauen; und damit Sie die Möglichkeit haben, ihn zu konsultieren, werde ich versuchen, eine Gelegenheit zu finden, Ihnen diesen Brief im Laufe des Morgens zu übergeben. Ich werde nur hinzufügen, Gott segne Sie. FITZWILLIAM DARCY. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag kann Elizabeth an nichts anderes denken als an das, was am Abend zuvor passiert ist. Sie beschließt, spazieren zu gehen, und als sie hört, wie Darcy sie ruft, versucht sie, ihm auszuweichen. Als er sie einholt, gibt er ihr einen Brief und bittet sie, ihn zu lesen. Der Brief beginnt damit, dass Elizabeth sich keine Sorgen machen muss, dass er seine Angebote erneuern möchte, aber dass er die Umstände erklären möchte, die den beiden Anschuldigungen, die sie gegen ihn erhoben hat, zugrunde liegen. In Bezug auf seine Überzeugung von Bingley, Netherfield zu verlassen, erklärt er, dass er Bingley schon oft verliebt gesehen hat, und dass er erst bei dem Ball realisiert hat, wie ernsthaft diese Beziehung war, als er Sir William und andere darüber sprechen hörte, dass sie eine Heirat erwarteten. Er hat Bingley und Jane dann genauer beobachtet und obwohl er sah, dass Bingley offensichtlich von Jane beeinflusst war, schien Jane ihm gleichgültiger zu sein. Als er seine Bedenken hinsichtlich der Minderwertigkeit von Janes Familie äußerte, war Bingley nicht bereit, sie aufzugeben, aber als Darcy ihm sagte, dass er Jane gleichgültig fühlte, stimmte Bingley zu zu gehen. In Bezug auf Wickham erklärt Darcy auch. Er schreibt, dass sein Vater in der Tat eine sehr hohe Meinung von ihm hatte, aber dass Wickham nach dessen Tod einen vereinbarten Geldbetrag erhalten hatte und als das Geld weg war, zurückkam, um seinen "lebenslangen Lebensstil aus Faulheit und Zügellosigkeit" zu unterstützen. Darcy wollte ihm kein weiteres Geld geben und hörte eine Zeit lang nichts von ihm, bis er von seiner Schwester erfuhr, dass sie sich in ihn verliebt fühlte. Darcy kam rechtzeitig, um die Entführung zu stoppen. Darcy schließt seinen Brief mit der Hoffnung, dass sie ihm jegliche Grausamkeit gegenüber Wickham verzeihen werde, und dass sie, wenn sie einen Beweis für die Wahrheit dessen, was er geschrieben hat, benötigt, mit Colonel Fitzwilliam sprechen könne.

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: Mrs Beale fairly swooped upon her and the effect of the whole hour was to show the child how much, how quite formidably indeed, after all, she was loved. This was the more the case as her stepmother, so changed--in the very manner of her mother--that she really struck her as a new acquaintance, somehow recalled more familiarity than Maisie could feel. A rich strong expressive affection in short pounced upon her in the shape of a handsomer, ampler, older Mrs. Beale. It was like making a fine friend, and they hadn't been a minute together before she felt elated at the way she had met the choice imposed on her in the cab. There was a whole future in the combination of Mrs. Beale's beauty and Mrs. Beale's hug. She seemed to Maisie charming to behold, and also to have no connexion at all with anybody who had once mended underclothing and had meals in the nursery. The child knew one of her father's wives was a woman of fashion, but she had always dimly made a distinction, not applying that epithet without reserve to the other. Mrs. Beale had since their separation acquired a conspicuous right to it, and Maisie's first flush of response to her present delight coloured all her splendour with meanings that this time were sweet. She had told Sir Claude she was afraid of the lady in the Regent's Park; but she had confidence enough to break on the spot, into the frankest appreciation. "Why, aren't you beautiful? Isn't she beautiful, Sir Claude, ISN'T she?" "The handsomest woman in London, simply," Sir Claude gallantly replied. "Just as sure as you're the best little girl!" Well, the handsomest woman in London gave herself up, with tender lustrous looks and every demonstration of fondness, to a happiness at last clutched again. There was almost as vivid a bloom in her maturity as in mamma's, and it took her but a short time to give her little friend an impression of positive power--an impression that seemed to begin like a long bright day. This was a perception on Maisie's part that neither mamma, nor Sir Claude, nor Mrs. Wix, with their immense and so varied respective attractions, had exactly kindled, and that made an immediate difference when the talk, as it promptly did, began to turn to her father. Oh yes, Mr. Farange was a complication, but she saw now that he wouldn't be one for his daughter. For Mrs. Beale certainly he was an immense one--she speedily made known as much; but Mrs. Beale from this moment presented herself to Maisie as a person to whom a great gift had come. The great gift was just for handling complications. Maisie felt how little she made of them when, after she had dropped to Sir Claude some recall of a previous meeting, he made answer, with a sound of consternation and yet an air of relief, that he had denied to their companion their having, since the day he came for her, seen each other till that moment. Mrs. Beale could but vaguely pity it. "Why did you do anything so silly?" "To protect your reputation." "From Maisie?" Mrs. Beale was much amused. "My reputation with Maisie is too good to suffer." "But you believed me, you rascal, didn't you?" Sir Claude asked of the child. She looked at him; she smiled. "Her reputation did suffer. I discovered you had been here." He was not too chagrined to laugh. "The way, my dear, you talk of that sort of thing!" "How should she talk," Mrs. Beale wanted to know, "after all this wretched time with her mother?" "It was not mamma who told me," Maisie explained. "It was only Mrs. Wix." She was hesitating whether to bring out before Sir Claude the source of Mrs. Wix's information; but Mrs. Beale, addressing the young man, showed the vanity of scruples. "Do you know that preposterous person came to see me a day or two ago?--when I told her I had seen you repeatedly." Sir Claude, for once in a way, was disconcerted. "The old cat! She never told me. Then you thought I had lied?" he demanded of Maisie. She was flurried by the term with which he had qualified her gentle friend, but she took the occasion for one to which she must in every manner lend herself. "Oh I didn't mind! But Mrs. Wix did," she added with an intention benevolent to her governess. Her intention was not very effective as regards Mrs. Beale. "Mrs. Wix is too idiotic!" that lady declared. "But to you, of all people," Sir Claude asked, "what had she to say?" "Why that, like Mrs. Micawber--whom she must, I think, rather resemble--she will never, never, never desert Miss Farange." "Oh I'll make that all right!" Sir Claude cheerfully returned. "I'm sure I hope so, my dear man," said Mrs. Beale, while Maisie wondered just how he would proceed. Before she had time to ask Mrs. Beale continued: "That's not all she came to do, if you please. But you'll never guess the rest." "Shall _I_ guess it?" Maisie quavered. Mrs. Beale was again amused. "Why you're just the person! It must be quite the sort of thing you've heard at your awful mother's. Have you never seen women there crying to her to 'spare' the men they love?" Maisie, wondering, tried to remember; but Sir Claude was freshly diverted. "Oh they don't trouble about Ida! Mrs. Wix cried to you to spare ME?" "She regularly went down on her knees to me." "The darling old dear!" the young man exclaimed. These words were a joy to Maisie--they made up for his previous description of Mrs. Wix. "And WILL you spare him?" she asked of Mrs. Beale. Her stepmother, seizing her and kissing her again, seemed charmed with the tone of her question. "Not an inch of him! I'll pick him to the bone!" "You mean that he'll really come often?" Maisie pressed. Mrs. Beale turned lovely eyes to Sir Claude. "That's not for me to say--its for him." He said nothing at once, however; with his hands in his pockets and vaguely humming a tune--even Maisie could see he was a little nervous--he only walked to the window and looked out at the Regent's Park. "Well, he has promised," Maisie said. "But how will papa like it?" "His being in and out? Ah that's a question that, to be frank with you, my dear, hardly matters. In point of fact, however, Beale greatly enjoys the idea that Sir Claude too, poor man, has been forced to quarrel with your mother." Sir Claude turned round and spoke gravely and kindly. "Don't be afraid, Maisie; you won't lose sight of me." "Thank you so much!" Maisie was radiant. "But what I meant--don't you know?--was what papa would say to ME." "Oh I've been having that out with him," said Mrs. Beale. "He'll behave well enough. You see the great difficulty is that, though he changes every three days about everything else in the world, he has never changed about your mother. It's a caution, the way he hates her." Sir Claude gave a short laugh. "It certainly can't beat the way she still hates HIM!" "Well," Mrs. Beale went on obligingly, "nothing can take the place of that feeling with either of them, and the best way they can think of to show it is for each to leave you as long as possible on the hands of the other. There's nothing, as you've seen for yourself, that makes either so furious. It isn't, asking so little as you do, that you're much of an expense or a trouble; it's only that you make each feel so well how nasty the other wants to be. Therefore Beale goes on loathing your mother too much to have any great fury left for any one else. Besides, you know, I've squared him." "Oh Lord!" Sir Claude cried with a louder laugh and turning again to the window. "_I_ know how!" Maisie was prompt to proclaim. "By letting him do what he wants on condition that he lets you also do it." "You're too delicious, my own pet!"--she was involved in another hug. "How in the world have I got on so long without you? I've not been happy, love," said Mrs. Beale with her cheek to the child's. "Be happy now!"--she throbbed with shy tenderness. "I think I shall be. You'll save me." "As I'm saving Sir Claude?" the little girl asked eagerly. Mrs. Beale, a trifle at a loss, appealed to her visitor, "Is she really?" He showed high amusement at Maisie's question. "It's dear Mrs. Wix's idea. There may be something in it." "He makes me his duty--he makes me his life," Maisie set forth to her stepmother. "Why that's what _I_ want to do!"--Mrs. Beale, so anticipated, turned pink with astonishment. "Well, you can do it together. Then he'll HAVE to come!" Mrs. Beale by this time had her young friend fairly in her lap and she smiled up at Sir Claude. "Shall we do it together?" His laughter had dropped, and for a moment he turned his handsome serious face not to his hostess, but to his stepdaughter. "Well, it's rather more decent than some things. Upon my soul, the way things are going, it seems to me the only decency!" He had the air of arguing it out to Maisie, of presenting it, through an impulse of conscience, as a connexion in which they could honourably see her participate; though his plea of mere "decency" might well have appeared to fall below her rosy little vision. "If we're not good for YOU" he exclaimed, "I'll be hanged if I know who we shall be good for!" Mrs. Beale showed the child an intenser light. "I dare say you WILL save us--from one thing and another." "Oh I know what she'll save ME from!" Sir Claude roundly asserted. "There'll be rows of course," he went on. Mrs. Beale quickly took him up. "Yes, but they'll be nothing--for you at least--to the rows your wife makes as it is. I can bear what _I_ suffer--I can't bear what you go through." "We're doing a good deal for you, you know, young woman," Sir Claude went on to Maisie with the same gravity. She coloured with a sense of obligation and the eagerness of her desire it should be remarked how little was lost on her. "Oh I know!" "Then you must keep us all right!" This time he laughed. "How you talk to her!" cried Mrs. Beale. "No worse than you!" he gaily answered. "Handsome is that handsome does!" she returned in the same spirit. "You can take off your things," she went on, releasing Maisie. The child, on her feet, was all emotion. "Then I'm just to stop--this way?" "It will do as well as any other. Sir Claude, to-morrow, will have your things brought." "I'll bring them myself. Upon my word I'll see them packed!" Sir Claude promised. "Come here and unbutton." He had beckoned his young companion to where he sat, and he helped to disengage her from her coverings while Mrs. Beale, from a little distance, smiled at the hand he displayed. "There's a stepfather for you! I'm bound to say, you know, that he makes up for the want of other people." "He makes up for the want of a nurse!" Sir Claude laughed. "Don't you remember I told you so the very first time?" "Remember? It was exactly what made me think so well of you!" "Nothing would induce me," the young man said to Maisie, "to tell you what made me think so well of HER." Having divested the child he kissed her gently and gave her a little pat to make her stand off. The pat was accompanied with a vague sigh in which his gravity of a moment before came back. "All the same, if you hadn't had the fatal gift of beauty--" "Well, what?" Maisie asked, wondering why he paused. It was the first time she had heard of her beauty. "Why, we shouldn't all be thinking so well of each other!" "He isn't speaking of personal loveliness--you've not THAT vulgar beauty, my dear, at all," Mrs. Beale explained. "He's just talking of plain dull charm of character." "Her character's the most extraordinary thing in all the world," Sir Claude stated to Mrs. Beale. "Oh I know all about that sort of thing!"--she fairly bridled with the knowledge. It gave Maisie somehow a sudden sense of responsibility from which she sought refuge. "Well, you've got it too, 'that sort of thing'--you've got the fatal gift: you both really have!" she broke out. "Beauty of character? My dear boy, we haven't a pennyworth!" Sir Claude protested. "Speak for yourself, sir!" she leaped lightly from Mrs. Beale. "I'm good and I'm clever. What more do you want? For you, I'll spare your blushes and not be personal--I'll simply say that you're as handsome as you can stick together." "You're both very lovely; you can't get out of it!"--Maisie felt the need of carrying her point. "And it's beautiful to see you side by side." Sir Claude had taken his hat and stick; he stood looking at her a moment. "You're a comfort in trouble! But I must go home and pack you." "And when will you come back?--to-morrow, to-morrow?" "You see what we're in for!" he said to Mrs. Beale. "Well, I can bear it if you can." Their companion gazed from one of them to the other, thinking that though she had been happy indeed between Sir Claude and Mrs. Wix she should evidently be happier still between Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale. But it was like being perched on a prancing horse, and she made a movement to hold on to something. "Then, you know, shan't I bid goodbye to Mrs. Wix?" "Oh I'll make it all right with her," said Sir Claude. Maisie considered. "And with mamma?" "Ah mamma!" he sadly laughed. Even for the child this was scarcely ambiguous; but Mrs. Beale endeavoured to contribute to its clearness. "Your mother will crow, she'll crow--" "Like the early bird!" said Sir Claude as she looked about for a comparison. "She'll need no consolation," Mrs. Beale went on, "for having made your father grandly blaspheme." Maisie stared. "Will he grandly blaspheme?" It was impressive, it might have been out of the Bible, and her question produced a fresh play of caresses, in which Sir Claude also engaged. She wondered meanwhile who, if Mrs. Wix was disposed of, would represent in her life the element of geography and anecdote; and she presently surmounted the delicacy she felt about asking. "Won't there be any one to give me lessons?" Mrs. Beale was prepared with a reply that struck her as absolutely magnificent. "You shall have such lessons as you've never had in all your life. You shall go to courses." "Courses?" Maisie had never heard of such things. "At institutions--on subjects." Maisie continued to stare. "Subjects?" Mrs. Beale was really splendid. "All the most important ones. French literature--and sacred history. You'll take part in classes--with awfully smart children." "I'm going to look thoroughly into the whole thing, you know." And Sir Claude, with characteristic kindness, gave her a nod of assurance accompanied by a friendly wink. But Mrs. Beale went much further. "My dear child, you shall attend lectures." The horizon was suddenly vast and Maisie felt herself the smaller for it. "All alone?" "Oh no; I'll attend them with you," said Sir Claude. "They'll teach me a lot I don't know." "So they will me," Mrs. Beale gravely admitted. "We'll go with her together--it will be charming. It's ages," she confessed to Maisie, "since I've had any time for study. That's another sweet way in which you'll be a motive to us. Oh won't the good she'll do us be immense?" she broke out uncontrollably to Sir Claude. He weighed it; then he replied: "That's certainly our idea." Von dieser Idee hatte Maisie natürlich weniger Verständnis, aber sie inspirierte sie fast ebenso sehr. Wenn in einer so strahlenden Aussicht nichts mehr zu wünschen übrig bliebe, folgte daraus, dass sie sich nicht nach Mrs. Wix sehnen würde. Aber ihr Bewusstsein, dass sie dem Fehlen dieser liebevollen Gestalt zugestimmt hatte, ließ ein Paar Worte in ihren Ohren erklingen. Es zeigte ihr kurz gesagt, was ihr Vater immer gemeint hatte, als er ihre Mutter einen "niederträchtigen Mitläufer" und ihre Mutter ihren Vater einen nannte. Sie fragte sich, ob sie selbst nicht eine niederträchtige Mitläuferin wäre, indem sie lernte, ohne Mrs. Wix so glücklich zu sein. Was würde Mrs. Wix tun? Wo würde Mrs. Wix hingehen? Bevor Maisie es wusste und an der Tür, während Sir Claude gegangen war, wurden diese Ängste auf ihren Lippen greifbar und ihr Stiefvater hielt lange genug an, um sie zu beantworten. "Oh, ich werde es ihr schon geben!" rief er und verließ dann das Haus. Maisie, nun Frau Beale gegenüber, sah erleichtert um sich und nahm eine höhere Ordnung wahr. "Dann wird JEDER zufriedengestellt sein!" sagte sie friedlich. Daraufhin beugte sich ihre Stiefmutter wieder liebevoll über sie. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Frau Beale begrüßt Maisie mit Umarmungen und Lob und Maisie bemerkt interessiert, dass ihre Stiefmutter sich "genau wie ihre Mutter" verhält. Maisie bemerkt erneut, wie schön Frau Beale ist, besonders jetzt, da sie etwas älter ist. Früh im Gespräch verrät Frau Beale, dass Sir Claude sie tatsächlich besucht hat. Sir Claude ist verärgert darüber, dass seine Lüge herausgekommen ist und sagt, dass er sie "zum Schutz des Rufes" erzählt habe, aber Maisie informiert ihn, dass sie die Wahrheit bereits von Frau Wix wusste. Maisie sagt Sir Claude, dass ihn seine Lüge nicht gestört hat, aber Frau Wix schon. Frau Beale, Maisie und Sir Claude diskutieren darüber, wie Sir Claude oft zu Besuch kommt, während Maisie im Haus ihres Vaters lebt. Maisie erzählt Frau Beale, wie Frau Wix gesagt hat, dass sie Sir Claude rettet, indem sie seine Pflicht und sein Leben ist, und Frau Beale sagt, dass sie dasselbe tun will. Die beiden Erwachsenen bedauern ihre Ehepartner. Plötzlich wird entschieden, dass Maisie für eine Weile im Haus bleiben und bei ihrem Vater wohnen wird und Sir Claude ihr Gepäck am nächsten Tag schicken wird. Sir Claude lobt Maisie für ihre Schönheit und Frau Beale erklärt, dass er Schönheit des Charakters meint. Maisie macht den Erwachsenen beide Komplimente und sagt, dass sie zusammen schön aussehen. Maisie bittet Sir Claude eindringlich, am nächsten Tag wiederzukommen, weil sie feststellt, dass es tatsächlich mehr Spaß macht, mit Sir Claude und Frau Beale als mit Sir Claude und Frau Wix zusammen zu sein. Sie bedauert, dass sie sich nicht von Frau Wix verabschieden kann, aber Sir Claude sagt, er werde sich um Frau Wix und Ida kümmern. Frau Beale schlägt vor, dass Maisie "an Institutionen auf Themen" Unterricht nehmen sollte, einschließlich französischer Literatur und Geschichte. Als Maisie vor der Aussicht Angst bekommt, sagen Sir Claude und Frau Beale, dass sie auch am Unterricht teilnehmen werden. Das Kapitel endet damit, dass Maisie erneut wegen Frau Wix besorgt ist, aber ihre Angst und Schuldgefühle erneut durch Sir Claudes Versprechen, sich "um sie zu kümmern", besänftigt werden.

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: SZENE V. Dunsinane. Innerhalb der Burg. [Betrete mit Trommel und Fahnen, Macbeth, Seyton und Soldaten.] MACBETH. Hängt unsere Banner an den äußeren Mauern auf; Der Ruf ist immer noch "Sie kommen": Die Stärke unserer Burg Wird eine Belagerung verlachen: Lasst sie hier liegen Bis Hunger und Fieber sie aufessen: Wären sie nicht gewaltsam mit denen, die uns gehören sollten, Hätten wir sie mutig, von Angesicht zu Angesicht Treffen können und sie zurück nach Hause schicken. [Ruf von Frauen im Inneren.] Was ist das für ein Lärm? SEYTON. Es ist der Schrei der Frauen, mein guter Herr. [geht ab.] MACBETH. Ich habe fast den Geschmack der Furcht vergessen: Es gab eine Zeit, in der meine Sinne abgekühlt worden wären, um einen Nachtschrei zu hören; und mein Haarschopf würde bei einer grauenvollen Abhandlung aufstehen und sich regen, Als wäre Leben darin: Ich habe mich mit Schrecken sattgegessen; Grauen, vertraut meinen mörderischen Gedanken, kann mich nicht einmal erschrecken. [Re-enter Seyton.] Warum war dieser Schrei? SEYTON. Die Königin, mein Herr, ist tot. MACBETH. Sie hätte erst später sterben sollen; Es hätte eine Zeit dafür gegeben.-- Morgen und morgen und morgen kriecht in diesem kleinen Tempo von Tag zu Tag, Bis zur letzten Silbe der aufgezeichneten Zeit; Und all unsere Gestern haben Narren erleuchtet Den Weg zum staubigen Tod. Hinaus, hinaus, flackerndes Kerzchen! Des Lebens nur ein wandelnder Schatten; ein armer Darsteller, Der eine Stunde auf der Bühne posiert und sich aufregt, Und dann nicht mehr gehört wird: Es ist eine Geschichte, Erzählt von einem Idioten, voller Klang und Wut, Und bedeutet nichts. [Betrete ein Bote.] Du kommst, um deine Zunge zu benutzen; deine Geschichte schnell. BOTE. Gnädiger Herr, Ich sollte berichten, was ich sah, Aber ich weiß nicht, wie ich es tun soll. MACBETH. Nun, sag es, Sir. BOTE. Als ich auf dem Hügel Wache stand, Schaute ich in Richtung Birnam und plötzlich dachte ich, Der Wald fing an, sich zu bewegen. MACBETH. Lügner und Sklave! [Schlägt ihn.] BOTE. Lass meinen Zorn ertragen, wenn es nicht so ist. Innerhalb von drei Meilen kannst du es kommen sehen; Ich sage, ein bewegender Hain. MACBETH. Wenn du falsch sprichst, Wirst du am nächsten Baum lebendig aufgehängt, Bis dich der Hunger erstickt: Wenn deine Worte wahr sind, Ist es mir egal, ob du das für mich tust.-- Ich nehme meinen Entschluss zurück; und beginne Den Zweifel an der Hinterlist des Teufels In Frage zu stellen, der wie Wahrheit lügt. "Fürchtet euch nicht, bis der Birnam Wald Nach Dunsinane kommt"; und jetzt kommt ein Wald Auf Dunsinane zu. Bewaffnet euch, bewaffnet euch und heraus! -- Wenn das, was er behauptet, erscheint, Gibt es weder Flucht noch Verweilen hier. Ich beginne, des Sonnenlichts müde zu werden, Und wünsche mir, dass der Zustand der Welt jetzt zerstört ist.-- Läutet die Alarmglocke! --Bläst, Wind! Kommt, Unwetter! Zumindest werden wir mit unserer Rüstung sterben. [hinausgehen.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Diese Szene findet erneut im Gericht des Palastes von Dunsinane statt, wo Macbeth mit Seton und seinen Soldaten spricht. Er belügt sich immer noch selbst und sagt den anderen: "Die Stärke unserer Burg wird eine Belagerung verhöhnen." Seine eitlen Worte werden unterbrochen vom Klagen der Frauen. Macbeth gibt zu, dass ihn die Geräusche nicht berühren, da er so sehr an "Schlachthausgedanken" gewöhnt ist. Er fragt Seton jedoch, warum sie weinen. Der Offizier antwortet, dass die Königin tot ist. Macbeth antwortet mit Worten, die nicht Trauer, sondern die völlige Leere des Lebens wiederspiegeln, die er empfindet: Morgen und morgen und morgen schleicht sich in diesem kleinen Tempo von Tag zu Tag bis zur letzten Silbe der aufgezeichneten Zeit; Und all unsere gestrigen haben Narren erleuchtet, den Weg zum staubigen Tod. Weg, weg, flüchtige Kerze! Das Leben ist nur ein wandernder Schatten, ein armer Spieler, der seine Stunde auf der Bühne prahlt und verärgert und dann nicht mehr gehört wird; Es ist eine Geschichte, erzählt von einem Idioten, voller Klang und Wut, ohne Bedeutung. Ein Bote unterbricht die Gedanken des Königs und teilt ihm mit, dass er vom Hügel aus nach Birnam geschaut hat und dachte, der Wald habe sich zu bewegen begonnen. Macbeth denkt sofort an die Prophezeiung und verflucht "den Teufel, der wie die Wahrheit lügt." Er weiß, dass seine Tage gezählt sind, wenn sich die Wälder auf seine Burg zubewegen. Er beendet die Szene erneut mit dem Wunsch nach dem Tod: "Ich beginne mich des Sonnenscheins zu überdrüssig zu fühlen und wünschen, dass der Zustand der Welt ungeschehen gemacht wäre." Er sagt jedoch, er werde wie ein Mann im Rüstzeug sterben.

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: IT is this part of the story that makes me saddest of all. For I ask myself unceasingly, my mind going round and round in a weary, baffled space of pain--what should these people have done? What, in the name of God, should they have done? The end was perfectly plain to each of them--it was perfectly manifest at this stage that, if the girl did not, in Leonora's phrase, "belong to Edward," Edward must die, the girl must lose her reason because Edward died--and, that after a time, Leonora, who was the coldest and the strongest of the three, would console herself by marrying Rodney Bayham and have a quiet, comfortable, good time. That end, on that night, whilst Leonora sat in the girl's bedroom and Edward telephoned down below--that end was plainly manifest. The girl, plainly, was half-mad already; Edward was half dead; only Leonora, active, persistent, instinct with her cold passion of energy, was "doing things". What then, should they have done? worked out in the extinction of two very splendid personalities--for Edward and the girl were splendid personalities, in order that a third personality, more normal, should have, after a long period of trouble, a quiet, comfortable, good time. I am writing this, now, I should say, a full eighteen months after the words that end my last chapter. Since writing the words "until my arrival", which I see end that paragraph, I have seen again for a glimpse, from a swift train, Beaucaire with the beautiful white tower, Tarascon with the square castle, the great Rhone, the immense stretches of the Crau. I have rushed through all Provence--and all Provence no longer matters. It is no longer in the olive hills that I shall find my Heaven; because there is only Hell... . Edward is dead; the girl is gone--oh, utterly gone; Leonora is having a good time with Rodney Bayham, and I sit alone in Branshaw Teleragh. I have been through Provence; I have seen Africa; I have visited Asia to see, in Ceylon, in a darkened room, my poor girl, sitting motionless, with her wonderful hair about her, looking at me with eyes that did not see me, and saying distinctly: "Credo in unum Deum omnipotentem.... Credo in unum Deum omnipotentem." Those are the only reasonable words she uttered; those are the only words, it appears, that she ever will utter. I suppose that they are reasonable words; it must be extraordinarily reasonable for her, if she can say that she believes in an Omnipotent Deity. Well, there it is. I am very tired of it all.... For, I daresay, all this may sound romantic, but it is tiring, tiring, tiring to have been in the midst of it; to have taken the tickets; to have caught the trains; to have chosen the cabins; to have consulted the purser and the stewards as to diet for the quiescent patient who did nothing but announce her belief in an Omnipotent Deity. That may sound romantic--but it is just a record of fatigue. I don't know why I should always be selected to be serviceable. I don't resent it--but I have never been the least good. Florence selected me for her own purposes, and I was no good to her; Edward called me to come and have a chat with him, and I couldn't stop him cutting his throat. And then, one day eighteen months ago, I was quietly writing in my room at Branshaw when Leonora came to me with a letter. It was a very pathetic letter from Colonel Rufford about Nancy. Colonel Rufford had left the army and had taken up an appointment at a tea-planting estate in Ceylon. His letter was pathetic because it was so brief, so inarticulate, and so business-like. He had gone down to the boat to meet his daughter, and had found his daughter quite mad. It appears that at Aden Nancy had seen in a local paper the news of Edward's suicide. In the Red Sea she had gone mad. She had remarked to Mrs Colonel Luton, who was chaperoning her, that she believed in an Omnipotent Deity. She hadn't made any fuss; her eyes were quite dry and glassy. Even when she was mad Nancy could behave herself. Colonel Rufford said the doctor did not anticipate that there was any chance of his child's recovery. It was, nevertheless, possible that if she could see someone from Branshaw it might soothe her and it might have a good effect. And he just simply wrote to Leonora: "Please come and see if you can do it." I seem to have lost all sense of the pathetic; but still, that simple, enormous request of the old colonel strikes me as pathetic. He was cursed by his atrocious temper; he had been cursed by a half-mad wife, who drank and went on the streets. His daughter was totally mad--and yet he believed in the goodness of human nature. He believed that Leonora would take the trouble to go all the way to Ceylon in order to soothe his daughter. Leonora wouldn't. Leonora didn't ever want to see Nancy again. I daresay that that, in the circumstances, was natural enough. At the same time she agreed, as it were, on public grounds, that someone soothing ought to go from Branshaw to Ceylon. She sent me and her old nurse, who had looked after Nancy from the time when the girl, a child of thirteen, had first come to Branshaw. So off I go, rushing through Provence, to catch the steamer at Marseilles. And I wasn't the least good when I got to Ceylon; and the nurse wasn't the least good. Nothing has been the least good. The doctors said, at Kandy, that if Nancy could be brought to England, the sea air, the change of climate, the voyage, and all the usual sort of things, might restore her reason. Of course, they haven't restored her reason. She is, I am aware, sitting in the hall, forty paces from where I am now writing. I don't want to be in the least romantic about it. She is very well dressed; she is quite quiet; she is very beautiful. The old nurse looks after her very efficiently. Of course you have the makings of a situation here, but it is all very humdrum, as far as I am concerned. I should marry Nancy if her reason were ever sufficiently restored to let her appreciate the meaning of the Anglican marriage service. But it is probable that her reason will never be sufficiently restored to let her appreciate the meaning of the Anglican marriage service. Therefore I cannot marry her, according to the law of the land. So here I am very much where I started thirteen years ago. I am the attendant, not the husband, of a beautiful girl, who pays no attention to me. I am estranged from Leonora, who married Rodney Bayham in my absence and went to live at Bayham. Leonora rather dislikes me, because she has got it into her head that I disapprove of her marriage with Rodney Bayham. Well, I disapprove of her marriage. Possibly I am jealous. Yes, no doubt I am jealous. In my fainter sort of way I seem to perceive myself following the lines of Edward Ashburnham. I suppose that I should really like to be a polygamist; with Nancy, and with Leonora, and with Maisie Maidan and possibly even with Florence. I am no doubt like every other man; only, probably because of my American origin I am fainter. At the same time I am able to assure you that I am a strictly respectable person. I have never done anything that the most anxious mother of a daughter or the most careful dean of a cathedral would object to. I have only followed, faintly, and in my unconscious desires, Edward Ashburnham. Well, it is all over. Not one of us has got what he really wanted. Leonora wanted Edward, and she has got Rodney Bayham, a pleasant enough sort of sheep. Florence wanted Branshaw, and it is I who have bought it from Leonora. I didn't really want it; what I wanted mostly was to cease being a nurse-attendant. Well, I am a nurse-attendant. Edward wanted Nancy Rufford, and I have got her. Only she is mad. It is a queer and fantastic world. Why can't people have what they want? The things were all there to content everybody; yet everybody has the wrong thing. Perhaps you can make head or tail of it; it is beyond me. Is there any terrestial paradise where, amidst the whispering of the olive-leaves, people can be with whom they like and have what they like and take their ease in shadows and in coolness? Or are all men's lives like the lives of us good people--like the lives of the Ashburnhams, of the Dowells, of the Ruffords--broken, tumultuous, agonized, and unromantic, lives, periods punctuated by screams, by imbecilities, by deaths, by agonies? Who the devil knows? For there was a great deal of imbecility about the closing scenes of the Ashburnham tragedy. Neither of those two women knew what they wanted. It was only Edward who took a perfectly clear line, and he was drunk most of the time. But, drunk or sober, he stuck to what was demanded by convention and by the traditions of his house. Nancy Rufford had to be exported to India, and Nancy Rufford hadn't to hear a word of love from him. She was exported to India and she never heard a word from Edward Ashburnham. It was the conventional line; it was in tune with the tradition of Edward's house. I daresay it worked out for the greatest good of the body politic. Conventions and traditions, I suppose, work blindly but surely for the preservation of the normal type; for the extinction of proud, resolute and unusual individuals. Edward was the normal man, but there was too much of the sentimentalist about him; and society does not need too many sentimentalists. Nancy was a splendid creature, but she had about her a touch of madness. Society does not need individuals with touches of madness about them. So Edward and Nancy found themselves steamrolled out and Leonora survives, the perfectly normal type, married to a man who is rather like a rabbit. For Rodney Bayham is rather like a rabbit, and I hear that Leonora is expected to have a baby in three months' time. So those splendid and tumultuous creatures with their magnetism and their passions--those two that I really loved--have gone from this earth. It is no doubt best for them. What would Nancy have made of Edward if she had succeeded in living with him; what would Edward have made of her? For there was about Nancy a touch of cruelty--a touch of definite actual cruelty that made her desire to see people suffer. Yes, she desired to see Edward suffer. And, by God, she gave him hell. She gave him an unimaginable hell. Those two women pursued that poor devil and flayed the skin off him as if they had done it with whips. I tell you his mind bled almost visibly. I seem to see him stand, naked to the waist, his forearms shielding his eyes, and flesh hanging from him in rags. I tell you that is no exaggeration of what I feel. It was as if Leonora and Nancy banded themselves together to do execution, for the sake of humanity, upon the body of a man who was at their disposal. They were like a couple of Sioux who had got hold of an Apache and had him well tied to a stake. I tell you there was no end to the tortures they inflicted upon him. Night after night he would hear them talking; talking; maddened, sweating, seeking oblivion in drink, he would lie there and hear the voices going on and on. And day after day Leonora would come to him and would announce the results of their deliberations. They were like judges debating over the sentence upon a criminal; they were like ghouls with an immobile corpse in a tomb beside them. I don't think that Leonora was any more to blame than the girl--though Leonora was the more active of the two. Leonora, as I have said, was the perfectly normal woman. I mean to say that in normal circumstances her desires were those of the woman who is needed by society. She desired children, decorum, an establishment; she desired to avoid waste, she desired to keep up appearances. She was utterly and entirely normal even in her utterly undeniable beauty. But I don't mean to say that she acted perfectly normally in this perfectly abnormal situation. All the world was mad around her and she herself, agonized, took on the complexion of a mad woman; of a woman very wicked; of the villain of the piece. What would you have? Steel is a normal, hard, polished substance. But, if you put it in a hot fire it will become red, soft, and not to be handled. If you put it in a fire still more hot it will drip away. It was like that with Leonora. She was made for normal circumstances--for Mr Rodney Bayham, who will keep a separate establishment, secretly, in Portsmouth, and make occasional trips to Paris and to Budapest. In the case of Edward and the girl, Leonora broke and simply went all over the place. She adopted unfamiliar and therefore extraordinary and ungraceful attitudes of mind. At one moment she was all for revenge. After haranguing the girl for hours through the night she harangued for hours of the day the silent Edward. And Edward just once tripped up, and that was his undoing. Perhaps he had had too much whisky that afternoon. She asked him perpetually what he wanted. What did he want? What did he want? And all he ever answered was: "I have told you". He meant that he wanted the girl to go to her father in India as soon as her father should cable that he was ready to receive her. But just once he tripped up. To Leonora's eternal question he answered that all he desired in life was that--that he could pick himself together again and go on with his daily occupations if--the girl, being five thousand miles away, would continue to love him. He wanted nothing more, He prayed his God for nothing more. Well, he was a sentimentalist. And the moment that she heard that, Leonora determined that the girl should not go five thousand miles away and that she should not continue to love Edward. The way she worked it was this: She continued to tell the girl that she must belong to Edward; she was going to get a divorce; she was going to get a dissolution of marriage from Rome. But she considered it to be her duty to warn the girl of the sort of monster that Edward was. She told the girl of La Dolciquita, of Mrs Basil, of Maisie Maidan, of Florence. She spoke of the agonies that she had endured during her life with the man, who was violent, overbearing, vain, drunken, arrogant, and monstrously a prey to his sexual necessities. And, at hearing of the miseries her aunt had suffered--for Leonora once more had the aspect of an aunt to the girl--with the swift cruelty of youth and, with the swift solidarity that attaches woman to woman, the girl made her resolves. Her aunt said incessantly: "You must save Edward's life; you must save his life. All that he needs is a little period of satisfaction from you. Then he will tire of you as he has of the others. But you must save his life." And, all the while, that wretched fellow knew--by a curious instinct that runs between human beings living together--exactly what was going on. And he remained dumb; he stretched out no finger to help himself. All that he required to keep himself a decent member of society was, that the girl, five thousand miles away, should continue to love him. They were putting a stopper upon that. I have told you that the girl came one night to his room. And that was the real hell for him. That was the picture that never left his imagination--the girl, in the dim light, rising up at the foot of his bed. He said that it seemed to have a greenish sort of effect as if there were a greenish tinge in the shadows of the tall bedposts that framed her body. And she looked at him with her straight eyes of an unflinching cruelty and she said: "I am ready to belong to you--to save your life." He answered: "I don't want it; I don't want it; I don't want it." And he says that he didn't want it; that he would have hated himself; that it was unthinkable. And all the while he had the immense temptation to do the unthinkable thing, not from the physical desire but because of a mental certitude. He was certain that if she had once submitted to him she would remain his for ever. He knew that. She was thinking that her aunt had said he had desired her to love him from a distance of five thousand miles. She said: "I can never love you now I know the kind of man you are. I will belong to you to save your life. But I can never love you." It was a fantastic display of cruelty. She didn't in the least know what it meant--to belong to a man. But, at that Edward pulled himself together. He spoke in his normal tones; gruff, husky, overbearing, as he would have done to a servant or to a horse. "Go back to your room," he said. "Go back to your room and go to sleep. This is all nonsense." They were baffled, those two women. And then I came on the scene. MY coming on the scene certainly calmed things down--for the whole fortnight that intervened between my arrival and the girl's departure. I don't mean to say that the endless talking did not go on at night or that Leonora did not send me out with the girl and, in the interval, give Edward a hell of a time. Having discovered what he wanted--that the girl should go five thousand miles away and love him steadfastly as people do in sentimental novels, she was determined to smash that aspiration. And she repeated to Edward in every possible tone that the girl did not love him; that the girl detested him for his brutality, his overbearingness, his drinking habits. She pointed out that Edward in the girl's eyes, was already pledged three or four deep. He was pledged to Leonora herself, to Mrs Basil, and to the memories of Maisie Maidan and to Florence. Edward never said anything. Did the girl love Edward, or didn't she? I don't know. At that time I daresay she didn't though she certainly had done so before Leonora had got to work upon his reputation. She certainly had loved him for what I call the public side of his record--for his good soldiering, for his saving lives at sea, for the excellent landlord that he was and the good sportsman. But it is quite possible that all those things came to appear as nothing in her eyes when she discovered that he wasn't a good husband. For, though women, as I see them, have little or no feeling of responsibility towards a county or a country or a career--although they may be entirely lacking in any kind of communal solidarity--they have an immense and automatically working instinct that attaches them to the interest of womanhood. It is, of course, possible for any woman to cut out and to carry off any other woman's husband or lover. But I rather think that a woman will only do this if she has reason to believe that the other woman has given her husband a bad time. I am certain that if she thinks the man has been a brute to his wife she will, with her instinctive feeling for suffering femininity, "put him back", as the saying is. I don't attach any particular importance to these generalizations of mine. They may be right, they may be wrong; I am only an ageing American with very little knowledge of life. You may take my generalizations or leave them. But I am pretty certain that I am right in the case of Nancy Rufford--that she had loved Edward Ashburnham very deeply and tenderly. It is nothing to the point that she let him have it good and strong as soon as she discovered that he had been unfaithful to Leonora and that his public services had cost more than Leonora thought they ought to have cost. Nancy would be bound to let him have it good and strong then. She would owe that to feminine public opinion; she would be driven to it by the instinct for self-preservation, since she might well imagine that if Edward had been unfaithful to Leonora, to Mrs Basil and to the memories of the other two, he might be unfaithful to herself. And, no doubt, she had her share of the sex instinct that makes women be intolerably cruel to the beloved person. Anyhow, I don't know whether, at this point, Nancy Rufford loved Edward Ashburnham. I don't know whether she even loved him when, on getting, at Aden, the news of his suicide she went mad. Because that may just as well have been for the sake of Leonora as for the sake of Edward. Or it may have been for the sake of both of them. I don't know. I know nothing. I am very tired. Leonora held passionately the doctrine that the girl didn't love Edward. She wanted desperately to believe that. It was a doctrine as necessary to her existence as a belief in the personal immortality of the soul. She said that it was impossible that Nancy could have loved Edward after she had given the girl her view of Edward's career and character. Edward, on the other hand, believed maunderingly that some essential attractiveness in himself must have made the girl continue to go on loving him--to go on loving him, as it were, in underneath her official aspect of hatred. He thought she only pretended to hate him in order to save her face and he thought that her quite atrocious telegram from Brindisi was only another attempt to do that--to prove that she had feelings creditable to a member of the feminine commonweal. I don't know. I leave it to you. There is another point that worries me a good deal in the aspects of this sad affair. Leonora says that, in desiring that the girl should go five thousand miles away and yet continue to love him, Edward was a monster of selfishness. He was desiring the ruin of a young life. Edward on the other hand put it to me that, supposing that the girl's love was a necessity to his existence, and, if he did nothing by word or by action to keep Nancy's love alive, he couldn't be called selfish. Leonora replied that showed he had an abominably selfish nature even though his actions might be perfectly correct. I can't make out which of them was right. I leave it to you. It is, at any rate, certain that Edward's actions were perfectly--were monstrously, were cruelly--correct. He sat still and let Leonora take away his character, and let Leonora damn him to deepest hell, without stirring a finger. I daresay he was a fool; I don't see what object there was in letting the girl think worse of him than was necessary. Still there it is. And there it is also that all those three presented to the world the spectacle of being the best of good people. I assure you that during my stay for that fortnight in that fine old house, I never so much as noticed a single thing that could have affected that good opinion. And even when I look back, knowing the circumstances, I can't remember a single thing any of them said that could have betrayed them. I can't remember, right up to the dinner, when Leonora read out that telegram--not the tremor of an eyelash, not the shaking of a hand. It was just a pleasant country house-party. And Leonora kept it up jolly well, for even longer than that--she kept it up as far as I was concerned until eight days after Edward's funeral. Immediately after that particular dinner--the dinner at which I received the announcement that Nancy was going to leave for India on the following day--I asked Leonora to let me have a word with her. She took me into her little sitting-room and I then said--I spare you the record of my emotions--that she was aware that I wished to marry Nancy; that she had seemed to favour my suit and that it appeared to be rather a waste of money upon tickets and rather a waste of time upon travel to let the girl go to India if Leonora thought that there was any chance of her marrying me. And Leonora, I assure you, was the absolutely perfect British matron. She said that she quite favoured my suit; that she could not desire for the girl a better husband; but that she considered that the girl ought to see a little more of life before taking such an important step. Yes, Leonora used the words "taking such an important step". She was perfect. Actually, I think she would have liked the girl to marry me enough but my programme included the buying of the Kershaw's house about a mile away upon the Fordingbridge road, and settling down there with the girl. That didn't at all suit Leonora. She didn't want to have the girl within a mile and a half of Edward for the rest of their lives. Still, I think she might have managed to let me know, in some periphrasis or other, that I might have the girl if I would take her to Philadelphia or Timbuctoo. I loved Nancy very much--and Leonora knew it. However, I left it at that. I left it with the understanding that Nancy was going away to India on probation. It seemed to me a perfectly reasonable arrangement and I am a reasonable sort of man. I simply said that I should follow Nancy out to India after six months' time or so. Or, perhaps, after a year. Well, you see, I did follow Nancy out to India after a year.... I must confess to having felt a little angry with Leonora for not having warned me earlier that the girl would be going. I took it as one of the queer, not very straight methods that Roman Catholics seem to adopt in dealing with matters of this world. I took it that Leonora had been afraid I should propose to the girl or, at any rate, have made considerably greater advances to her than I did, if I had known earlier that she was going away so soon. Perhaps Leonora was right; perhaps Roman Catholics, with their queer, shifty ways, are always right. They are dealing with the queer, shifty thing that is human nature. For it is quite possible that, if I had known Nancy was going away so soon, I should have tried making love to her. And that would have produced another complication. It may have been just as well. It is queer the fantastic things that quite good people will do in order to keep up their appearance of calm pococurantism. For Edward Ashburnham and his wife called me half the world over in order to sit on the back seat of a dog-cart whilst Edward drove the girl to the railway station from which she was to take her departure to India. They wanted, I suppose, to have a witness of the calmness of that function. The girl's luggage had been already packed and sent off before. Her berth on the steamer had been taken. They had timed it all so exactly that it went like clockwork. They had known the date upon which Colonel Rufford would get Edward's letter and they had known almost exactly the hour at which they would receive his telegram asking his daughter to come to him. It had all been quite beautifully and quite mercilessly arranged, by Edward himself. They gave Colonel Rufford, as a reason for telegraphing, the fact that Mrs Colonel Somebody or other would be travelling by that ship and that she would serve as an efficient chaperon for the girl. It was a most amazing business, and I think that it would have been better in the eyes of God if they had all attempted to gouge out each other's eyes with carving knives. But they were "good people". After my interview with Leonora I went desultorily into Edward's gun-room. I didn't know where the girl was and I thought I might find her there. I suppose I had a vague idea of proposing to her in spite of Leonora. So, I presume, I don't come of quite such good people as the Ashburnhams. Edward was lounging in his chair smoking a cigar and he said nothing for quite five minutes. The candles glowed in the green shades; the reflections were green in the glasses of the book-cases that held guns and fishing-rods. Over the mantelpiece was the brownish picture of the white horse. Those were the quietest moments that I have ever known. Then, suddenly, Edward looked me straight in the eyes and said: "Look here, old man, I wish you would drive with Nancy and me to the station tomorrow." I said that of course I would drive with him and Nancy to the station on the morrow. He lay there for a long time, looking along the line of his knees at the fluttering fire, and then suddenly, in a perfectly calm voice, and without lifting his eyes, he said: "I am so desperately in love with Nancy Rufford that I am dying of it." Poor devil--he hadn't meant to speak of it. But I guess he just had to speak to somebody and I appeared to be like a woman or a solicitor. He talked all night. Well, he carried out the programme to the last breath. It was a very clear winter morning, with a good deal of frost in it. The sun was quite bright, the winding road between the heather and the bracken was very hard. I sat on the back-seat of the dog-cart; Nancy was beside Edward. They talked about the way the cob went; Edward pointed out with the whip a cluster of deer upon a coombe three-quarters of a mile away. We passed the hounds in the level bit of road beside the high trees going into Fordingbridge and Edward pulled up the dog-cart so that Nancy might say good-bye to the huntsman and cap him a last sovereign. She had ridden with those hounds ever since she had been thirteen. The train was five minutes late and they imagined that that was because it was market-day at Swindon or wherever the train came from. That was the sort of thing they talked about. The train came in; Edward found her a first-class carriage with an elderly woman in it. The girl entered the carriage, Edward closed the door and then she put out her hand to shake mine. There was upon those people's faces no expression of any kind whatever. The signal for the train's departure was a very bright red; that is about as passionate a statement as I can get into that scene. She was not looking her best; she had on a cap of brown fur that did not very well match her hair. She said: "So long," to Edward. Edward answered: "So long." He swung round on his heel and, large, slouching, and walking with a heavy deliberate pace, he went out of the station. I followed him and got up beside him in the high dog-cart. It was the most horrible performance I have ever seen. And, after that, a holy peace, like the peace of God which passes all understanding, descended upon Branshaw Teleragh. Leonora went about her daily duties with a sort of triumphant smile--a very faint smile, but quite triumphant. I guess she had so long since given up any idea of getting her man back that it was enough for her to have got the girl out of the house and well cured of her infatuation. Once, in the hall, when Leonora was going out, Edward said, beneath his breath--but I just caught the words: "Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean." It was like his sentimentality to quote Swinburne. But he was perfectly quiet and he had given up drinking. The only thing that he ever said to me after that drive to the station was: "It's very odd. I think I ought to tell you, Dowell, that I haven't any feelings at all about the girl now it's all over. Don't you worry about me. I'm all right." A long time afterwards he said: "I guess it was only a flash in the pan." He began to look after the estates again; he took all that trouble over getting off the gardener's daughter who had murdered her baby. He shook hands smilingly with every farmer in the market-place. He addressed two political meetings; he hunted twice. Leonora made him a frightful scene about spending the two hundred pounds on getting the gardener's daughter acquitted. Everything went on as if the girl had never existed. It was very still weather. Well, that is the end of the story. And, when I come to look at it I see that it is a happy ending with wedding bells and all. The villains--for obviously Edward and the girl were villains--have been punished by suicide and madness. The heroine--the perfectly normal, virtuous and slightly deceitful heroine--has become the happy wife of a perfectly normal, virtuous and slightly deceitful husband. She will shortly become a mother of a perfectly normal, virtuous slightly deceitful son or daughter. A happy ending, that is what it works out at. I cannot conceal from myself the fact that I now dislike Leonora. Without doubt I am jealous of Rodney Bayham. But I don't know whether it is merely a jealousy arising from the fact that I desired myself to possess Leonora or whether it is because to her were sacrificed the only two persons that I have ever really loved--Edward Ashburnham and Nancy Rufford. In order to set her up in a modern mansion, replete with every convenience and dominated by a quite respectable and eminently economical master of the house, it was necessary that Edward and Nancy Rufford should become, for me at least, no more than tragic shades. I seem to see poor Edward, naked and reclining amidst darkness, upon cold rocks, like one of the ancient Greek damned, in Tartarus or wherever it was. And as for Nancy... Well, yesterday at lunch she said suddenly: "Shuttlecocks!" And she repeated the word "shuttlecocks" three times. I know what was passing in her mind, if she can be said to have a mind, for Leonora has told me that, once, the poor girl said she felt like a shuttlecock being tossed backwards and forwards between the violent personalities of Edward and his wife. Leonora, she said, was always trying to deliver her over to Edward, and Edward tacitly and silently forced her back again. And the odd thing was that Edward himself considered that those two women used him like a shuttlecock. Or, rather, he said that they sent him backwards and forwards like a blooming parcel that someone didn't want to pay the postage on. And Leonora also imagined that Edward and Nancy picked her up and threw her down as suited their purely vagrant moods. So there you have the pretty picture. Mind, I am not preaching anything contrary to accepted morality. I am not advocating free love in this or any other case. Society must go on, I suppose, and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and to madness. But I guess that I myself, in my fainter way, come into the category of the passionate, of the headstrong, and the too-truthful. For I can't conceal from myself the fact that I loved Edward Ashburnham--and that I love him because he was just myself. If I had had the courage and virility and possibly also the physique of Edward Ashburnham I should, I fancy, have done much what he did. He seems to me like a large elder brother who took me out on several excursions and did many dashing things whilst I just watched him robbing the orchards, from a distance. And, you see, I am just as much of a sentimentalist as he was.. .. Yes, society must go on; it must breed, like rabbits. That is what we are here for. But then, I don't like society--much. I am that absurd figure, an American millionaire, who has bought one of the ancient haunts of English peace. I sit here, in Edward's gun-room, all day and all day in a house that is absolutely quiet. No one visits me, for I visit no one. No one is interested in me, for I have no interests. In twenty minutes or so I shall walk down to the village, beneath my own oaks, alongside my own clumps of gorse, to get the American mail. My tenants, the village boys and the tradesmen will touch their hats to me. So life peters out. I shall return to dine and Nancy will sit opposite me with the old nurse standing behind her. Enigmatic, silent, utterly well-behaved as far as her knife and fork go, Nancy will stare in front of her with the blue eyes that have over them strained, stretched brows. Once, or perhaps twice, during the meal her knife and fork will be suspended in mid-air as if she were trying to think of something that she had forgotten. Then she will say that she believes in an Omnipotent Deity or she will utter the one word "shuttle-cocks", perhaps. It is very extraordinary to see the perfect flush of health on her cheeks, to see the lustre of her coiled black hair, the poise of the head upon the neck, the grace of the white hands--and to think that it all means nothing--that it is a picture without a meaning. Yes, it is queer. But, at any rate, there is always Leonora to cheer you up; I don't want to sadden you. Her husband is quite an economical person of so normal a figure that he can get quite a large proportion of his clothes ready-made. That is the great desideratum of life, and that is the end of my story. The child is to be brought up as a Romanist. It suddenly occurs to me that I have forgotten to say how Edward met his death. You remember that peace had descended upon the house; that Leonora was quietly triumphant and that Edward said his love for the girl had been merely a passing phase. Well, one afternoon we were in the stables together, looking at a new kind of flooring that Edward was trying in a loose-box. Edward was talking with a good deal of animation about the necessity of getting the numbers of the Hampshire territorials up to the proper standard. He was quite sober, quite quiet, his skin was clear-coloured; his hair was golden and perfectly brushed; the level brick-dust red of his complexion went clean up to the rims of his eyelids; his eyes were porcelain blue and they regarded me frankly and directly. His face was perfectly expressionless; his voice was deep and rough. He stood well back upon his legs and said: "We ought to get them up to two thousand three hundred and fifty." A stable-boy brought him a telegram and went away. He opened it negligently, regarded it without emotion, and, in complete silence, handed it to me. On the pinkish paper in a sprawled handwriting I read: "Safe Brindisi. Having rattling good time. Nancy." Well, Edward was the English gentleman; but he was also, to the last, a sentimentalist, whose mind was compounded of indifferent poems and novels. He just looked up to the roof of the stable, as if he were looking to Heaven, and whispered something that I did not catch. Then he put two fingers into the waistcoat pocket of his grey, frieze suit; they came out with a little neat pen-knife--quite a small pen-knife. He said to me: "You might just take that wire to Leonora." And he looked at me with a direct, challenging, brow-beating glare. I guess he could see in my eyes that I didn't intend to hinder him. Why should I hinder him? I didn't think he was wanted in the world, let his confounded tenants, his rifle-associations, his drunkards, reclaimed and unreclaimed, get on as they liked. Not all the hundreds and hundreds of them deserved that that poor devil should go on suffering for their sakes. When he saw that I did not intend to interfere with him his eyes became soft and almost affectionate. He remarked: "So long, old man, I must have a bit of a rest, you know." I didn't know what to say. I wanted to say, "God bless you", for I also am a sentimentalist. But I thought that perhaps that would not be quite English good form, so I trotted off with the telegram to Leonora. She was quite pleased with it. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Teil IV, Abschnitt V Dowell behauptet, dass dies der traurigste Teil der Geschichte ist. Er erkennt die schreckliche Situation, in der sich alle drei Personen befinden. Wenn Nancy nicht zu Edward gehört, wird er buchstäblich sterben. Dowell schreibt diesen Abschnitt achtzehn Monate, nachdem er nach Branshaw zurückgekehrt ist, um sich um Nancy zu kümmern. Er protokolliert die Ereignisse, die in dieser Zeit stattgefunden haben. Nachdem Nancy von Edwards Selbstmord erfahren hatte, wurde sie verrückt. Ihr Vater holte sie in Ceylon vom Schiff ab und fand sie unfähig zu sprechen. Das Einzige, was sie sagen würde, war, dass sie an einen "allmächtigen Gott" glaube. Leonora wollte nicht nach Ceylon fahren, um sie abzuholen, also schickte sie Dowell. Nancy sitzt jetzt im Flur, vierzig Schritte von Dowell entfernt, während er schreibt. Sie ist schön, gut versorgt, aber völlig ohne Verstand. Dowell findet sich wieder als Begleiter, als Kindermädchen für ein schönes Mädchen, das ihm keine Aufmerksamkeit schenkt. Dowell reflektiert, dass dies eine so traurige Geschichte ist, weil niemand das bekommen hat, was er wollte. Leonora wollte Edward, hat aber Rodney Bayham bekommen. Edward und Florence sind tot, das Mädchen ist verrückt, und Dowell bleibt genau da, wo er angefangen hat: ein erbärmlicher Betreuer. Dowell schlussfolgert, dass Edward zu sehr in Traditionen gefangen war, zu bereit, das "normale" Leben zu führen, obwohl er zu sehr ein Sentimentalist dafür war. Dowell beschreibt, wie er glaubt, dass Nancy und Leonora zusammenarbeiteten, um Edward emotional zu zerstören: "Diese beiden Frauen haben den armen Teufel verfolgt und ihm die Haut abgezogen, als hätten sie es mit Peitschen getan", schreibt Dowell. Die Frauen würden die ganze Nacht reden und dann am Tag herauskommen, um Edward die Ergebnisse ihrer Überlegungen mitzuteilen. Einmal erzählte Edward Leonora aus Versehen, dass er nur wollte, dass das Mädchen, das fünftausend Meilen entfernt war, ihn weiterhin liebt. Leonora, voller Rache, beschloss, dass dies niemals so sein sollte. Sie sprach unaufhörlich mit Nancy und erzählte ihr, was für ein schrecklicher Ehemann Edward sei, und bat das Mädchen doch, "zu ihm zu gehören", um sein Leben zu retten. Leonoras Methode entzog Nancy jegliche Liebe für Edward. Eines Nachts gab Nancy Leonoras Forderungen nach. Sie ging in Edwards Zimmer und bot sich ihm an. Nancy sagte ihm, dass sie, wissend, welche Art von Mann er ist, ihm gehören könnte, um sein Leben zu retten, aber sie ihn niemals lieben könne. Das war Folter für Edward, aber er weigerte sich, sie zu berühren, und schickte sie zurück in ihr Zimmer. Das stürzte ihn noch tiefer in eine Depression, weil er wusste, dass Leonora Nancy dazu gezwungen hatte, ihn für immer zu verachten. Teil IV, Abschnitt VI Dowell reflektiert über die Ereignisse, die sich ereignet haben, und über die Helden und Schurken seiner "traurigsten Geschichte". Er kann sich nicht entscheiden, ob Edward egoistisch gehandelt hat, indem er das Mädchen nach Indien geschickt hat. Leonora denkt, dass es egoistisch von ihm war, ein junges Leben zu ruinieren, aber Edward behauptet, dass die Tat nicht egoistisch sein könne, weil sie ihm solche enormen emotionalen Schmerzen bereitet hat. Dowell enthält sich in dieser Angelegenheit eines Urteils und überlässt es dem Leser. Als Dowell nach Branshaw kam, nachdem er von Edward und Leonora gerufen worden war, stellt er fest, dass alles scheinbar in bester Ordnung war; sie ließen nie den Anschein einer völlig normalen, glücklichen Familie fallen. Eines Tages nahm Dowell Leonora beiseite, um sie um Erlaubnis zur Heirat mit Nancy zu bitten. Sie antwortete, dass sie sich keinen besseren Ehemann für das Mädchen vorstellen könne, dass es aber vielleicht am besten sei, wenn Nancy vor diesem wichtigen Schritt in die Ehe mehr von der Welt sehen würde. In Wirklichkeit wollte Leonora nicht, dass Nancy sich in einer Meile und eineinhalb von Branshaw niederlässt, wo Dowell vorschlug, sich niederzulassen. Dowell akzeptierte diese Begründung. Er dachte, dass er Nancy nach Indien gehen lassen sollte und ihr dann in sechs Monaten folgen sollte, um ihr einen Heiratsantrag zu machen. Eines Tages, bevor Nancy in den Zug gesteckt werden sollte, ging Dowell in Edwards Waffenraum. Edward gestand Dowell, dass er vor Liebe zu Nancy Rufford sterbe. Er erzählte ihm seine Seite der Geschichte. Ein paar Tage später brachten Edward und Dowell Nancy zum Bahnhof, um nach Indien zu fahren. Edward war verzweifelt, aber Leonora lief mit einem triumphierenden Lächeln herum. Sie hatte schon lange jede Hoffnung aufgegeben, ihren Ehemann zurückzugewinnen. Unter seinem Atem gesteht Edward: "Du hast gesiegt, o blasser Galiläer." Tage später, während Edward und Dowell im Stall sind, erhält Edward ein Telegramm von Nancy mit dem Inhalt: "Sicher in Brindisi. Habe eine großartige Zeit. Nancy." Er zieht ein kleines Taschenmesser hervor, bittet Dowell, das Telegramm zu Leonora zu bringen, und sagt auf Wiedersehen, dass es Zeit für ihn ist, etwas Ruhe zu haben. Er schneidet sich mit dem Messer die Kehle durch. Dowell reflektiert, dass "das Normale, das Tugendhafte und das leicht Täuschende blühen" während die "leidenschaftlichen, eigensinnigen und zu wahrheitsliebenden dem Wahnsinn und Selbstmord verurteilt sind". Er schlussfolgert sarkastisch, dass Nancy und Edward die Schurken dieser Geschichte sein müssen. Dowell kümmert sich jetzt um Nancy, die hin und wieder das Wort "Badminton" wiederholt. Er denkt, es müsse sich auf die Art und Weise beziehen, wie sie zwischen Edward und Leonora hin und her geworfen wurde in diesen paar Monaten. Dowell kommt zu dem Schluss, dass er am meisten mit Edward sympathisiert, dass er ihn liebt, "weil er genau wie ich selbst war". Er schließt daraus, dass er, wie Edward, ein Sentimentalist ist.

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: Am Montagabend vor dem Picknick kam Marilla mit besorgtem Gesicht aus ihrem Zimmer. "Anne", sagte sie zu der kleinen Person, die gerade Erbsen am makellosen Tisch schälte und "Nelly von der Haselnussgasse" sang, mit einer Energie und Ausdruckskraft, die Diana's Unterricht Ehre machten, "hast du meine Amethystbrosche gesehen? Ich dachte, ich habe sie gestern Abend, als ich von der Kirche nach Hause gekommen bin, auf mein Nadelkissen gesteckt, aber ich kann sie nirgendwo finden." "Äh-ja", gab Anne etwas zögerlich zu, "ich habe sie heute Nachmittag gesehen, als du bei der Hilfsgesellschaft warst. Ich bin an deiner Tür vorbeigegangen, als ich sie auf dem Kissen gesehen habe, also bin ich herein gegangen, um sie anzuschauen." "Hast du sie berührt?", fragte Marilla streng. "J-j-a", gestand Anne, "ich habe sie aufgehoben und mir auf die Brust gesteckt, nur um zu sehen wie sie aussieht." "Du hattest nichts damit zu tun. Es ist sehr falsch von einem kleinen Mädchen, sich in Angelegenheiten anderer Leute einzumischen. Du hättest erst gar nicht in mein Zimmer gehen sollen und du hättest keine Brosche anfassen sollen, die dir nicht gehört. Wo hast du sie hingesetzt?" "Oh, ich habe sie zurück auf die Kommode gelegt. Ich hatte sie nur eine Minute lang. Wirklich, ich wollte nicht herumschnüffeln, Marilla. Mir war nicht bewusst, dass es falsch war, in dein Zimmer zu gehen und die Brosche anzulegen. Aber jetzt sehe ich, dass es falsch war und ich werde es nie wieder tun. Das Gute an mir ist, dass ich niemals zweimal dasselbe böse tun." "Du hast sie nicht zurückgelegt", sagte Marilla. "Die Brosche ist nirgendwo auf der Kommode. Du hast sie herausgenommen oder so, Anne." "Ich habe sie zurückgelegt", sagte Anne schnell und selbstbewusst, dachte Marilla. "Ich erinnere mich nicht genau, ob ich sie auf das Nadelkissen gesteckt oder auf das Porzellan-Tablett gelegt habe. Aber ich bin mir absolut sicher, dass ich sie zurückgelegt habe." "Ich werde noch einmal nachsehen gehen", sagte Marilla, fest entschlossen gerecht zu sein. "Wenn du die Brosche zurückgelegt hast, dann ist sie immer noch da. Wenn nicht, dann weiß ich, dass du das nicht getan hast. Das ist alles!" Marilla ging in ihr Zimmer und suchte gründlich nicht nur auf der Kommode, sondern an jedem anderen Ort, an dem sie die Brosche möglicherweise abgelegt haben könnte. Sie konnte sie nirgendwo finden und kehrte in die Küche zurück. "Anne, die Brosche ist weg. Nach deinen eigenen Angaben warst du die letzte Person, die sie berührt hat. Jetzt sag mir sofort die Wahrheit: Was hast du damit gemacht? Hast du sie herausgenommen und verloren?" "Nein, habe ich nicht", sagte Anne feierlich und traf Marillas wütenden Blick direkt. "Ich habe die Brosche nie aus deinem Zimmer genommen und das ist die Wahrheit, auch wenn man mich dafür hinrichten würde - obwohl ich nicht genau weiß, was eine Hinrichtung ist. Also, Marilla." Annes "also, Marilla" sollte nur ihre Behauptung betonen, aber Marilla betrachtete es als eine Herausforderung. "Ich glaube, du erzählst mir eine Lüge, Anne", sagte sie scharf. "Ich weiß, dass du es tust. Nun gut, sag nicht noch mehr, es sei denn, du bist bereit, die ganze Wahrheit zu sagen. Geh in dein Zimmer und bleib dort, bis du geständig bist." "Soll ich die Erbsen mitnehmen?", fragte Anne demütig. "Nein, ich werde sie selbst zu Ende schälen. Tu, was ich dir sage." Als Anne gegangen war, erledigte Marilla ihre Abendaufgaben in einem sehr aufgewühlten Geisteszustand. Sie war besorgt um ihre wertvolle Brosche. Was, wenn Anne sie verloren hat? Und wie böse von dem Kind, zu leugnen, sie genommen zu haben, wenn doch jeder sehen konnte, dass sie es getan haben musste! Und das mit einem so unschuldigen Gesicht! "Ich weiß nicht, was ich lieber gehabt hätte", dachte Marilla, während sie nervös die Erbsen schälte. "Natürlich glaube ich nicht, dass sie sie gestohlen hat oder so etwas. Sie hat sie nur zum Spielen genommen oder um ihre Fantasie zu unterstützen. Sie muss sie genommen haben, das ist klar, denn seit sie in dem Zimmer war, nach ihrer eigenen Geschichte, gab es niemanden darin, außer mir heute Abend. Und die Brosche ist weg, das steht fest. Ich glaube, sie hat sie verloren und traut sich nicht, es zuzugeben, weil sie bestraft werden könnte. Es ist schrecklich zu denken, dass sie Lügen erzählt. Das ist viel schlimmer als ihre Wutanfälle. Es ist eine furchterregende Verantwortung, ein Kind im Haus zu haben, dem man nicht trauen kann. Verschlagenheit und Unaufrichtigkeit - das hat sie gezeigt. Ich gestehe, mir geht es deswegen noch schlechter als wegen der Brosche. Wenn sie doch nur die Wahrheit darüber gesagt hätte, würde es mir nicht so viel ausmachen." Marilla ging den ganzen Abend über mehrmals in ihr Zimmer und suchte nach der Brosche, ohne sie zu finden. Ein abendlicher Besuch in der Ostgiebel brachte keine Ergebnisse. Anne beharrte darauf, nichts von der Brosche zu wissen, aber Marilla war umso mehr überzeugt, dass sie es tat. Am nächsten Morgen erzählte sie Matthew die Geschichte. Matthew war verwirrt und verblüfft; er konnte nicht so schnell den Glauben an Anne verlieren, aber er musste zugeben, dass die Umstände gegen sie sprachen. "Bist du sicher, dass sie nicht hinter die Kommode gefallen ist?", war der einzige Vorschlag, den er anbieten konnte. "Ich habe die Kommode bewegt und die Schubladen herausgenommen und in jede Ritze geschaut", war Marillas eindeutige Antwort. "Die Brosche ist weg und dieses Kind hat sie genommen und darüber gelogen. Das ist die schlichte, grausame Wahrheit, Matthew Cuthbert, und wir sollten ihr ins Auge sehen." "Nun, was wirst du dagegen tun?", fragte Matthew elend, und war heimlich dankbar, dass Marilla und nicht er sich mit der Situation befassen musste. Diesmal hatte er nichts damit zu tun. "Sie wird in ihrem Zimmer bleiben, bis sie geständig ist", sagte Marilla grimmig und erinnerte sich an den Erfolg dieser Methode in dem früheren Fall. "Dann werden wir sehen. Vielleicht können wir die Brosche finden, wenn sie nur sagt, wo sie sie hingelegt hat; aber auf jeden Fall wird sie streng bestraft werden, Matthew." "Nun gut, du wirst sie bestrafen müssen", sagte Matthew und griff nach seinem Hut. "Ich habe nichts damit zu tun, erinnere dich daran. Du hast mich selbst davon abgehalten." Marilla fühlte sich von allen im Stich gelassen. Sie konnte nicht einmal zu Mrs. Lynde um Rat gehen. Sie ging mit sehr ernster Miene zur Ostgiebel und verließ ihn mit noch ernsterer Miene. Anne weigerte sich hartnäckig zu gestehen. Sie beharrte darauf, die Brosche nicht genommen zu haben. Das Kind hatte offensichtlich geweint und Marilla empfand Mitleid, das sie energisch unterdrückte. Am Abend war sie, wie sie es ausdrückte, "erschöpft". "Du wirst in diesem Zimmer bleiben, bis du gestehst, Anne. Damit kannst du rechnen", sagte sie bestimmt. "Aber das Picknick ist morgen, Marilla", rief Anne. "Wirst du mich davon abhalten? Lässt du mich wenigstens für den Nachmittag raus? Dann werde ich mich gerne danach hier aufhalten, solange du willst. Aber ich _muss_ zum Picknick." "Du wirst weder zu Picknicks noch zu irgendwohin gehen, bis du gestanden hast, Anne." "Oh, Marilla", keuchte Anne. Aber Marilla war hinausgegangen und hatte die Tür geschlossen. Am Mittwochmorgen ging die Sonne so hell und klar auf, als wäre es extra für das Picknick gemacht. Vögel sangen um Green Gables herum; die Madonna-Lilien im Garten schickten ihre Parfümwolken aus, die auf unsichtbaren Winden an jeder Tür und jedem Fenster hereinkamen und durch die Flure und Zimmer wie Segensgeister wanderten. Die Birken in der Senke winkten fröhlich wie Hand in Hand, "Ich habe die Amethystbrosche genommen", sagte Anne, als würde sie eine Lektion wiederholen, die sie gelernt hatte. "Ich habe sie genommen, genau wie du gesagt hast. Ich wollte sie nicht nehmen, als ich reinging. Aber sie sah so schön aus, Marilla, als ich sie an meine Brust gesteckt habe, dass ich einer unwiderstehlichen Versuchung erlegen bin. Ich stellte mir vor, wie aufregend es wäre, sie nach Idlewild mitzunehmen und so zu tun, als wäre ich Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. Es wäre viel einfacher vorzustellen, dass ich Lady Cordelia bin, wenn ich eine echte Amethystbrosche habe. Diana und ich machen Ketten aus Hagebutten, aber was sind Hagebutten im Vergleich zu Amethysten? Also habe ich die Brosche genommen. Ich dachte, ich könnte sie wieder zurücklegen, bevor du nach Hause kommst. Ich bin extra den langen Weg um das Haus gegangen, um Zeit zu gewinnen. Als ich über die Brücke über den Lake of Shining Waters ging, nahm ich die Brosche ab, um nochmal einen Blick darauf zu werfen. Oh, wie sie in der Sonne strahlte! Und dann, als ich mich über die Brücke lehnte, rutschte sie einfach durch meine Finger - so - und fiel hinunter - hinunter - hinunter, purpur-voll schimmernd, und versank für immer unter dem Lake of Shining Waters. Und das ist das Beste, was ich beim Gestehen kann, Marilla." Marilla fühlte, wie die Wut wieder in ihrem Herzen hochstieg. Dieses Kind hatte ihre geliebte Amethystbrosche genommen und verloren und saß jetzt da und erzählte ruhig die Details, ohne den geringsten Anschein von Reue oder Buße. "Anne, das ist schrecklich", sagte sie, versuchte ruhig zu sprechen. "Du bist das böseste Mädchen, von dem ich je gehört habe." "Ja, das bin ich wohl", stimmte Anne ruhig zu. "Und ich weiß, dass ich bestraft werden muss. Es wird deine Pflicht sein, mich zu bestrafen, Marilla. Könntest du es bitte gleich erledigen, denn ich möchte gern zum Picknick gehen, ohne etwas auf dem Herzen zu haben." "Picknick, wirklich! Du wirst heute nicht zum Picknick gehen, Anne Shirley. Das wird deine Strafe sein. Und es ist noch nicht mal halb so streng, wie es sein sollte für das, was du getan hast!" "Nicht zum Picknick gehen!" Anne sprang auf und ergriff Marillas Hand. "Aber du _hast_ mir doch versprochen, dass ich darf! Oh, Marilla, ich muss zum Picknick gehen. Deshalb habe ich gestanden. Bestraf mich, wie du willst, aber lass mich bitte, bitte zum Picknick gehen. Denk an das Eis! Du weißt doch nicht, ob ich jemals nochmal die Chance haben werde, Eis zu kosten." Marilla löste Annes klammernde Hände kühl ab. "Du brauchst nicht zu flehen, Anne. Du wirst nicht zum Picknick gehen und das ist endgültig. Nein, kein Wort mehr." Anne merkte, dass Marilla nicht zu beeinflussen war. Sie hielt ihre Hände zusammen, gab einen durchdringenden Schrei von sich und warf sich dann schluchzend und zappelnd mit dem Gesicht nach unten auf das Bett, in völliger Enttäuschung und Verzweiflung. "Zum Himmel nochmal!", keuchte Marilla und stürmte aus dem Zimmer. "Ich glaube, das Kind ist verrückt. Kein Kind bei Vernunft würde sich so benehmen. Wenn sie es nicht ist, ist sie total schlecht. Oh je, ich fürchte, Rachel hatte von Anfang an Recht. Aber ich habe die Entscheidung getroffen und werde nicht zurückblicken." Das war ein trüber Morgen. Marilla arbeitete wütend, schrubbte den Veranda-Boden und die Regalbretter in der Speisekammer, wenn sie nichts anderes zu tun hatte. Weder die Regale noch die Veranda brauchten es - aber Marilla schon. Dann ging sie hinaus und harkte den Hof. Als das Mittagessen bereit war, ging sie die Treppe hoch und rief nach Anne. Ein von Tränen überströmtes Gesicht tauchte tragisch über der Brüstung auf. "Komm zum Essen, Anne." "Ich möchte nichts essen, Marilla", sagte Anne schluchzend. "Ich könnte nichts essen. Mein Herz ist gebrochen. Eines Tages wirst du Reue empfinden, glaube ich, dafür, dass du es gebrochen hast, Marilla, aber ich vergebe dir. Denk daran, wenn die Zeit kommt, dass ich dir vergebe. Aber bitte frag mich nicht, etwas zu essen, besonders nicht gekochtes Schweinefleisch und Grünkohl. Gekochtes Schweinefleisch und Grünkohl sind so unromantisch, wenn man in Kummer ist." Genervt kehrte Marilla in die Küche zurück und erzählte Matthew ihr Leid, der zwischen seinem Gerechtigkeitsempfinden und seiner ungesetzlichen Sympathie für Anne ein elender Mann war. "Nun ja, sie hätte die Brosche nicht nehmen sollen, Marilla, oder Geschichten darüber erzählen", gab er zu, betrachtete traurig seinen Teller mit unromantischem Schweinefleisch und Grünkohl, als ob er, wie Anne, glaubte, es sei kein Essen, das für emotionale Krisen geeignet sei. "Aber sie ist so ein kleines Ding - so ein interessantes kleines Ding. Glaubst du nicht, es ist ziemlich hart, ihr das Picknick zu verweigern, wenn sie so darauf besteht?" "Matthew Cuthbert, ich bin sprachlos. Ich finde, ich bin viel zu nachsichtig mit ihr gewesen. Und sie scheint überhaupt nicht zu begreifen, wie böse sie gewesen ist - das ist es, was mich am meisten beunruhigt. Wenn sie wirklich reuevoll gewesen wäre, wäre es nicht so schlimm. Und du scheinst es auch nicht zu begreifen; du suchst die ganze Zeit Ausreden für sie - das sehe ich." "Nun ja, sie ist so ein kleines Ding", wiederholte Matthew schwach. "Und man sollte Rücksicht nehmen, Marilla. Du weißt, sie wurde nie erzogen." "Nun, sie wird jetzt erzogen" erwiderte Marilla. Die Erwiderung brachte Matthew zum Schweigen, wenn sie ihn auch nicht überzeugte. Dieses Abendessen war eine sehr trübe Mahlzeit. Das Einzige, was daran erfreulich war, war Jerry Buote, der Tagelöhner, und Marilla empfand seine Fröhlichkeit als persönliche Beleidigung. Als ihre Geschirr gespült und ihr Brotteig gesetzt und ihre Hühner gefüttert waren, erinnerte sich Marilla daran, dass sie am Montagnachmittag, als sie von der Frauenhilfe zurückgekehrt war, einen kleinen Riss in ihrem besten schwarzen Spitzen-Schal bemerkt hatte. Sie würde ihn reparieren gehen. Der Schal war in einer Kiste in ihrem Koffer. Als Marilla ihn herausnahm, fiel das Sonnenlicht, das durch das dichte Gewirr der Ranken fiel, die das Fenster bedeckten, auf etwas, das in dem Schal verfangen war - etwas, das in violetter Lichtfacette funkelte und glitzerte. Marilla griff danach, ein Raunen entfuhr ihr. Es war die Amethystbrosche, die an einem Faden der Spitze mit dem Verschluss hing! "Lieber Himmel und Herz", sagte Marilla verdutzt, "was bedeutet das? Hier ist meine Brosche, sicher und unversehrt, von der ich dachte, sie wäre auf dem Grund von Barrys Teich. Was meinte das Mädchen bloß damit, dass sie sie genommen und verloren hätte? Ich schwöre, Green Gables ist verhext. Ich erinnere mich jetzt daran, dass ich meinen Schal am Montagnachmittag abgelegt habe und ihn für kurze Zeit auf den Tisch legte. Ich nehme an, die Brosche hat sich irgendwie daran verfangen. "Oh, Marilla, ich hatte eine absolut köstliche Zeit. Köstlich ist ein neues Wort, das ich heute gelernt habe. Ich habe es Mary Alice Bell sagen hören. Ist es nicht sehr aussagekräftig? Alles war wunderbar. Wir hatten einen herrlichen Tee und dann hat uns Mr. Harmon Andrews alle zusammen zu einer Ruderfahrt auf den Lake of Shining Waters mitgenommen – sechs von uns auf einmal. Und Jane Andrews wäre beinahe über Bord gefallen. Sie lehnte sich heraus, um Wasserlilien zu pflücken, und wenn Mr. Andrews sie nicht gerade noch rechtzeitig am Bändchen ihres Kleides ergriffen hätte, wäre sie hineingefallen und wahrscheinlich ertrunken. Ich wünschte, es wäre mir passiert. Es wäre ein so romantisches Erlebnis gewesen, beinahe ertrunken zu sein. Es wäre eine so aufregende Geschichte zum Erzählen. Und wir hatten das Eis. Mir fehlen die Worte, um dieses Eis zu beschreiben. Marilla, ich versichere dir, es war erhaben." An diesem Abend erzählte Marilla die ganze Geschichte Matthew, während sie an ihrem Strickkorb saß. "Ich gebe gerne zu, dass ich einen Fehler gemacht habe," schloss sie offen, "aber ich habe eine Lektion daraus gelernt. Ich muss lachen, wenn ich an Annes 'Geständnis' denke, obwohl ich es wohl nicht sollte, denn es war wirklich eine Lüge. Aber irgendwie scheint es nicht so schlimm zu sein wie die andere Lüge es gewesen wäre, und in jedem Fall bin ich dafür verantwortlich. Dieses Kind ist in mancher Hinsicht schwer zu verstehen. Aber ich glaube, sie wird sich noch gut entwickeln. Und eines steht fest: Kein Haus wird je langweilig sein, in dem sie ist." 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.

Annas Geständnis Zwei Tage vor dem Picknick bemerkt Marilla, dass ihr Brosche fehlt. Sie fragt Anne, ob sie sie berührt hat, und Anne gibt zu, dass sie, während Marilla den Nachmittag nicht da war, sie in Marillas Zimmer gesehen und nur für einen Moment angezogen hat. Marilla, nachdem sie ihr Zimmer gründlich durchsucht hat, erkennt, dass Anne die Brosche verloren haben muss. Anne bestreitet, sie verloren zu haben, und behauptet standhaft, dass sie sie zurückgelegt hat. Marilla kann jedoch Annes Geschichte nicht mit der Tatsache in Einklang bringen, dass die Brosche nirgendwo zu finden ist, und schickt Anne in ihr Zimmer, mit der Erklärung, dass sie dort bleiben muss, bis sie ein Geständnis ablegt. Am Tag des Picknicks beschließt Anne zu gestehen. In poetischer, theatralischer Sprache erklärt sie, dass sie sich die Brosche geliehen hat, damit sie sich vorstellen konnte, Lady Cordelia zu sein, und sie dann versehentlich in den Lake of Shining Waters fallen ließ. Marilla ist wütend darüber, dass Anne gelogen hat und anscheinend keine Reue zeigt. Sie befiehlt Anne, in ihrem Zimmer zu bleiben, und sagt ihr, dass sie nicht zum Picknick gehen darf - ein Urteil, das Anne ungerecht findet, da Marilla versprochen hatte, dass sie ihr Zimmer verlassen könnte, sobald sie es gestanden hätte. Anne wird wütend. Matthew schlägt vor, dass Marilla etwas hart ist, aber er kann keine gute Verteidigung für Anne finden. Marilla, die versucht, sich mit Hausarbeiten abzulenken, geht einen schwarzen Schal holen, der repariert werden muss. Als sie ihn aufhebt, erblickt sie die Brosche, die an einem Faden hängt. Sie erkennt, dass sie die ganze Zeit selbst schuld war und dass Anne die Wahrheit gesagt hat, als sie sagte, sie hätte sie nicht verloren. Marilla geht zu Anne, um sich zu entschuldigen. Sie tut ihr leid, dass sie Anne so behandelt hat, und sie muss den Drang unterdrücken, über Annes erfundenes Geständnis zu lachen. Sie schimpft mit Anne, weil sie ein Verbrechen gestanden hat, das sie nicht begangen hat, gibt aber zu, dass sie Anne dazu gezwungen hat zu lügen. Anne geht zu ihrem Picknick und kommt überglücklich nach Hause und erzählt Geschichten von ihren Abenteuern und vom unbeschreiblichen Geschmack von Eiscreme.

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: PHOEBE PYNCHEON schlief in der Nacht ihrer Ankunft in einem Zimmer, das auf den Garten des alten Hauses blickte. Es lag nach Osten hin, so dass zu einer sehr günstigen Zeit ein rötliches Licht durch das Fenster strömte und die schäbige Decke und die Tapeten in seinem eigenen Schein badete. Phoebe hatte Vorhänge an ihrem Bett; ein dunkler, antiker Baldachin und schwere Fransen, die in ihrer Zeit reich und sogar prächtig gewesen waren; jetzt aber hingen sie wie eine Wolke über dem Mädchen, machten eine Nacht in dieser Ecke aus, während es anderswo gerade Tag wurde. Das Morgenlicht drang jedoch bald durch die Öffnung am Fuß des Bettes, zwischen den verblassten Vorhängen. Als es die neue Gästin dort fand – mit einer Frische auf den Wangen wie beim Morgengrauen und einer sanften Regung des sich verabschiedenden Schlafs in ihren Gliedmaßen, so wie wenn eine frühe Brise die Blätter bewegt – küsste sie die Morgendämmerung auf die Stirn. Es war die Liebkosung, die eine taufrische Jungfrau – wie es die Dämmerung ist, unsterblich – ihrer schlafenden Schwester gibt, zum Teil aus Liebe und zum Teil als hübscher Hinweis, dass es jetzt Zeit ist, die Augen zu öffnen. Als Phoebe von den Lippen des Lichts berührt wurde, wachte sie ruhig auf und erkannte für einen Moment nicht, wo sie war, noch wie es dazu kam, dass diese schweren Vorhänge um sie herum aufgehängt waren. Außer dass es jetzt frühmorgens war und was auch immer als Nächstes passieren mochte, es richtig war, zunächst aufzustehen und ihr Gebet zu sprechen, war ihr nichts absolut klar. Sie war eher zur Andacht geneigt wegen des eindrucksvollen Aussehens des Zimmers und seiner Einrichtung, insbesondere der hohen, steifen Stühle. Einer von ihnen stand neben ihrem Bett und sah so aus, als hätte eine altmodische Person dort die ganze Nacht gesessen und wäre nur rechtzeitig verschwunden, um nicht entdeckt zu werden. Als Phoebe fertig angezogen war, spähte sie aus dem Fenster und sah einen Rosenstrauch im Garten. Es war ein sehr hoher Strauch von üppigem Wuchs, der an der Seite des Hauses angelehnt worden war und buchstäblich mit einer seltenen und sehr schönen Art weißer Rosen bedeckt war. Ein großer Teil von ihnen hatte, wie das Mädchen später herausfand, einen Schimmel oder Mehltau in ihrem Inneren; aber aus einiger Entfernung betrachtet sah der ganze Rosenstrauch aus, als wäre er zusammen mit dem Boden, in dem er wuchs, direkt aus dem Paradies gebracht worden, genau diesen Sommer. Die Wahrheit war jedoch, dass ihn Alice Pyncheon gepflanzt hatte – sie war Phoebes Urururgroßtante – in Erde, die, wenn man nur den Garten als Nutzfläche betrachtete, inzwischen von nahezu zweihundert Jahren pflanzlicher Zersetzung übersättigt war. Aber da die Blumen aus der alten Erde wuchsen, stiegen immer noch frischer und süßer Duft zu ihrem Schöpfer auf; und er konnte nicht weniger rein und annehmbar gewesen sein, nur weil Phoebes junger Atem sich damit vermischte, wenn der Duft am Fenster vorbeizog. Sie beeilte sich die knarrende und unverlegte Treppe hinunter und fand ihren Weg in den Garten, pflückte einige der schönsten Rosen und brachte sie mit in ihr Zimmer. Die kleine Phoebe war eine dieser Personen, die als ihr ausschließliches Erbe die Gabe praktischer Organisation besaßen. Es ist eine Art natürlicher Magie, die diesen bevorzugten Menschen ermöglicht, die verborgenen Fähigkeiten der Dinge um sie herum zu entdecken und insbesondere einem Ort, der für auch nur eine kurze Zeit ihr Zuhause sein mag, ein gewisses Maß an Komfort und Behaglichkeit zu verleihen. Eine wilde Hütte aus Unterholz, die von Wanderern im Urwald zusammengeworfen wurde, würde durch eine einzige Übernachtung einer solchen Frau ein heimisches Aussehen bekommen und es lange behalten, nachdem ihre ruhige Gestalt in den umliegenden Schatten verschwunden war. Nicht weniger davon war nötig, um Phoebes verwüstetes, düsteres und düsteres Zimmer zurückzugewinnen, das so lange unbewohnt gewesen war – außer von Spinnen, Mäusen, Ratten und Geistern – dass es von der Verwüstung überwuchert worden war, die jeden Hinweis auf die glücklicheren Stunden des Menschen auszulöschen versucht. Was genau Phoebes Vorgehensweise war, lässt sich unmöglich sagen. Sie schien keinen vorläufigen Plan zu haben, sondern gab hier und da einen kleinen Impuls, zog einige Möbelstücke ins Licht und zog andere in den Schatten, raffte einen Vorhang hoch oder ließ ihn herunter; und in einer halben Stunde war es ihr vollständig gelungen, dem Raum ein freundliches und gastfreundliches Lächeln zu verleihen. Noch am Abend zuvor glich er nichts so sehr wie dem Herzen einer alten Jungfer; denn in keinem der beiden gab es Sonnenschein oder häusliches Feuer und abgesehen von Geistern und geisterhaften Erinnerungen hatte seit vielen Jahren kein Gast mehr das Herz oder das Zimmer betreten. Es gab noch eine weitere Eigenart dieses undurchschaubaren Zaubertricks. Das Schlafzimmer war zweifellos ein Raum mit sehr großer und vielfältiger Erfahrung als Ort des menschlichen Lebens: die Freude der Hochzeitsnächte hatte sich hier abgetan; neue Unsterbliche hatten hier zum ersten Mal irdische Luft geatmet; und hier waren alte Menschen gestorben. Aber ob es jetzt die weißen Rosen waren oder welche subtile Einflussnahme auch immer vorlag – eine Person von feiner Wahrnehmung würde unmittelbar erkennen, dass es jetzt ein Mädchen-Schlafzimmer war und von jeglichem früheren Übel und Kummer durch ihren süßen Atem und ihre glücklichen Gedanken gereinigt worden war. Ihre Träume der vergangenen Nacht, da sie so fröhlich waren, hatten die Dunkelheit vertrieben und hielten den Raum nun an ihrer Stelle heimgesucht. Nachdem sie alles zu ihrer Zufriedenheit arrangiert hatte, verließ Phoebe ihr Zimmer mit der Absicht, wieder in den Garten hinunterzugehen. Neben dem Rosenstrauch hatte sie noch einige andere Arten von Blumen bemerkt, die dort in einem wilden Zustand des Vernachlässigtseins wuchsen und sich gegenseitig in ihrer Entwicklung behinderten (wie es oft in der menschlichen Gesellschaft der Fall ist) durch ihre ungebildete Verwicklung und Verwirrung. Doch oben an der Treppe traf sie auf Hepzibah, die sie, da es noch früh war, in einen Raum einlud, den sie wahrscheinlich ihren Boudoir genannt hätte, wenn ihre Ausbildung einen solchen französischen Ausdruck umfasst hätte. Es war mit einigen alten Büchern, einem Arbeitskorb und einem staubigen Schreibtisch bestückt und hatte auf einer Seite ein großes schwarzes Möbelstück, von sehr merkwürdigem Aussehen, das die alte Dame Phoebe sagte, ein Cembalo sei. Es sah mehr wie ein Sarg aus als wie etwas anderes. Tatsächlich – da es seit Jahren weder gespielt noch geöffnet worden war – musste darin eine gewaltige Menge toter Musik erstickt sein, mangels Luft. Menschliche Finger waren seit den Tagen von Alice Pyncheon, die die süße Fähigkeit der Melodie in Europa erlernt hatte, kaum bekannt dafür, seine Tasten berührt zu haben. Hepzibah bat ihre junge Gästin, Platz zu nehmen, und setzte sich selbst auf einen Stuhl nebenbei und betr Du bist ein nettes Mädchen, das sehe ich deutlich", fuhr Hepzibah fort. "Und es ist keine Frage bezüglich dieses Punktes, die mich zögern lässt. Aber Phoebe, dieses Haus von mir ist ein trauriger Ort für eine junge Person. Es lässt den Wind und Regen, und auch den Schnee, im Dachboden und in den oberen Zimmern im Winter herein, aber niemals lässt es das Sonnenlicht herein. Und was mich selbst betrifft, siehst du, was ich bin - eine düstere und einsame alte Frau (denn ich fange an mich alt zu nennen, Phoebe), deren Gemüt, fürchte ich, nicht das beste ist und deren Laune so schlecht wie möglich ist! Ich kann dir dein Leben nicht angenehm machen, Cousine Phoebe, noch kann ich dir auch nur Brot zum Essen geben." "Du wirst mich als eine fröhliche kleine Person finden", antwortete Phoebe lächelnd und doch mit einer Art von sanfter Würde. "Und ich werde mein Brot verdienen. Du weißt, ich wurde nicht als Pyncheon erzogen. Ein Mädchen lernt viele Dinge in einem New England Dorf." "Ah! Phoebe", seufzte Hepzibah, "dein Wissen würde dir hier wenig nützen! Und dann ist es ein trostloser Gedanke, dass du deine jungen Tage an einem Ort wie diesem vergeudest. Diese Wangen wären nach einem Monat oder zwei nicht mehr so rosig. Schau dir mein Gesicht an!" und in der Tat, der Kontrast war sehr auffällig - "du siehst, wie blass ich bin! Meine Vorstellung ist, dass der Staub und der ständige Verfall dieser alten Häuser ungesund für die Lungen sind." "Es gibt den Garten - die Blumen, die gepflegt werden müssen", bemerkte Phoebe. "Ich würde mich durch Bewegung an der frischen Luft gesund halten." "Und, nach allem, Kind", rief Hepzibah plötzlich aufstehend, als wolle sie das Thema beenden, "es steht mir nicht zu zu sagen, wer Gast oder Bewohner des alten Pyncheon-Hauses sein soll. Sein Herr wird kommen." "Meinst du Richter Pyncheon?" fragte Phoebe überrascht. "Richter Pyncheon!" antwortete ihre Cousine wütend. "Er wird kaum die Schwelle betreten, solange ich lebe! Nein, nein! Aber, Phoebe, du wirst das Gesicht von dem sehen, von dem ich spreche." Sie ging auf die Suche nach dem bereits beschriebenen Portrait und kehrte mit ihm in der Hand zurück. Dabei beobachtete sie Phoebes Gesichtszüge genau und mit einer gewissen Eifersucht darüber, wie das Mädchen von dem Bild beeindruckt sein würde. "Wie gefällt dir das Gesicht?" fragte Hepzibah. "Es ist schön! Es ist sehr schön!" sagte Phoebe bewundernd. "Es ist so ein süßes Gesicht, wie es das eines Mannes sein kann oder sein sollte. Es hat etwas von einem kindlichen Ausdruck, aber nicht kindisch, man fühlt sich nur sehr freundlich ihm gegenüber! Er sollte niemals etwas erleiden müssen. Man würde viel ertragen für den Zweck, ihm Arbeit oder Kummer zu ersparen. Wer ist er, Cousine Hepzibah?" "Hast du nie von Clifford Pyncheon gehört?", flüsterte ihre Cousine und beugte sich zu ihr. "Nie. Ich dachte, es gäbe keine Pyncheons mehr, außer dir und unserem Cousin Jaffrey", antwortete Phoebe. "Und doch scheine ich den Namen Clifford Pyncheon gehört zu haben. Ja! Von meinem Vater oder meiner Mutter; aber ist er nicht schon lange tot?" "Nun, nun, Kind, vielleicht ist er das!" sagte Hepzibah mit einem traurigen, hohlen Lachen. "Aber in alten Häusern wie diesem, weißt du, kommen tote Menschen sehr oft zurück! Wir werden sehen. Und Cousine Phoebe, da dein Mut dich nach allem, was ich gesagt habe, nicht im Stich lässt, werden wir uns nicht so schnell trennen. Du bist willkommen, mein Kind, vorerst in einem Zuhause, wie es deine Verwandte dir bieten kann." Mit dieser gemessenen, aber nicht gerade kalten Zusicherung einer gastfreundlichen Absicht küsste Hepzibah ihre Wange. Sie gingen nun nach unten, wo Phoebe - ohne die Aufgabe ausdrücklich zu übernehmen, sondern indem sie sie sich mit der Magnetkraft ihrer angeborenen Fähigkeiten zog - den aktivsten Teil bei der Vorbereitung des Frühstücks übernahm. Die Hausherrin stand derweil, wie es bei Personen ihres steifen und unbiegsamen Charakters üblich ist, größtenteils abseits und war bereit, ihre Hilfe anzubieten, aber bewusst, dass ihre natürliche Ungeeignetheit wahrscheinlich zum Hindernis für die anstehende Aufgabe werden würde. Phoebe und das Feuer, das den Teekessel zum Kochen brachte, waren gleichermaßen hell, fröhlich und effizient in ihren jeweiligen Aufgaben. Hepzibah blickte aus ihrer gewohnheitsmäßigen Trägheit, die das notwendige Ergebnis langer Einsamkeit war, wie aus einer anderen Sphäre heraus. Sie konnte jedoch nicht umhin interessiert und sogar amüsiert zu sein über die Bereitschaft, mit der ihre neue Bewohnerin sich den Umständen anpasste und das Haus sowie seine rostigen alten Geräte in einen geeigneten Zustand für ihre Zwecke brachte. Was auch immer sie tat, geschah ohne bewusste Anstrengung und mit häufigen Ausbrüchen von Gesang, was äußerst angenehm für das Ohr war. Diese natürliche Musikalität ließ Phoebe wie einen Vogel in einem schattigen Baum erscheinen oder vermittelte den Eindruck, dass der Lebensstrom durch ihr Herz flötete, wie ein Bach manchmal durch ein kleines, angenehmes Tal flötet. Es kündete von der Fröhlichkeit eines temperamentvollen Wesens, das Freude an seiner Aktivität findet und sie dadurch schön macht; es war ein typisch neuenglisches Merkmal - der strenge, alte Stoff des Puritanismus mit einem goldenen Faden in seinem Gewebe. Hepzibah holte einige alte silberne Löffel mit dem Familienwappen darauf und ein chinesisches Teeservice, das mit grotesken Figuren von Menschen, Vögeln und Tieren in einer genauso grotesken Landschaft bemalt war. Diese gemalten Figuren waren sonderbare Humoristen in einer eigenen Welt - einer Welt von lebendiger Leuchtkraft, soweit es die Farbe betraf, und immer noch unverblasst, obwohl die Teekanne und die kleinen Tassen ebenso alt waren wie der Brauch des Tee-Trinkens selbst. "Deine Ur-ur-ur-ur-Großmutter hatte diese Tassen, als sie geheiratet wurde", sagte Hepzibah zu Phoebe. "Sie war eine Davenport, aus guter Familie. Sie waren so gut wie die ersten Teetassen, die je in die Kolonie kamen. Und wenn eine von ihnen zerbrochen würde, würde auch mein Herz zerbrechen. Aber es ist Unsinn, so über eine zerbrechliche Teetasse zu sprechen, wenn ich daran denke, was mein Herz ertragen hat, ohne zu zerbrechen." Die Tassen - vielleicht seit Hepzibahs Jugend nicht mehr benutzt - hatten eine beträchtliche Menge Staub angesammelt, den Phoebe mit so viel Sorgfalt und Feingefühl abwusch, dass es selbst die Besitzerin dieses unschätzbaren Porzellans zufriedenstellte. "Was für eine nette kleine Hausfrau du bist!" rief diese aus, lächelte dabei und zog gleichzeitig so gewaltig die Stirn in Falten, dass das Lächeln wie Sonnenschein unter einer Gewitterwolke war. "Weißt du noch andere Dinge gut zu machen? Bist du so gut beim Lernen wie beim Abwaschen von Teetassen?" "Leider nicht ganz, fürchte ich", sagte Phoebe und lachte über die Art von Hepzibahs Frage. "Aber letzten Sommer war ich Lehrerin für die kleinen Kinder in unserem Bezirk und könnte es immer noch sein." "Ach! Das ist alles gut und schön!," bemerkte die unverheiratete Dame und richtete sich auf. "Aber diese Dinge müssen zu dir mit dem Blut deiner Mutter gekommen sein. Ich kannte keinen Pyncheon, der irgendwie begabt dafür gew Bevor sie den Frühstückstisch verließen, läutete die Ladenklingel scharf und Hepzibah stellte die Reste ihrer letzten Tasse Tee ab, mit einem Blick von schwächlicher Verzweiflung, der wirklich erbarmungswürdig anzusehen war. Bei unsicheren Beschäftigungen ist der zweite Tag in der Regel schlimmer als der erste. Wir kehren mit all der Schmerzen des vorhergehenden Folterns in unsere Folterapparatur zurück. Jedenfalls hatte Hepzibah sich vollständig davon überzeugt, dass es unmöglich war, sich jemals an dieses mürrisch ungestüme Glöckchen zu gewöhnen. Egal wie oft es klingelte, der Klang traf immer grob und plötzlich ihr Nervensystem. Und besonders jetzt, während sie sich mit ihren gekrönten Teelöffeln und antiken Porzellanteilen schmeichelte, fühlte sie einen unaussprechlichen Widerwillen, einem Kunden gegenüberzutreten. "Mach dir keine Sorgen, liebe Cousine!" rief Phoebe lebhaft aus. "Ich bin heute die Geschäftsführerin." "Du, Kind!" rief Hepzibah aus. "Was kann ein kleines Mädchen vom Land über solche Dinge wissen?" "Oh, ich habe alle Einkäufe für die Familie in unserem Dorfladen erledigt", sagte Phoebe. "Und ich hatte einen Tisch auf einer Wohltätigkeitsveranstaltung und habe bessere Verkäufe gemacht als jeder andere. Diese Dinge können nicht gelernt werden; sie hängen von einem Talent ab, das, nehme ich an", fügte sie lächelnd hinzu, "mit dem Blut der Mutter kommt. Sie werden sehen, dass ich eine ebenso gute Verkäuferin bin wie eine Hausfrau!" Die alte Dame schlich sich hinter Phoebe her und schaute von der Durchgangstür aus in den Laden, um zu sehen, wie sie ihre Aufgabe bewältigen würde. Es war ein Fall höchster Komplexität. Eine sehr alte Frau in einem weißen Kittel und einem grünen Rock, mit einer Kette aus Goldperlen um den Hals und etwas, das wie eine Schlafmütze auf dem Kopf aussah, hatte eine Menge Garn zum Tausch gegen Waren in den Laden gebracht. Sie war wahrscheinlich die letzte Person in der Stadt, die das altehrwürdige Spinnrad ständig in Betrieb hielt. Es lohnte sich, das krächzende und hohle Sprechen der alten Dame und die angenehme Stimme von Phoebe zu hören, die sich in einem verworrenen Faden des Gesprächs vermischten. Und es war noch besser, ihre Gestalten zu vergleichen - so leicht und blühend - so kraftlos und düster - nur durch den Tresen in gewisser Weise voneinander getrennt, aber mehr als sechzig Jahre in einem anderen Sinne. Was den Handel anging, waren es gefaltete Schlauheit und List gegenüber natürlicher Wahrheit und Klugheit. "War das nicht gut gemacht?" fragte Phoebe lachend, als die Kundin weg war. "Sehr gut gemacht, Kind!" antwortete Hepzibah. "Ich hätte es nicht annähernd so gut geschafft. Wie du sagst, muss es eine Fähigkeit sein, die auf der Seite deiner Mutter liegt." Es ist eine sehr aufrichtige Bewunderung, die Personen, die zu schüchtern oder zu unbeholfen sind, um eine angemessene Rolle in der geschäftigen Welt zu spielen, gegenüber den eigentlichen Akteuren in den bewegten Szenen des Lebens empfinden; so aufrichtig, dass die Erstgenannten in der Regel versuchen, ihr Selbstwertgefühl zu stärken, indem sie annehmen, dass diese aktiven und kraftvollen Eigenschaften mit anderen unvereinbar sind, die sie für höher und wichtiger halten. So war Hepzibah mehr als bereit anzuerkennen, dass Phoebes Fähigkeiten als Verkäuferin bei weitem überlegener waren - sie hörte mit kooperativen Ohren ihre Vorschläge über verschiedene Methoden, wie der Zustrom von Kunden gesteigert und profitabel gemacht werden könnte, ohne ein riskantes Kapital zu investieren. Sie stimmte zu, dass das Dorfmädchen Hefe herstellen sollte, sowohl flüssig als auch in Kuchenform; und dass sie eine bestimmte Art von Bier brauen sollte, das den Gaumen nectarhaft erfreut und seltene Magenkräftigungseigenschaften besitzt; außerdem sollte sie kleine Gewürzkuchen backen und zum Verkauf anbieten, von denen jeder, der sie kostete, sich sehnsüchtig nach erneutem Genuss sehnen würde. All diese Beweise eines beweglichen Geistes und geschicklichen Handwerks waren bei der aristokratischen Händlerin sehr beliebt, solange sie mit einem grimmigen Lächeln, einem halbwüchsigen Seufzer und einem Gefühl von wachsender Zuneigung murmeln konnte: "Was für ein nettes Mädchen sie ist! Wenn sie nur auch eine Dame sein könnte - aber das ist unmöglich! Phoebe ist keine Pyncheon. Sie hat alles von ihrer Mutter geerbt!" Ob Phoebe nun eine Dame war oder nicht, oder ob sie eine Dame war oder nicht, war eine Frage, die vielleicht schwer zu entscheiden war, aber die in einem fairen und gesunden Verstand kaum zur Beurteilung getroffen worden wäre. Außerhalb von Neuengland wäre es unmöglich, eine Person zu finden, die so viele damenhafte Eigenschaften mit so vielen anderen Eigenschaften kombiniert, die keinen notwendigen, wenn auch kompatiblen, Teil des Charakters darstellen. Sie verstieß gegen keinen ästhetischen Kanon und passte hervorragend zu sich selbst und stieß niemals auf Umstände, die ihr widersprachen. Ihre Figur war sicherlich so klein, dass sie fast kindlich war und so elastisch, dass sich Bewegung scheinbar genauso einfach oder einfacher als Ruhe darstellte, aber das entsprach kaum der Vorstellung von einer Gräfin. Auch ihr Gesicht - mit den braunen Locken auf jeder Seite, der leicht pikanten Nase, der gesunden Blüte, dem klaren Hautton und den halben Dutzend Sommersprossen, freundliche Erinnerungen an die Aprilsonne und den Wind - berechtigten uns nicht dazu, sie schön zu nennen. Aber ihre Augen hatten sowohl Glanz als auch Tiefe. Sie war sehr hübsch, so anmutig wie ein Vogel und auf eine ähnliche Weise anmutig, so angenehm im Haus wie ein gleichermaßen gleitender Sonnenstrahl, der durch den Schatten zwinkernder Blätter auf den Boden fällt, oder wie ein Schein des Feuerscheins, der an der Wand tanzt, während der Abend naht. Anstatt ihre Ansprüche auf den Stand einer Dame zu diskutieren, wäre es besser, Phoebe als das Beispiel für weibliche Anmut und Verfügbarkeit in einer Gesellschaft zu betrachten, in der Damen nicht existierten, wenn es eine solche gibt. Dort sollte es die Aufgabe der Frau sein, sich inmitten praktischer Angelegenheiten zu bewegen und sie alle, selbst die häuslichsten - auch das Reinigen von Töpfen und Pfannen -, mit einer Atmosphäre von Schönheit und Fröhlichkeit zu überziehen. So war der Wirkungsbereich von Phoebe. Um hingegen die geborene und gebildete Dame zu finden, müssen wir nur Hepzibah betrachten, unsere bedauernswerte alte Jungfer in ihren raschelnden und verstaubten Seidenkleidern, mit ihrem tief empfundenen und lächerlichen Bewusstsein für den langen Stammbaum, ihre dunklen Ansprüche auf fürstliches Gebiet und möglicherweise ihre Erinnerungen daran, früher auf einem Cembalo gezupft, einen Menuett getanzt und ein antikes Gobelinmuster auf ihrer Stickarbeit gearbeitet zu haben. Es war ein fairer Vergleich zwischen neuem Plebejertum und altem Adel. Es schien wirklich so, als ob das ramponierte Gesicht des Hauses der Sieben Giebel, schwarze und schwerbraue wie es noch aussah, eine Art Fröhlichkeit in seinem dunklen Fenster zum Vorschein gebracht hätte, als Phoebe im Inneren hin- und herging. Andernfalls ist es unmöglich "Wir müssen unseren Vorrat auffrischen, Cousine Hepzibah!", rief die kleine Verkäuferin. "Die Pfefferkuchenfiguren sind alle weg und auch die holländischen hölzernen Milchmädchen und die meisten unserer anderen Spielsachen. Es gab ständige Anfragen nach günstigen Rosinen und einen großen Ruf nach Pfeifen, Trompeten und Maultrommeln. Mindestens ein Dutzend kleiner Jungen hat nach Melassebonbons gefragt. Und wir müssen es schaffen, eine Schüssel mit rötlichen Äpfeln zu bekommen, so spät in der Saison wie es ist. Aber, liebe Cousine, was für ein riesiger Haufen Kupfer! Tatsächlich ein Kupferberg!" "Gut gemacht! Gut gemacht! Gut gemacht!", sagte Onkel Venner, der im Laufe des Tages mehrmals die Gelegenheit genutzt hatte, in dem Laden rein und raus zu schleichen. "Hier ist ein Mädchen, das niemals ihre Tage auf meiner Farm beenden wird! Meine Augen, was für eine lebhafte kleine Seele!" "Ja, Phoebe ist ein nettes Mädchen!", sagte Hepzibah mit einem finsteren Blick strenger Zustimmung. "Aber, Onkel Venner, du kennst die Familie schon seit vielen Jahren. Kannst du mir sagen, ob es jemals einen Pyncheon gab, dem sie ähnlich sieht?" "Ich glaube nicht, dass es jemals einen gab", antwortete der ehrwürdige Mann. "Zumindest hatte ich nie das Glück, sie bei ihnen oder sonst wo zu sehen. Ich habe viel von der Welt gesehen, nicht nur in den Küchen und Hinterhöfen der Leute, sondern auch an den Straßenecken, auf den Werften und an anderen Orten, die mein Geschäft mich führt; und ich kann frei sagen, Miss Hepzibah, dass ich noch nie ein menschliches Wesen gesehen habe, das seine Arbeit so sehr wie ein Engel Gottes verrichtet wie dieses Kind Phoebe!" Uncle Venner's Lob, auch wenn es vielleicht etwas übertrieben ist für die Person und die Gelegenheit, hatte dennoch eine Bedeutung, die sowohl subtil als auch wahr war. In Phoebe's Aktivität lag eine geistige Qualität. Das Leben des langen und arbeitsreichen Tages - in Beschäftigungen, die so leicht ein schäbiges und hässliches Aussehen hätten annehmen können - wurde angenehm und sogar schön durch die spontane Anmut, mit der diese einfachen Pflichten aus ihrem Charakter zu erblühen schienen; so dass die Arbeit, während sie sich damit beschäftigte, den leichten und flexiblen Zauber des Spiels hatte. Engel arbeiten nicht, sondern lassen ihre guten Werke aus ihnen herauswachsen; und so tat es auch Phoebe. Die beiden Verwandten - das junge Mädchen und das alte - fanden vor Einbruch der Nacht, in den Pausen des Handels, Zeit für eine rasche Annäherung in Zuneigung und Vertrauen. Ein Einsiedler wie Hepzibah zeigt normalerweise bemerkenswerte Offenheit und zumindest vorübergehende Zugänglichkeit, wenn er absolut in die Enge getrieben wird und zu persönlichem Umgang gezwungen wird; wie der Engel, mit dem Jakob rang, ist sie bereit, dich zu segnen, sobald sie überwunden ist. Die alte Dame nahm eine trübe und stolze Befriedigung darin, Phoebe von Raum zu Raum des Hauses zu führen und die Traditionen zu erzählen, mit denen, wie man sagen könnte, die Wände traurig bemalt waren. Sie zeigte die Vertiefungen, die das Schwert des Vizegouverneurs in den Türfüllungen des Raumes hinterlassen hatte, in dem der alte Colonel Pyncheon, ein toter Gastgeber, seine erschrockenen Besucher mit einem furchterregenden Stirnrunzeln empfangen hatte. Die düstere Schrecken dieser Stirnrunzel, bemerkte Hepzibah, sollen sich seitdem im Hausflur festgesetzt haben. Sie forderte Phoebe auf, in einen der hohen Stühle zu treten und die alte Karte des Pyncheon-Territoriums im Osten zu inspizieren. Auf einem Landstrich, auf den sie mit dem Finger zeigte, gab es eine Silbermine, deren genauer Standort in einigen Aufzeichnungen von Colonel Pyncheon selbst angegeben war, jedoch nur bekannt gegeben werden durfte, wenn der Familienanspruch von der Regierung anerkannt wurde. Deshalb war es im Interesse ganz Neuenglands, dass den Pyncheons Gerechtigkeit widerfuhr. Sie erzählte auch, wie es zweifelsohne einen immensen Schatz an englischen Guineen gab, irgendwo im Haus versteckt oder im Keller oder vielleicht im Garten. "Wenn du ihn zufällig finden solltest, Phoebe", sagte Hepzibah und sah sie mit einem grimmigen, aber freundlichen Lächeln seitlich an, "werden wir die Ladenglocke für immer abhängen!" "Ja, liebe Cousine", antwortete Phoebe, "aber in der Zwischenzeit höre ich jemanden daran klingeln!" Als der Kunde gegangen war, sprach Hepzibah ziemlich vage und ausführlich über eine gewisse Alice Pyncheon, die vor hundert Jahren in ihrem Leben außerordentlich schön und talentiert gewesen war. Der Duft ihres reichen und herrlichen Charakters hing noch immer an dem Ort, an dem sie gelebt hatte, wie eine getrocknete Rosenknospe den Schrank beduftet, in dem sie verwelkt und vergangen ist. Diese schöne Alice hatte eine große und mysteriöse Katastrophe erlebt und war dünn und weiß geworden und allmählich aus der Welt verblasst. Aber selbst jetzt wurde angenommen, dass sie das Haus der sieben Giebel heimsuchte und viele Male - besonders wenn einer der Pyncheons sterben sollte - wurde sie traurig und wunderschön auf dem Cembalo spielen gehört. Eine dieser Melodien, genauso wie sie sich von ihrer spirituellen Berührung anhörte, war von einem Musikliebhaber aufgeschrieben worden. Sie war so prächtig traurig, dass bis heute niemand es ertragen konnte, sie spielen zu hören, es sei denn, eine große Trauer hatte sie gelehrt, die noch tiefere Süße darin zu erkennen. "War es das gleiche Cembalo, das du mir gezeigt hast?", fragte Phoebe. "Ja, genau das", sagte Hepzibah. "Es war Alice Pyncheons Cembalo. Als ich Musik lernte, ließ mein Vater mich niemals daran spielen. Also, da ich nur auf dem Instrument meines Lehrers spielen konnte, habe ich längst alle meine Musik vergessen." Nachdem sie von diesen antiken Themen abgekommen waren, begann die alte Dame über den Daguerreotypisten zu sprechen, dem sie erlaubt hatte, in einem der sieben Giebel sein Quartier aufzuschlagen, da er, wie es schien, ein wohlmeinender und ordentlicher junger Mann war und in bescheidenen Verhältnissen lebte. Aber als sie mehr von Mr. Holgrave sah, wusste sie kaum, was sie von ihm halten sollte. Er hatte die seltsamsten Begleiter, denkbar; Männer mit langen Bärten und in Leinenblusen und anderen solchen neuen und unpassenden Kleidungsstücken; Reformisten, Vortragsredner über Abstinenz und allerlei misstrauisch dreinschauende Philanthropen; Anhänger von Gemeinschaften und Aussteigern, wie Hepzibah glaubte, die kein Gesetz akzeptierten, kein festes Essen zu sich nahmen, sondern nur vom Geruch des Essens anderer Menschen lebten und die Nase über das Essen rümpften. Was den Daguerreotypisten betraf, so hatte sie vor einigen Tagen einen Artikel in einer Pennyzeitung gelesen, in dem ihm vorgeworfen wurde, bei einem Treffen seiner verbrecherischen Genossen eine Rede voll wilder und destabilisierender Inhalte gehalten zu haben. Was sie selbst betraf, so hatte sie Grund zu der Annahme, dass er Animal Magnetismus praktizierte, und wenn solche Dinge heutzutage in Mode NACH einem frühen Tee streifte das kleine Landmädchen in den Garten. Das Gelände war früher sehr weitläufig, aber jetzt auf kleinem Raum eingegrenzt, teilweise durch hohe Holzzäune und teilweise durch die Nebengebäude von Häusern, die an einer anderen Straße standen. In der Mitte befand sich ein Rasenplatz, umgeben von einer verfallenen kleinen Struktur, die gerade genug von ihrem ursprünglichen Design zeigte, um darauf hinzuweisen, dass sie einmal ein Gartenhaus gewesen war. Eine Hopfenrebe, die aus der letztjährigen Wurzel gewachsen war, begann darüber zu klettern, aber würde noch lange dauern, bis sie das Dach mit ihrem grünen Mantel bedeckt hatte. Drei der sieben Giebel hatten entweder eine dunkle, feierliche Haltung und schauten auf den Garten hinunter oder seitlich darauf. Der schwarze, fruchtbare Boden hatte sich mit dem Verfall einer langen Zeit ernährt, wie mit gefallenen Blättern, Blütenblättern von Blumen und den Stielen und Samenbehältern von fremdartigen und gesetzlosen Pflanzen, die nützlicher waren, nachdem sie gestorben waren, als während sie in der Sonne flatterten. Das Böse dieser vergangenen Jahre hätte sich natürlich wieder in solch unzüchtigem Unkraut (symbolisch für die überkommenen Laster der Gesellschaft) erhoben, das immer geneigt war, sich um menschliche Behausungen zu verwurzeln. Phoebe sah jedoch, dass ihr Wachstum durch sorgfältige und systematische Gartenarbeit größtenteils kontrolliert worden sein musste. Der weiße Doppelrosenbusch war offensichtlich seit Beginn der Saison neu gegen das Haus gestützt worden, und ein Birnbaum und drei Pflaumenbäume, die neben einer Reihe von Johannisbeersträuchern die einzigen Obstsorten bildeten, zeigten Spuren von der kürzlichen Amputation einiger überflüssiger oder defekter Äste. Es gab auch einige Arten von alten und erblichen Blumen, die sich nicht besonders gut entwickelten, aber sorgfältig von Unkraut befreit wurden, als ob jemand aus Liebe oder Neugierde bestrebt gewesen wäre, sie so perfekt wie möglich zu machen. Der Rest des Gartens präsentierte eine sorgfältig ausgewählte Auswahl an essbaren Gemüsesorten, die bereits beachtlich weit fortgeschritten waren. Sommerkürbisse, fast in ihrer goldenen Blüte; Gurken, die jetzt eine Tendenz zeigten, sich vom Hauptstamm wegzubewegen und weitläufig zu werden; zwei oder drei Reihen von Stangenbohnen und noch ein paar mehr, die sich um die Stäbe schlängeln wollten; Tomaten, die einen so geschützten und sonnigen Platz einnahmen, dass die Pflanzen bereits gigantisch waren und eine frühe und reiche Ernte versprachen. Phoebe fragte sich, wessen Pflege und Mühe es gewesen sein könnte, diese Gemüsesorten anzubauen und den Boden so sauber und ordentlich zu halten. Sicherlich nicht die ihrer Cousine Hepzibah, die weder den Geschmack noch den Elan hatte, sich mit der damenhaften Beschäftigung des Blumenzüchtens zu befassen und aufgrund ihrer einsiedlerischen Gewohnheiten und der Neigung, sich im düsteren Schatten des Hauses zu verstecken, kaum unter dem offenen Himmel hervorgekommen wäre, um Unkraut zu jäten und unter den Brüdern von Bohnen und Kürbissen zu graben. Da es ihr erster Tag war, an dem sie sich vollständig von ländlichen Objekten entfernt hatte, fand Phoebe einen unerwarteten Charme in dieser kleinen Ecke aus Gras, Laub, aristokratischen Blumen und plebejischen Gemüsesorten. Das Auge des Himmels schien angenehm darauf herabzublicken, und mit einem besonderen Lächeln, als ob es froh war zu sehen, dass die Natur anderswo erdrückt und aus der staubigen Stadt verdrängt worden war, hier einen Atemplatz gefunden hatte. Der Ort erwarb eine etwas wildere Anmut und doch eine sehr sanfte, von der Tatsache, dass ein Rotkehlchenpaar sein Nest im Birnbaum gebaut und sich im dunklen Wirrwarr seiner Zweige äußerst fleißig und glücklich gemacht hatte. Auch Bienen waren seltsamerweise hierher gekommen, möglicherweise von den Bienenstöcken neben einem Hofhaus, der einige Meilen entfernt war. Wie viele Flugreisen mochten sie zwischen Morgendämmerung und Sonnenuntergang gemacht haben, um nach Honig zu suchen oder honigbeladen zu sein! Doch obwohl es schon spät war, stieg immer noch ein angenehmes Summen aus ein oder zwei der Kürbisblüten auf, in deren Tiefe die Bienen ihre goldene Arbeit verrichteten. Es gab ein weiteres Objekt im Garten, das die Natur trotz allem, was der Mensch tun konnte, zu seinem eigenen unveräußerlichen Eigentum erklären konnte. Dies war ein Brunnen, der von einem Rand alter moosiger Steine umgeben war und in dessen Bett sich eine Art Mosaik aus verschiedenfarbigen Kieseln zu befinden schien. Das Spiel und die leichte Bewegung des Wassers bei seinem aufflammenden Schwall verbanden sich magisch mit diesen bunten Kieseln und schufen eine ständig wechselnde Erscheinung von kuriosen Figuren, die zu schnell verschwanden, um definiert werden zu können. Von dort aus floss das Wasser über den Rand der moosbewachsenen Steine und floss unter dem Zaun hindurch in dem, was wir bedauerlicherweise eher einen Abfluss als einen Kanal nennen müssen. Und wir dürfen auch nicht vergessen, einen Hühnerstall von sehr respektabler Antiquität zu erwähnen, der sich in der hinteren Ecke des Gartens befand, nicht weit entfernt von dem Brunnen. Er enthielt jetzt nur noch Chanticleer, seine beiden Hennen und ein einzelnes Küken. Alle waren reine Exemplare einer Rasse, die als Familienbesitz der Familie Pyncheon überliefert worden war und in ihrer Blütezeit fast die Größe von Truthähnen erreicht hatte und aufgrund ihres zarten Fleisches für den Tisch eines Prinzen geeignet war. Als Beweis für den Wahrheitsgehalt dieser legendären Berühmtheit hätte Hepzibah die Schale eines großen Eis zeigen können, die keine Schande für einen Strauss gewesen wäre. Wie dem auch sei, die Hühner waren jetzt kaum größer als Tauben und hatten einen seltsamen, rostigen, welken Anblick und eine gichtartige Art der Bewegung und einen schläfrigen und melancholischen Ton in allen Variationen ihres Gackerns. Es war offensichtlich, dass die Rasse, wie viele adlige Rassen auch, aufgrund einer zu strengen Wachsamkeit, um sie rein zu halten, degeneriert war. Diese gefiederten Wesen hatten zu lange in ihrer eigenen Vielfalt existiert, eine Tatsache, von der die gegenwärtigen Vertreter, die sich nach ihrem melancholischen Verhalten beurteilt, bewusst zu sein schienen. Sie hielten sich zweifellos am Leben und legten hin und wieder ein Ei und brachten ein Küken zur Welt, nicht aus Vergnügen, sondern damit die Welt nicht vollständig das verliert, was einmal eine so bewundernswerte Hühnerrasse war. Das Unterscheidungsmerkmal der Hennen war eine erschreckend spärliche Stirnhaube; in diesen letzten Tagen, die jedoch so merkwürdig und boshaft an Hepzibahs Turban erinnerte, dass Phoebe - zum Schmerz ihres Gewissens, aber unvermeidlich - veranlasst war, eine allgemeine Ähnlichkeit zwischen diesen verlassenen Zweibeinern und ihrer "Das Huhn behandelt dich wirklich wie einen alten Bekannten", fuhr er leise fort, während ein Lächeln sein Gesicht angenehmer machte, als Phoebe zuerst dachte. "Auch jene ehrwürdigen Personen im Hühnerstall scheinen sehr freundlich eingestellt zu sein. Du hast Glück, dass du so schnell in ihrem Wohlwollen stehst! Sie kennen mich schon viel länger, aber sie ehren mich nie mit Vertrautheit, obwohl kaum ein Tag vergeht, an dem ich ihnen kein Futter bringe. Miss Hepzibah, nehme ich an, wird diese Tatsache in ihre anderen Traditionen einweben und festhalten, dass die Hühner wissen, dass du eine Pyncheon bist!" "Das Geheimnis ist", sagte Phoebe lächelnd, "dass ich gelernt habe, mit Hühnern zu sprechen." "Aber diese Hühner", antwortete der junge Mann, "diese Hühner von aristokratischer Abstammung würden es verachten, die vulgäre Sprache eines Hühners zu verstehen. Ich ziehe es vor zu denken - genauso wie Miss Hepzibah -, dass sie den Familienton erkennen. Denn du bist eine Pyncheon?" "Mein Name ist Phoebe Pyncheon", sagte das Mädchen zurückhaltend; denn ihr war bewusst, dass ihr neuer Bekannter niemand anderer sein konnte als der Daguerrotypist, von dessen gesetzeswidrigen Neigungen die alte Jungfer ihr ein unangenehmes Bild gegeben hatte. "Ich wusste nicht, dass meiner Cousine Hepzibahs Garten von einer anderen Person gepflegt wird." "Ja", sagte Holgrave, "ich grabe und hake und jäte in dieser schwarzen alten Erde, um mich mit dem wenig an Natur und Einfachheit zu erfrischen, das noch darin verblieben ist, nachdem die Menschen sie so lange besät und geerntet haben. Ich wende die Erde um, um mich zu amüsieren. Meine ernsthafte Beschäftigung, sofern ich eine habe, hat mit einem leichteren Material zu tun. Kurz gesagt, ich mache Bilder aus Sonnenschein; und um von meiner eigenen Arbeit nicht zu sehr geblendet zu werden, konnte ich Miss Hepzibah überreden, mich in einem dieser düsteren Giebel unterzubringen. Es ist wie eine Binde über den Augen, in sie einzutreten. Aber möchtest du vielleicht ein Beispiel meiner Werke sehen?" "Meinst du ein Daguerreotypie-Porträt?", fragte Phoebe weniger zurückhaltend; denn trotz ihrer Vorurteile sprang ihre eigene Jugend vor, um ihm zu begegnen. "Ich mag solche Bilder nicht besonders gern - sie sind so hart und streng; sie versuchen, dem Auge auszuweichen und ganz zu entkommen. Sie wissen, dass sie sehr unsympathisch aussehen, nehme ich an, und deshalb hassen sie es gesehen zu werden." "Wenn du erlauben würdest", sagte der Künstler und betrachtete Phoebe, "dann würde ich gerne versuchen, ob das Daguerreotypie unangenehme Eigenschaften auf einem vollkommen liebenswerten Gesicht zum Vorschein bringen kann. Aber es ist sicherlich wahr, was du gesagt hast. Die meisten meiner Porträts sehen wirklich unsympathisch aus; aber der triftige Grund, vermute ich, ist, dass die Originale es auch sind. Es gibt eine wunderbare Einsicht in des Himmels breite und einfache Sonnenschein. Während wir ihm nur die Darstellung der oberflächlichsten Dinge zuschreiben, bringt er tatsächlich den verborgenen Charakter mit einer Wahrhaftigkeit zum Vorschein, auf die sich kein Maler je einlassen würde, selbst wenn er ihn erkennen könnte. Mein bescheidenes Kunsthandwerk ist zumindest nicht schmeichelnd. Hier ist zum Beispiel ein Bild, das ich immer wieder gemacht habe, und immer mit keinem besseren Ergebnis. Und dennoch hat das Original in den Augen der Allgemeinheit - und soviel ich weiß, auch seiner engsten Freunde - eine völlig andere Ausdruckweise. Die Sonne erzählt, wie du siehst, eine ganz andere Geschichte und lässt sich nach einigen geduldigen Versuchen meinerseits nicht zur Mitwirkung überreden. Hier haben wir den Mann, verschlagen, hinterlistig, hart, gebieterisch und dabei so kalt wie Eis. Schau dir dieses Auge an! Möchtest du ihm hilflos ausgeliefert sein? Und dieser Mund! Könnte er je lächeln? Und doch, wenn du nur das gütige Lächeln des Originals sehen könntest! Umso unglücklicher, da er eine Person des öffentlichen Lebens von einigem Ansehen ist und das Porträt zum Zweck einer Gravur gedacht war." "Nun, ich möchte es nicht mehr sehen", bemerkte Phoebe und wandte ihre Augen ab. "Es ähnelt sicherlich sehr dem alten Porträt. Aber meine Cousine Hepzibah hat ein anderes Bild - ein Miniaturbild. Wenn das Original noch in der Welt ist, denke ich, dass er die Sonne herausfordern könnte, ihn streng und hart aussehen zu lassen." "Du hast dieses Bild also gesehen!", rief der Künstler aus und zeigte großes Interesse. "Ich habe es nie gesehen, aber ich bin sehr neugierig darauf. Und du urteilst günstig über das Gesicht?" "Es gab kein süßeres", sagte Phoebe. "Es ist fast zu weich und sanft für das eines Mannes." "Gibt es nichts Wildes in den Augen?", fuhr Holgrave fort, so ernsthaft, dass es Phoebe in Verlegenheit brachte, ebenso wie die ruhige Freiheit, mit der er aufgrund ihrer soeben erst geschlossenen Bekanntschaft voraussetzte. "Gibt es nirgendwo etwas Dunkles oder Finsteres? Könntest du dir nicht vorstellen, dass das Original eines großen Verbrechens schuldig gewesen sein könnte?" "Es ist Unsinn", sagte Phoebe ein wenig ungeduldig, "über ein Bild zu reden, das du nie gesehen hast. Du verwechselst es mit einem anderen. Ein Verbrechen, wirklich! Da du ein Freund meiner Cousine Hepzibah bist, solltest du sie bitten, dir das Bild zu zeigen." "Es wäre mir noch lieber, das Original zu sehen", erwiderte der Daguerreotypist kühl. "Was seinen Charakter betrifft, müssen wir seine Eigenschaften nicht diskutieren; sie wurden bereits von einem zuständigen Tribunal, oder einem, das sich für zuständig erklärte, festgelegt. Aber warte! Geh bitte noch nicht weg! Ich habe einen Vorschlag für dich." Phoebe stand kurz davor, sich zurückzuziehen, aber sie kehrte mit einiger Zögerlichkeit zurück; denn sie verstand seinen Tonfall nicht genau, obwohl seine Merkmale bei genauerer Betrachtung eher mangelnde Höflichkeit als einen Ansatz von beleidigender Grobheit zu haben schienen. Es lag auch eine eigentümliche Art von Autorität darin, was er nun zu sagen begann, eher als wäre der Garten sein eigener als ein Ort, zu dem er nur durch Hepzibahs Höflichkeit zugelassen wurde. "Wenn es dir recht ist", bemerkte er, "wäre es mir eine Freude, dir diese Blumen und diese alten und respektablen Hühner anzuvertrauen. Frisch aus der ländlichen Luft und Beschäftigung wirst du bald das Bedürfnis nach einer solchen Arbeit im Freien verspüren. Mein eigenes Arbeitsfeld liegt nicht so sehr bei den Blumen. Du kannst sie daher nach Belieben beschneiden und pflegen, und ich werde nur ab und zu eine winzige Blüte als Gegenleistung für all das gute, ehrliche Gemüse verlangen, mit dem ich Miss Hepzibahs Tisch bereichern möchte. So werden wir Mitschaffende in gewissem Maße nach dem Gemeinschaftsprinzip sein." Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebe accordingly betook herself to weeding a flower-bed, but busied herself still more with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she so unexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity. She did not altogether like him. His character perplexed the little country-girl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while the tone of his conversation had generally been playful, the impression left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modified it, almost sternness. She rebelled, as it were, against a certain magnetic element in the artist's nature, which he exercised towards her, possibly without being conscious of it. After a little while, the twilight, deepened by the shadows of the fruit-trees and the surrounding buildings, threw an obscurity over the garden. "There," said Holgrave, "it is time to give over work! That last stroke of the hoe has cut off a beanstalk. Good-night, Miss Phoebe Pyncheon! Any bright day, if you will put one of those rosebuds in your hair, and come to my rooms in Central Street, I will seize the purest ray of sunshine, and make a picture of the flower and its wearer." He retired towards his own solitary gable, but turned his head, on reaching the door, and called to Phoebe, with a tone which certainly had laughter in it, yet which seemed to be more than half in earnest. "Be careful not to drink at Maule's well!" said he. "Neither drink nor bathe your face in it!" "Maule's well!" answered Phoebe. "Is that it with the rim of mossy stones? I have no thought of drinking there,--but why not?" "Oh," rejoined the daguerreotypist, "because, like an old lady's cup of tea, it is water bewitched!" He vanished; and Phoebe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light, and then the steady beam of a lamp, in a chamber of the gable. On returning into Hepzibah's apartment of the house, she found the low-studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetrate the interior. She was indistinctly aware, however, that the gaunt figure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs, a little withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which showed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned sideways towards a corner. "Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?" she asked. "Do, if you please, my dear child," answered Hepzibah. "But put it on the table in the corner of the passage. My eyes are weak; and I can seldom bear the lamplight on them." What an instrument is the human voice! How wonderfully responsive to every emotion of the human soul! In Hepzibah's tone, at that moment, there was a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words, commonplace as they were, had been steeped in the warmth of her heart. Again, while lighting the lamp in the kitchen, Phoebe fancied that her cousin spoke to her. "In a moment, cousin!" answered the girl. "These matches just glimmer, and go out." But, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed to hear the murmur of an unknown voice. It was strangely indistinct, however, and less like articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the utterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect. So vague was it, that its impression or echo in Phoebe's mind was that of unreality. She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound for that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in her fancy. She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor. Hepzibah's form, though its sable outline mingled with the dusk, was now less imperfectly visible. In the remoter parts of the room, however, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there was nearly the same obscurity as before. "Cousin," said Phoebe, "did you speak to me just now?" "No, child!" replied Hepzibah. Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them! Mellow, melancholy, yet not mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of the deep well of Hepzibah's heart, all steeped in its profoundest emotion. There was a tremor in it, too, that--as all strong feeling is electric--partly communicated itself to Phoebe. The girl sat silently for a moment. But soon, her senses being very acute, she became conscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room. Her physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate and healthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a spiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand. "My dear cousin," asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, "is there not some one in the room with us?" "Phoebe, my dear little girl," said Hepzibah, after a moment's pause, "you were up betimes, and have been busy all day. Pray go to bed; for I am sure you must need rest. I will sit in the parlor awhile, and collect my thoughts. It has been my custom for more years, child, than you have lived!" While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady stept forward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beat against the girl's bosom with a strong, high, and tumultuous swell. How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that it could afford to well over thus abundantly? "Goodnight, cousin," said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah's manner. "If you begin to love me, I am glad!" She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very profoundly. At some uncertain period in the depths of night, and, as it were, through the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of a footstep mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force and decision. The voice of Hepzibah, with a hush through it, was going up along with the footsteps; and, again, responsive to her cousin's voice, Phoebe heard that strange, vague murmur, which might be likened to an indistinct shadow of human utterance. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Morgen wacht Phoebe auf, betet und besucht den Rosengarten, wo sie einige der schönsten Blüten pflückt. Als sie zurück ins Haus kommt, trifft sie auf Hepzibah, die ihr sagt, dass sie keine finanziellen Mittel hat, um sie zu unterstützen, und dass Phoebe nach Hause zurückkehren muss. Während sie reden, behauptet Phoebe begeistert, dass sie sich selbst versorgen kann, und ihre jugendliche Ehrlichkeit beeindruckt Hepzibah, die dann zustimmt, sie zu behalten. Nach dem Frühstück, das Phoebe zubereitet, läutet die Ladenglocke und Phoebe bietet sich freiwillig an, den Laden für den Tag zu führen. Phoebe hat eine ausgezeichnete Beziehung zu den Kunden und Hepzibah ist von ihrem ehrlichen und angenehmen Wesen sehr beeindruckt. Hepzibah denkt, dass Phoebes Praktikabilität von der Seite ihrer Mutter kommen muss, denn es ist sicherlich keine Pyncheon-Eigenschaft. Hepzibah zeigt Phoebe dann das Cembalo von Alice Pyncheon und beschreibt ihren Mieter, Mr. Holgrave, den Künstler und Anhänger des Mesmerismus. Sie äußert ihre Bedenken über einige seiner bärtigen Begleiter, aber sie mag ihn immer noch genug, um ihn als Mieter zu behalten. Phoebe betritt den Pyncheon-Garten mit seiner fruchtbaren alten Erde und seinen vielen sorgfältig gepflegten Pflanzen, seinen Bienen und Vögeln und seinem kleinen Hahn mit seinen beiden Hennen und einem einsamen Küken. Plötzlich betritt Holgrave, der sich um den Garten gekümmert hat, diesen und lobt Phoebes Fähigkeit, die Hühner zu füttern. Er stellt sich als Fotograf vor und zeigt ihr ein Bild von Richter Pyncheon, das Phoebe, mit einem Schauder, für ein Foto von Colonel Pyncheons Porträt hält. Holgrave kritisiert den Richter verbittert und bemerkt, dass ein Foto nicht lügt. Er bietet an, ein Porträt von ihr zu machen, dann "übergibt er ihr die Kontrolle über den Garten"; er wird sich um das Gemüse kümmern. Bevor er geht, warnt er sie vor dem "verzauberten Wasser" des Maule-Brunnens. Als Phoebe in Hepzibahs Salon geht, spürt sie die Anwesenheit einer anderen Person in einem schattigen, zurückgezogenen Stuhl. Sie geht in die Küche, um Streichhölzer zu holen, und als sie zurückkommt, küsst Hepzibah sie sanft und schlägt vor, dass sie frühzeitig ins Bett geht. Der Schlaf des Mädchens ist unruhig.

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. DE GUICHE (astonished): Six! These are incredible methods! CYRANO: And all devised by this clever mind of mine! DE GUICHE: But tell me, how did you really get here? CYRANO: Ah, that, my friend, shall remain a mystery. Only the moon and I know the truth. DE GUICHE: Very well, Cyrano. Your secret shall remain safe with me. CYRANO: Thank you, De Guiche. Now, let us go and join the others. DE GUICHE: Here are six excellent expedients! Which of the six chose you? CYRANO: Why, none!--a seventh! DE GUICHE: Astonishing! What was it? CYRANO: I'll recount. DE GUICHE: This wild eccentric becomes interesting! CYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures): Houuh! Houuh! DE GUICHE: Well. CYRANO: You have guessed? DE GUICHE: Not I! CYRANO: The tide! I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave, I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore-- And, failing not to put head foremost--for The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh-- I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight, And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . . When lo! a sudden shock! Then. . . DE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench): Then? CYRANO: Oh! then. . . (Suddenly returning to his natural voice): The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more: The marriage-vows are made. DE GUICHE (springing up): What? Am I mad? That voice? (The house-door opens. Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra. Light. Cyrano gracefully uncovers): That nose--Cyrano? CYRANO (bowing): Cyrano. While we were chatting, they have plighted troth. DE GUICHE: Who? (He turns round. Tableau. Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian, holding each other by the hand. The friar follows them, smiling. Ragueneau also holds a candlestick. The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made a hasty toilet): Heavens! Könnten Sie eine angemessene 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.

Als Roxane das Fenster erneut öffnet, fängt Cyrano wieder an, mit Christians Stimme zu sprechen und hält eine charmante Abhandlung über einen Kuss. Roxane ist so ergriffen von den Worten, dass sie will, dass Christian sofort hochkommt und ihr diese "unvergleichliche Blume... der Gemeinschaft" gibt. Cyrano drängt Christian nach oben auf den Balkon, damit Christian die wahre Liebe von ihnen beiden küssen kann. Cyrano unterbricht Roxane und Christian, denn der Mönch kommt zurück, wie von den Seiten signalisiert. Roxane erklärt sich bereit, hinunterzugehen und den Mönch zu sehen, der wegen Cyrano verärgert ist, da er getäuscht wurde. Der Mönch hat versucht, Roxane zu finden, denn er hat einen Brief für sie, der von De Guiche geschrieben und geschickt wurde. Roxane liest den Brief. De Guiche erklärt, dass er nicht nach Arras gegangen ist; stattdessen ist er zurückgeblieben, um Roxane zu besuchen, was sie entsetzt. Sie beschließt etwas Unüberlegtes zu tun. Sie wird die Gelegenheit und die Anwesenheit des Mönchs nutzen. Sie sagt dem Mönch, dass der Brief ihn anweist, sie sofort mit Christian zu verheiraten, da dies von Kardinal Richelieu angeordnet wurde. Sie gibt vor, gegen die Idee zu sein und scheint widerwillig ins Haus zu gehen, um geheiratet zu werden. Natürlich hat sie das Ganze inszeniert. Als sie das Haus für die Hochzeit betritt, dreht sich Roxane zu Cyrano um und bittet ihn, De Guiches Ankunft zu verzögern.

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: The faithful Cacambo had already prevailed upon the Turkish skipper, who was to conduct the Sultan Achmet to Constantinople, to receive Candide and Martin on his ship. They both embarked after having made their obeisance to his miserable Highness. "You see," said Candide to Martin on the way, "we supped with six dethroned kings, and of those six there was one to whom I gave charity. Perhaps there are many other princes yet more unfortunate. For my part, I have only lost a hundred sheep; and now I am flying into Cunegonde's arms. My dear Martin, yet once more Pangloss was right: all is for the best." "I wish it," answered Martin. "But," said Candide, "it was a very strange adventure we met with at Venice. It has never before been seen or heard that six dethroned kings have supped together at a public inn." "It is not more extraordinary," said Martin, "than most of the things that have happened to us. It is a very common thing for kings to be dethroned; and as for the honour we have had of supping in their company, it is a trifle not worth our attention." No sooner had Candide got on board the vessel than he flew to his old valet and friend Cacambo, and tenderly embraced him. "Well," said he, "what news of Cunegonde? Is she still a prodigy of beauty? Does she love me still? How is she? Thou hast doubtless bought her a palace at Constantinople?" "My dear master," answered Cacambo, "Cunegonde washes dishes on the banks of the Propontis, in the service of a prince, who has very few dishes to wash; she is a slave in the family of an ancient sovereign named Ragotsky,[35] to whom the Grand Turk allows three crowns a day in his exile. But what is worse still is, that she has lost her beauty and has become horribly ugly." "Well, handsome or ugly," replied Candide, "I am a man of honour, and it is my duty to love her still. But how came she to be reduced to so abject a state with the five or six millions that you took to her?" "Ah!" said Cacambo, "was I not to give two millions to Senor Don Fernando d'Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza, Governor of Buenos Ayres, for permitting Miss Cunegonde to come away? And did not a corsair bravely rob us of all the rest? Did not this corsair carry us to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicaria, to Samos, to Petra, to the Dardanelles, to Marmora, to Scutari? Cunegonde and the old woman serve the prince I now mentioned to you, and I am slave to the dethroned Sultan." "What a series of shocking calamities!" cried Candide. "But after all, I have some diamonds left; and I may easily pay Cunegonde's ransom. Yet it is a pity that she is grown so ugly." Then, turning towards Martin: "Who do you think," said he, "is most to be pitied--the Sultan Achmet, the Emperor Ivan, King Charles Edward, or I?" "How should I know!" answered Martin. "I must see into your hearts to be able to tell." "Ah!" said Candide, "if Pangloss were here, he could tell." "I know not," said Martin, "in what sort of scales your Pangloss would weigh the misfortunes of mankind and set a just estimate on their sorrows. All that I can presume to say is, that there are millions of people upon earth who have a hundred times more to complain of than King Charles Edward, the Emperor Ivan, or the Sultan Achmet." "That may well be," said Candide. In a few days they reached the Bosphorus, and Candide began by paying a very high ransom for Cacambo. Then without losing time, he and his companions went on board a galley, in order to search on the banks of the Propontis for his Cunegonde, however ugly she might have become. Among the crew there were two slaves who rowed very badly, and to whose bare shoulders the Levantine captain would now and then apply blows from a bull's pizzle. Candide, from a natural impulse, looked at these two slaves more attentively than at the other oarsmen, and approached them with pity. Their features though greatly disfigured, had a slight resemblance to those of Pangloss and the unhappy Jesuit and Westphalian Baron, brother to Miss Cunegonde. This moved and saddened him. He looked at them still more attentively. "Indeed," said he to Cacambo, "if I had not seen Master Pangloss hanged, and if I had not had the misfortune to kill the Baron, I should think it was they that were rowing." At the names of the Baron and of Pangloss, the two galley-slaves uttered a loud cry, held fast by the seat, and let drop their oars. The captain ran up to them and redoubled his blows with the bull's pizzle. "Stop! stop! sir," cried Candide. "I will give you what money you please." "What! it is Candide!" said one of the slaves. "What! it is Candide!" said the other. "Do I dream?" cried Candide; "am I awake? or am I on board a galley? Is this the Baron whom I killed? Is this Master Pangloss whom I saw hanged?" "It is we! it is we!" answered they. "Well! is this the great philosopher?" said Martin. "Ah! captain," said Candide, "what ransom will you take for Monsieur de Thunder-ten-Tronckh, one of the first barons of the empire, and for Monsieur Pangloss, the profoundest metaphysician in Germany?" "Dog of a Christian," answered the Levantine captain, "since these two dogs of Christian slaves are barons and metaphysicians, which I doubt not are high dignities in their country, you shall give me fifty thousand sequins." "You shall have them, sir. Carry me back at once to Constantinople, and you shall receive the money directly. But no; carry me first to Miss Cunegonde." Upon the first proposal made by Candide, however, the Levantine captain had already tacked about, and made the crew ply their oars quicker than a bird cleaves the air. Candide embraced the Baron and Pangloss a hundred times. "And how happened it, my dear Baron, that I did not kill you? And, my dear Pangloss, how came you to life again after being hanged? And why are you both in a Turkish galley?" "And it is true that my dear sister is in this country?" said the Baron. "Yes," answered Cacambo. "Then I behold, once more, my dear Candide," cried Pangloss. Candide presented Martin and Cacambo to them; they embraced each other, and all spoke at once. The galley flew; they were already in the port. Instantly Candide sent for a Jew, to whom he sold for fifty thousand sequins a diamond worth a hundred thousand, though the fellow swore to him by Abraham that he could give him no more. He immediately paid the ransom for the Baron and Pangloss. The latter threw himself at the feet of his deliverer, and bathed them with his tears; the former thanked him with a nod, and promised to return him the money on the first opportunity. "But is it indeed possible that my sister can be in Turkey?" said he. "Nothing is more possible," said Cacambo, "since she scours the dishes in the service of a Transylvanian prince." Candide sent directly for two Jews and sold them some more diamonds, and then they all set out together in another galley to deliver Cunegonde from slavery. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen 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.

Auf dem Weg nach Konstantinopel mit Cacambo und seinem Meister erfahren Candide und Martin, dass Cacambo Cunegonde und die alte Frau von Don Fernando gekauft hat, aber dass ein Pirat sie entführt und als Sklaven verkauft hat. Cunegonde ist schrecklich hässlich geworden, aber Candide beschließt, sie trotzdem zu lieben. Candide erwirbt die Freiheit von Cacambo. Bei ihrer Ankunft in der Türkei erkennt Candide zwei Galeeren-Sklaven als den Baron und Pangloss. Candide kauft auch ihre Freiheit.

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: Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to call him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay, agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual comparison, of her preferring his younger brother. It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was; and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more than equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she did not believe she could accept him. The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the beginning of September. He went for a fortnight--a fortnight of such dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought to keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind; and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further. Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the repeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia might be justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general notice. Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some important communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. "I am rather surprised," said she, "that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here so long before, full seven weeks; for I had understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield." "It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare say it gives his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits." "What a favourite he is with my cousins!" "Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a serious attachment would remove." "If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny cautiously, "I could sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia." "Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you, Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her, after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong." Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could do, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that Julia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner then depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in the servants' hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two above-mentioned ladies was forced on her-- "I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr. Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, "we shall see some happy faces again now." "Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately simper, "there will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my son did not propose it." "I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of avoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!" Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her. Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say, ma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example, and such things are very catching." Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss. "The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?" "Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property?" "Four thousand a year." "Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy." "It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing extremely particular in his attentions." Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, "If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. "I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again, "for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs. Grant--and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters." "My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_." "I should be most happy," replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance." Come, Fanny, taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her." 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.

Tom kehrt nach Hause zurück, darüber sind die meisten Leute glücklich, da er ein Partylöwe ist. Mary ist jedoch verärgert, denn sie merkt, dass sie Edmund wirklich lieber mag und sie kann nicht ganz herausfinden, warum. Liebe ist in dieser Hinsicht unlogisch. Henry verlässt Mansfield und kehrt in sein eigenes Haus, Everingham, zurück. Es ist jetzt September. Die Bertram-Mädchen sind niedergeschlagen, dass Henry weg ist. Julia ist niedergeschlagen und Maria ist zunehmend genervt von Mr. Rushworth. Fanny ist zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass Henry schrecklich ist und ein Flirt. Sie mag ihn überhaupt nicht und ist froh, dass er weg ist. Fanny versucht Edmund darauf hinzuweisen, dass Henry zu eng mit Maria ist, aber Edmund versteht es nicht. Fanny beschließt, es dabei zu belassen, aber sie zweifelt daran, ob Edmund wirklich recht hat. Alle jungen Leute versammeln sich in Mansfield zu einem Abend mit Tanz und Musik. Während Fanny einen Tanz auslässt, muss sie sich anhören, wie Mrs. Norris und Mrs. Rushworth sich darüber unterhalten, wie großartig Marias zukünftige Ehe sein wird, und wie sie glauben, dass Henry Julia wirklich liebt. Die Frauen fangen dann an, über Edmund und Mary zu kommentieren, und Fanny flippt leise aus. Tom kommt rüber und bietet Fanny halbherzig an, mit ihr zu tanzen, aber sie lehnt ab. Er ist froh und sagt, dass er Tanzen langweilig findet und dass er all diese Liebe, Romantik und Paargeschichten für dumm hält. Wir erfahren, dass ein gewisser Herr Yates, einer von Toms Freunden, bei dieser improvisierten Tanzparty ist. Tom fängt an, mit Dr. Grant über Politik zu plaudern, als Mrs. Norris unterbricht und fragt, warum Tom nicht tanzt. Sie schlägt dann vor, dass Tom mit ihr und Mrs. Rushworth Karten spielt. Tom bittet schnell Fanny zum Tanzen und verschwindet. Er meckert darüber, wie nervig Mrs. Norris ist.

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: <CHAPTER> BOOK FOUR -- THE CLOSED DOOR 1--The Rencounter by the Pool The July sun shone over Egdon and fired its crimson heather to scarlet. It was the one season of the year, and the one weather of the season, in which the heath was gorgeous. This flowering period represented the second or noontide division in the cycle of those superficial changes which alone were possible here; it followed the green or young-fern period, representing the morn, and preceded the brown period, when the heathbells and ferns would wear the russet tinges of evening; to be in turn displaced by the dark hue of the winter period, representing night. Clym and Eustacia, in their little house at Alderworth, beyond East Egdon, were living on with a monotony which was delightful to them. The heath and changes of weather were quite blotted out from their eyes for the present. They were enclosed in a sort of luminous mist, which hid from them surroundings of any inharmonious colour, and gave to all things the character of light. When it rained they were charmed, because they could remain indoors together all day with such a show of reason; when it was fine they were charmed, because they could sit together on the hills. They were like those double stars which revolve round and round each other, and from a distance appear to be one. The absolute solitude in which they lived intensified their reciprocal thoughts; yet some might have said that it had the disadvantage of consuming their mutual affections at a fearfully prodigal rate. Yeobright did not fear for his own part; but recollection of Eustacia's old speech about the evanescence of love, now apparently forgotten by her, sometimes caused him to ask himself a question; and he recoiled at the thought that the quality of finiteness was not foreign to Eden. When three or four weeks had been passed thus, Yeobright resumed his reading in earnest. To make up for lost time he studied indefatigably, for he wished to enter his new profession with the least possible delay. Now, Eustacia's dream had always been that, once married to Clym, she would have the power of inducing him to return to Paris. He had carefully withheld all promise to do so; but would he be proof against her coaxing and argument? She had calculated to such a degree on the probability of success that she had represented Paris, and not Budmouth, to her grandfather as in all likelihood their future home. Her hopes were bound up in this dream. In the quiet days since their marriage, when Yeobright had been poring over her lips, her eyes, and the lines of her face, she had mused and mused on the subject, even while in the act of returning his gaze; and now the sight of the books, indicating a future which was antagonistic to her dream, struck her with a positively painful jar. She was hoping for the time when, as the mistress of some pretty establishment, however small, near a Parisian Boulevard, she would be passing her days on the skirts at least of the gay world, and catching stray wafts from those town pleasures she was so well fitted to enjoy. Yet Yeobright was as firm in the contrary intention as if the tendency of marriage were rather to develop the fantasies of young philanthropy than to sweep them away. Her anxiety reached a high pitch; but there was something in Clym's undeviating manner which made her hesitate before sounding him on the subject. At this point in their experience, however, an incident helped her. It occurred one evening about six weeks after their union, and arose entirely out of the unconscious misapplication of Venn of the fifty guineas intended for Yeobright. A day or two after the receipt of the money Thomasin had sent a note to her aunt to thank her. She had been surprised at the largeness of the amount; but as no sum had ever been mentioned she set that down to her late uncle's generosity. She had been strictly charged by her aunt to say nothing to her husband of this gift; and Wildeve, as was natural enough, had not brought himself to mention to his wife a single particular of the midnight scene in the heath. Christian's terror, in like manner, had tied his tongue on the share he took in that proceeding; and hoping that by some means or other the money had gone to its proper destination, he simply asserted as much, without giving details. Therefore, when a week or two had passed away, Mrs. Yeobright began to wonder why she never heard from her son of the receipt of the present; and to add gloom to her perplexity came the possibility that resentment might be the cause of his silence. She could hardly believe as much, but why did he not write? She questioned Christian, and the confusion in his answers would at once have led her to believe that something was wrong, had not one-half of his story been corroborated by Thomasin's note. Mrs. Yeobright was in this state of uncertainty when she was informed one morning that her son's wife was visiting her grandfather at Mistover. She determined to walk up the hill, see Eustacia, and ascertain from her daughter-in-law's lips whether the family guineas, which were to Mrs. Yeobright what family jewels are to wealthier dowagers, had miscarried or not. When Christian learnt where she was going his concern reached its height. At the moment of her departure he could prevaricate no longer, and, confessing to the gambling, told her the truth as far as he knew it--that the guineas had been won by Wildeve. "What, is he going to keep them?" Mrs. Yeobright cried. "I hope and trust not!" moaned Christian. "He's a good man, and perhaps will do right things. He said you ought to have gied Mr. Clym's share to Eustacia, and that's perhaps what he'll do himself." To Mrs. Yeobright, as soon as she could calmly reflect, there was much likelihood in this, for she could hardly believe that Wildeve would really appropriate money belonging to her son. The intermediate course of giving it to Eustacia was the sort of thing to please Wildeve's fancy. But it filled the mother with anger none the less. That Wildeve should have got command of the guineas after all, and should rearrange the disposal of them, placing Clym's share in Clym's wife's hands, because she had been his own sweetheart, and might be so still, was as irritating a pain as any that Mrs. Yeobright had ever borne. She instantly dismissed the wretched Christian from her employ for his conduct in the affair; but, feeling quite helpless and unable to do without him, told him afterwards that he might stay a little longer if he chose. Then she hastened off to Eustacia, moved by a much less promising emotion towards her daughter-in-law than she had felt half an hour earlier, when planning her journey. At that time it was to inquire in a friendly spirit if there had been any accidental loss; now it was to ask plainly if Wildeve had privately given her money which had been intended as a sacred gift to Clym. She started at two o'clock, and her meeting with Eustacia was hastened by the appearance of the young lady beside the pool and bank which bordered her grandfather's premises, where she stood surveying the scene, and perhaps thinking of the romantic enactments it had witnessed in past days. When Mrs. Yeobright approached, Eustacia surveyed her with the calm stare of a stranger. The mother-in-law was the first to speak. "I was coming to see you," she said. "Indeed!" said Eustacia with surprise, for Mrs. Yeobright, much to the girl's mortification, had refused to be present at the wedding. "I did not at all expect you." "I was coming on business only," said the visitor, more coldly than at first. "Will you excuse my asking this--Have you received a gift from Thomasin's husband?" "A gift?" "I mean money!" "What--I myself?" "Well, I meant yourself, privately--though I was not going to put it in that way." "Money from Mr. Wildeve? No--never! Madam, what do you mean by that?" Eustacia fired up all too quickly, for her own consciousness of the old attachment between herself and Wildeve led her to jump to the conclusion that Mrs. Yeobright also knew of it, and might have come to accuse her of receiving dishonourable presents from him now. "I simply ask the question," said Mrs. Yeobright. "I have been----" "You ought to have better opinions of me--I feared you were against me from the first!" exclaimed Eustacia. "No. I was simply for Clym," replied Mrs. Yeobright, with too much emphasis in her earnestness. "It is the instinct of everyone to look after their own." "How can you imply that he required guarding against me?" cried Eustacia, passionate tears in her eyes. "I have not injured him by marrying him! What sin have I done that you should think so ill of me? You had no right to speak against me to him when I have never wronged you." "I only did what was fair under the circumstances," said Mrs. Yeobright more softly. "I would rather not have gone into this question at present, but you compel me. I am not ashamed to tell you the honest truth. I was firmly convinced that he ought not to marry you--therefore I tried to dissuade him by all the means in my power. But it is done now, and I have no idea of complaining any more. I am ready to welcome you." "Ah, yes, it is very well to see things in that business point of view," murmured Eustacia with a smothered fire of feeling. "But why should you think there is anything between me and Mr. Wildeve? I have a spirit as well as you. I am indignant; and so would any woman be. It was a condescension in me to be Clym's wife, and not a manoeuvre, let me remind you; and therefore I will not be treated as a schemer whom it becomes necessary to bear with because she has crept into the family." "Oh!" said Mrs. Yeobright, vainly endeavouring to control her anger. "I have never heard anything to show that my son's lineage is not as good as the Vyes'--perhaps better. It is amusing to hear you talk of condescension." "It was condescension, nevertheless," said Eustacia vehemently. "And if I had known then what I know now, that I should be living in this wild heath a month after my marriage, I--I should have thought twice before agreeing." "It would be better not to say that; it might not sound truthful. I am not aware that any deception was used on his part--I know there was not--whatever might have been the case on the other side." "This is too exasperating!" answered the younger woman huskily, her face crimsoning, and her eyes darting light. "How can you dare to speak to me like that? I insist upon repeating to you that had I known that my life would from my marriage up to this time have been as it is, I should have said NO. I don't complain. I have never uttered a sound of such a thing to him; but it is true. I hope therefore that in the future you will be silent on my eagerness. If you injure me now you injure yourself." "Injure you? Do you think I am an evil-disposed person?" "You injured me before my marriage, and you have now suspected me of secretly favouring another man for money!" "I could not help what I thought. But I have never spoken of you outside my house." "You spoke of me within it, to Clym, and you could not do worse." "I did my duty." "And I'll do mine." "A part of which will possibly be to set him against his mother. It is always so. But why should I not bear it as others have borne it before me!" "I understand you," said Eustacia, breathless with emotion. "You think me capable of every bad thing. Who can be worse than a wife who encourages a lover, and poisons her husband's mind against his relative? Yet that is now the character given to me. Will you not come and drag him out of my hands?" Mrs. Yeobright gave back heat for heat. "Don't rage at me, madam! It ill becomes your beauty, and I am not worth the injury you may do it on my account, I assure you. I am only a poor old woman who has lost a son." "If you had treated me honourably you would have had him still." Eustacia said, while scalding tears trickled from her eyes. "You have brought yourself to folly; you have caused a division which can never be healed!" "I have done nothing. This audacity from a young woman is more than I can bear." "It was asked for; you have suspected me, and you have made me speak of my husband in a way I would not have done. You will let him know that I have spoken thus, and it will cause misery between us. Will you go away from me? You are no friend!" "I will go when I have spoken a word. If anyone says I have come here to question you without good grounds for it, that person speaks untruly. If anyone says that I attempted to stop your marriage by any but honest means, that person, too, does not speak the truth. I have fallen on an evil time; God has been unjust to me in letting you insult me! Probably my son's happiness does not lie on this side of the grave, for he is a foolish man who neglects the advice of his parent. You, Eustacia, stand on the edge of a precipice without knowing it. Only show my son one-half the temper you have shown me today--and you may before long--and you will find that though he is as gentle as a child with you now, he can be as hard as steel!" The excited mother then withdrew, and Eustacia, panting, stood looking into the pool. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 2--He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song The result of that unpropitious interview was that Eustacia, instead of passing the afternoon with her grandfather, hastily returned home to Clym, where she arrived three hours earlier than she had been expected. She came indoors with her face flushed, and her eyes still showing traces of her recent excitement. Yeobright looked up astonished; he had never seen her in any way approaching to that state before. She passed him by, and would have gone upstairs unnoticed, but Clym was so concerned that he immediately followed her. "What is the matter, Eustacia?" he said. She was standing on the hearthrug in the bedroom, looking upon the floor, her hands clasped in front of her, her bonnet yet unremoved. For a moment she did not answer; and then she replied in a low voice-- "I have seen your mother; and I will never see her again!" A weight fell like a stone upon Clym. That same morning, when Eustacia had arranged to go and see her grandfather, Clym had expressed a wish that she would drive down to Blooms-End and inquire for her mother-in- law, or adopt any other means she might think fit to bring about a reconciliation. She had set out gaily; and he had hoped for much. "Why is this?" he asked. "I cannot tell--I cannot remember. I met your mother. And I will never meet her again." "Why?" "What do I know about Mr. Wildeve now? I won't have wicked opinions passed on me by anybody. O! it was too humiliating to be asked if I had received any money from him, or encouraged him, or something of the sort--I don't exactly know what!" "How could she have asked you that?" "She did." "Then there must have been some meaning in it. What did my mother say besides?" "I don't know what she said, except in so far as this, that we both said words which can never be forgiven!" "Oh, there must be some misapprehension. Whose fault was it that her meaning was not made clear?" "I would rather not say. It may have been the fault of the circumstances, which were awkward at the very least. O Clym--I cannot help expressing it--this is an unpleasant position that you have placed me in. But you must improve it--yes, say you will--for I hate it all now! Yes, take me to Paris, and go on with your old occupation, Clym! I don't mind how humbly we live there at first, if it can only be Paris, and not Egdon Heath." "But I have quite given up that idea," said Yeobright, with surprise. "Surely I never led you to expect such a thing?" "I own it. Yet there are thoughts which cannot be kept out of mind, and that one was mine. Must I not have a voice in the matter, now I am your wife and the sharer of your doom?" "Well, there are things which are placed beyond the pale of discussion; and I thought this was specially so, and by mutual agreement." "Clym, I am unhappy at what I hear," she said in a low voice; and her eyes drooped, and she turned away. This indication of an unexpected mine of hope in Eustacia's bosom disconcerted her husband. It was the first time that he had confronted the fact of the indirectness of a woman's movement towards her desire. But his intention was unshaken, though he loved Eustacia well. All the effect that her remark had upon him was a resolve to chain himself more closely than ever to his books, so as to be the sooner enabled to appeal to substantial results from another course in arguing against her whim. Next day the mystery of the guineas was explained. Thomasin paid them a hurried visit, and Clym's share was delivered up to him by her own hands. Eustacia was not present at the time. "Then this is what my mother meant," exclaimed Clym. "Thomasin, do you know that they have had a bitter quarrel?" There was a little more reticence now than formerly in Thomasin's manner towards her cousin. It is the effect of marriage to engender in several directions some of the reserve it annihilates in one. "Your mother told me," she said quietly. "She came back to my house after seeing Eustacia." "The worst thing I dreaded has come to pass. Was Mother much disturbed when she came to you, Thomasin?" "Yes." "Very much indeed?" "Yes." Clym leant his elbow upon the post of the garden gate, and covered his eyes with his hand. "Don't trouble about it, Clym. They may get to be friends." He shook his head. "Not two people with inflammable natures like theirs. Well, what must be will be." "One thing is cheerful in it--the guineas are not lost." "I would rather have lost them twice over than have had this happen." Amid these jarring events Yeobright felt one thing to be indispensable--that he should speedily make some show of progress in his scholastic plans. With this view he read far into the small hours during many nights. One morning, after a severer strain than usual, he awoke with a strange sensation in his eyes. The sun was shining directly upon the window-blind, and at his first glance thitherward a sharp pain obliged him to close his eyelids quickly. At every new attempt to look about him the same morbid sensibility to light was manifested, and excoriating tears ran down his cheeks. He was obliged to tie a bandage over his brow while dressing; and during the day it could not be abandoned. Eustacia was thoroughly alarmed. On finding that the case was no better the next morning they decided to send to Anglebury for a surgeon. Towards evening he arrived, and pronounced the disease to be acute inflammation induced by Clym's night studies, continued in spite of a cold previously caught, which had weakened his eyes for the time. Fretting with impatience at this interruption to a task he was so anxious to hasten, Clym was transformed into an invalid. He was shut up in a room from which all light was excluded, and his condition would have been one of absolute misery had not Eustacia read to him by the glimmer of a shaded lamp. He hoped that the worst would soon be over; but at the surgeon's third visit he learnt to his dismay that although he might venture out of doors with shaded eyes in the course of a month, all thought of pursuing his work, or of reading print of any description, would have to be given up for a long time to come. One week and another week wore on, and nothing seemed to lighten the gloom of the young couple. Dreadful imaginings occurred to Eustacia, but she carefully refrained from uttering them to her husband. Suppose he should become blind, or, at all events, never recover sufficient strength of sight to engage in an occupation which would be congenial to her feelings, and conduce to her removal from this lonely dwelling among the hills? That dream of beautiful Paris was not likely to cohere into substance in the presence of this misfortune. As day after day passed by, and he got no better, her mind ran more and more in this mournful groove, and she would go away from him into the garden and weep despairing tears. Yeobright thought he would send for his mother; and then he thought he would not. Knowledge of his state could only make her the more unhappy; and the seclusion of their life was such that she would hardly be likely to learn the news except through a special messenger. Endeavouring to take the trouble as philosophically as possible, he waited on till the third week had arrived, when he went into the open air for the first time since the attack. The surgeon visited him again at this stage, and Clym urged him to express a distinct opinion. The young man learnt with added surprise that the date at which he might expect to resume his labours was as uncertain as ever, his eyes being in that peculiar state which, though affording him sight enough for walking about, would not admit of their being strained upon any definite object without incurring the risk of reproducing ophthalmia in its acute form. Clym was very grave at the intelligence, but not despairing. A quiet firmness, and even cheerfulness, took possession of him. He was not to be blind; that was enough. To be doomed to behold the world through smoked glass for an indefinite period was bad enough, and fatal to any kind of advance; but Yeobright was an absolute stoic in the face of mishaps which only affected his social standing; and, apart from Eustacia, the humblest walk of life would satisfy him if it could be made to work in with some form of his culture scheme. To keep a cottage night-school was one such form; and his affliction did not master his spirit as it might otherwise have done. He walked through the warm sun westward into those tracts of Egdon with which he was best acquainted, being those lying nearer to his old home. He saw before him in one of the valleys the gleaming of whetted iron, and advancing, dimly perceived that the shine came from the tool of a man who was cutting furze. The worker recognized Clym, and Yeobright learnt from the voice that the speaker was Humphrey. Humphrey expressed his sorrow at Clym's condition, and added, "Now, if yours was low-class work like mine, you could go on with it just the same." "Yes, I could," said Yeobright musingly. "How much do you get for cutting these faggots?" "Half-a-crown a hundred, and in these long days I can live very well on the wages." During the whole of Yeobright's walk home to Alderworth he was lost in reflections which were not of an unpleasant kind. On his coming up to the house Eustacia spoke to him from the open window, and he went across to her. "Darling," he said, "I am much happier. And if my mother were reconciled to me and to you I should, I think, be happy quite." "I fear that will never be," she said, looking afar with her beautiful stormy eyes. "How CAN you say 'I am happier,' and nothing changed?" "It arises from my having at last discovered something I can do, and get a living at, in this time of misfortune." "Yes?" "I am going to be a furze- and turf-cutter." "No, Clym!" she said, the slight hopefulness previously apparent in her face going off again, and leaving her worse than before. "Surely I shall. Is it not very unwise in us to go on spending the little money we've got when I can keep down expenditures by an honest occupation? The outdoor exercise will do me good, and who knows but that in a few months I shall be able to go on with my reading again?" "But my grandfather offers to assist us, if we require assistance." "We don't require it. If I go furze-cutting we shall be fairly well off." "In comparison with slaves, and the Israelites in Egypt, and such people!" A bitter tear rolled down Eustacia's face, which he did not see. There had been nonchalance in his tone, showing her that he felt no absolute grief at a consummation which to her was a positive horror. The very next day Yeobright went to Humphrey's cottage, and borrowed of him leggings, gloves, a whetstone, and a hook, to use till he should be able to purchase some for himself. Then he sallied forth with his new fellow-labourer and old acquaintance, and selecting a spot where the furze grew thickest he struck the first blow in his adopted calling. His sight, like the wings in Rasselas, though useless to him for his grand purpose, sufficed for this strait, and he found that when a little practice should have hardened his palms against blistering he would be able to work with ease. Day after day he rose with the sun, buckled on his leggings, and went off to the rendezvous with Humphrey. His custom was to work from four o'clock in the morning till noon; then, when the heat of the day was at its highest, to go home and sleep for an hour or two; afterwards coming out again and working till dusk at nine. This man from Paris was now so disguised by his leather accoutrements, and by the goggles he was obliged to wear over his eyes, that his closest friend might have passed by without recognizing him. He was a brown spot in the midst of an expanse of olive-green gorse, and nothing more. Though frequently depressed in spirit when not actually at work, owing to thoughts of Eustacia's position and his mother's estrangement, when in the full swing of labour he was cheerfully disposed and calm. His daily life was of a curious microscopic sort, his whole world being limited to a circuit of a few feet from his person. His familiars were creeping and winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their band. Bees hummed around his ears with an intimate air, and tugged at the heath and furze-flowers at his side in such numbers as to weigh them down to the sod. The strange amber-coloured butterflies which Egdon produced, and which were never seen elsewhere, quivered in the breath of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, and sported with the glittering point of his hook as he flourished it up and down. Tribes of emerald-green grasshoppers leaped over his feet, falling awkwardly on their backs, heads, or hips, like unskilful acrobats, as chance might rule; or engaged themselves in noisy flirtations under the fern-fronds with silent ones of homely hue. Huge flies, ignorant of larders and wire-netting, and quite in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing that he was a man. In and out of the fern-dells snakes glided in their most brilliant blue and yellow guise, it being the season immediately following the shedding of their old skins, when their colours are brightest. Litters of young rabbits came out from their forms to sun themselves upon hillocks, the hot beams blazing through the delicate tissue of each thin-fleshed ear, and firing it to a blood-red transparency in which the veins could be seen. None of them feared him. The monotony of his occupation soothed him, and was in itself a pleasure. A forced limitation of effort offered a justification of homely courses to an unambitious man, whose conscience would hardly have allowed him to remain in such obscurity while his powers were unimpeded. Hence Yeobright sometimes sang to himself, and when obliged to accompany Humphrey in search of brambles for faggot-bonds he would amuse his companion with sketches of Parisian life and character, and so while away the time. On one of these warm afternoons Eustacia walked out alone in the direction of Yeobright's place of work. He was busily chopping away at the furze, a long row of faggots which stretched downward from his position representing the labour of the day. He did not observe her approach, and she stood close to him, and heard his undercurrent of song. It shocked her. To see him there, a poor afflicted man, earning money by the sweat of his brow, had at first moved her to tears; but to hear him sing and not at all rebel against an occupation which, however satisfactory to himself, was degrading to her, as an educated lady- wife, wounded her through. Unconscious of her presence, he still went on singing:-- "Le point du jour A nos bosquets rend toute leur parure; Flore est plus belle a son retour; L'oiseau reprend doux chant d'amour; Tout celebre dans la nature Le point du jour. "Le point du jour Cause parfois, cause douleur extreme; Que l'espace des nuits est court Pour le berger brulant d'amour, Force de quitter ce qu'il aime Au point du jour!" It was bitterly plain to Eustacia that he did not care much about social failure; and the proud fair woman bowed her head and wept in sick despair at thought of the blasting effect upon her own life of that mood and condition in him. Then she came forward. "I would starve rather than do it!" she exclaimed vehemently. "And you can sing! I will go and live with my grandfather again!" "Eustacia! I did not see you, though I noticed something moving," he said gently. He came forward, pulled off his huge leather glove, and took her hand. "Why do you speak in such a strange way? It is only a little old song which struck my fancy when I was in Paris, and now just applies to my life with you. Has your love for me all died, then, because my appearance is no longer that of a fine gentleman?" "Dearest, you must not question me unpleasantly, or it may make me not love you." "Do you believe it possible that I would run the risk of doing that?" "Well, you follow out your own ideas, and won't give in to mine when I wish you to leave off this shameful labour. Is there anything you dislike in me that you act so contrarily to my wishes? I am your wife, and why will you not listen? Yes, I am your wife indeed!" "I know what that tone means." "What tone?" "The tone in which you said, 'Your wife indeed.' It meant, 'Your wife, worse luck.'" "It is hard in you to probe me with that remark. A woman may have reason, though she is not without heart, and if I felt 'worse luck,' it was no ignoble feeling--it was only too natural. There, you see that at any rate I do not attempt untruths. Do you remember how, before we were married, I warned you that I had not good wifely qualities?" "You mock me to say that now. On that point at least the only noble course would be to hold your tongue, for you are still queen of me, Eustacia, though I may no longer be king of you." "You are my husband. Does not that content you?" "Not unless you are my wife without regret." "I cannot answer you. I remember saying that I should be a serious matter on your hands." "Yes, I saw that." "Then you were too quick to see! No true lover would have seen any such thing; you are too severe upon me, Clym--I won't like your speaking so at all." "Well, I married you in spite of it, and don't regret doing so. How cold you seem this afternoon! and yet I used to think there never was a warmer heart than yours." "Yes, I fear we are cooling--I see it as well as you," she sighed mournfully. "And how madly we loved two months ago! You were never tired of contemplating me, nor I of contemplating you. Who could have thought then that by this time my eyes would not seem so very bright to yours, nor your lips so very sweet to mine? Two months--is it possible? Yes, 'tis too true!" "You sigh, dear, as if you were sorry for it; and that's a hopeful sign." "No. I don't sigh for that. There are other things for me to sigh for, or any other woman in my place." "That your chances in life are ruined by marrying in haste an unfortunate man?" "Why will you force me, Clym, to say bitter things? I deserve pity as much as you. As much?--I think I deserve it more. For you can sing! It would be a strange hour which should catch me singing under such a cloud as this! Believe me, sweet, I could weep to a degree that would astonish and confound such an elastic mind as yours. Even had you felt careless about your own affliction, you might have refrained from singing out of sheer pity for mine. God! if I were a man in such a position I would curse rather than sing." Yeobright placed his hand upon her arm. "Now, don't you suppose, my inexperienced girl, that I cannot rebel, in high Promethean fashion, against the gods and fate as well as you. I have felt more steam and smoke of that sort than you have ever heard of. But the more I see of life the more do I perceive that there is nothing particularly great in its greatest walks, and therefore nothing particularly small in mine of furze-cutting. If I feel that the greatest blessings vouchsafed to us are not very valuable, how can I feel it to be any great hardship when they are taken away? So I sing to pass the time. Have you indeed lost all tenderness for me, that you begrudge me a few cheerful moments?" "I have still some tenderness left for you." "Your words have no longer their old flavour. And so love dies with good fortune!" "I cannot listen to this, Clym--it will end bitterly," she said in a broken voice. "I will go home." </CHAPTER> Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Clym und Eustacia leben ein zurückgezogenes Leben im Haus in Alderworth und er setzt sein Studium fort, obwohl sie immer noch hofft, dass er sie irgendwann nach Paris mitnimmt. Mrs. Yeobright, verwirrt, weil Clym den Erhalt der Guinee nie bestätigt hat und dann von Christian erfährt, dass Wildeve sie beim Glücksspiel gewonnen hat, besucht Eustacia, während sie bei Mistover Knap ist. Eustacia missversteht die Fragen der älteren Frau und sie streiten sich heftig. Als Eustacia Clym von dem Vorfall erzählt, bringt sie Paris wieder zur Sprache. Ganz unerwartet hat Clym ernsthafte Augenprobleme, eine "akute Entzündung", verursacht durch zu viele Stunden des Lesens, und ihm wird gesagt, dass es Wochen dauern könnte, bis es sich auflöst. Eustacia ist sehr deprimiert, aber Clym beschließt, mit Hymphrey das Schneiden von Ginster aufzunehmen. Bei einer Gelegenheit, als Eustacia entdeckt, dass Clym singt, während er arbeitet, haben sie ein Gespräch, das unter der Oberfläche bitter ist, beide scheinen zuzugeben, dass ihre Gefühle füreinander nicht mehr so sind wie früher.

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: SKETCH SEVENTH. CHARLES'S ISLE AND THE DOG-KING. --So with outragious cry, A thousand villeins round about him swarmed Out of the rocks and caves adjoining nye; Vile caitive wretches, ragged, rude, deformed; All threatning death, all in straunge manner armed; Some with unweldy clubs, some with long speares. Some rusty knives, some staves in fier warmd. * * * * * We will not be of any occupation, Let such vile vassals, born to base vocation, Drudge in the world, and for their living droyle, Which have no wit to live withouten toyle. Southwest of Barrington lies Charles's Isle. And hereby hangs a history which I gathered long ago from a shipmate learned in all the lore of outlandish life. During the successful revolt of the Spanish provinces from Old Spain, there fought on behalf of Peru a certain Creole adventurer from Cuba, who, by his bravery and good fortune, at length advanced himself to high rank in the patriot army. The war being ended, Peru found itself like many valorous gentlemen, free and independent enough, but with few shot in the locker. In other words, Peru had not wherewithal to pay off its troops. But the Creole--I forget his name--volunteered to take his pay in lands. So they told him he might have his pick of the Enchanted Isles, which were then, as they still remain, the nominal appanage of Peru. The soldier straightway embarks thither, explores the group, returns to Callao, and says he will take a deed of Charles's Isle. Moreover, this deed must stipulate that thenceforth Charles's Isle is not only the sole property of the Creole, but is forever free of Peru, even as Peru of Spain. To be short, this adventurer procures himself to be made in effect Supreme Lord of the Island, one of the princes of the powers of the earth.[A] [Footnote A: The American Spaniards have long been in the habit of making presents of islands to deserving individuals. The pilot Juan Fernandez procured a deed of the isle named after him, and for some years resided there before Selkirk came. It is supposed, however, that he eventually contracted the blues upon his princely property, for after a time he returned to the main, and as report goes, became a very garrulous barber in the city of Lima.] He now sends forth a proclamation inviting subjects to his as yet unpopulated kingdom. Some eighty souls, men and women, respond; and being provided by their leader with necessaries, and tools of various sorts, together with a few cattle and goats, take ship for the promised land; the last arrival on board, prior to sailing, being the Creole himself, accompanied, strange to say, by a disciplined cavalry company of large grim dogs. These, it was observed on the passage, refusing to consort with the emigrants, remained aristocratically grouped around their master on the elevated quarter-deck, casting disdainful glances forward upon the inferior rabble there; much as, from the ramparts, the soldiers of a garrison, thrown into a conquered town, eye the inglorious citizen-mob over which they are set to watch. Now Charles's Isle not only resembles Barrington Isle in being much more inhabitable than other parts of the group, but it is double the size of Barrington, say forty or fifty miles in circuit. Safely debarked at last, the company, under direction of their lord and patron, forthwith proceeded to build their capital city. They make considerable advance in the way of walls of clinkers, and lava floors, nicely sanded with cinders. On the least barren hills they pasture their cattle, while the goats, adventurers by nature, explore the far inland solitudes for a scanty livelihood of lofty herbage. Meantime, abundance of fish and tortoises supply their other wants. The disorders incident to settling all primitive regions, in the present case were heightened by the peculiarly untoward character of many of the pilgrims. His Majesty was forced at last to proclaim martial law, and actually hunted and shot with his own hand several of his rebellious subjects, who, with most questionable intentions, had clandestinely encamped in the interior, whence they stole by night, to prowl barefooted on tiptoe round the precincts of the lava-palace. It is to be remarked, however, that prior to such stern proceedings, the more reliable men had been judiciously picked out for an infantry body-guard, subordinate to the cavalry body-guard of dogs. But the state of politics in this unhappy nation may be somewhat imagined, from the circumstance that all who were not of the body-guard were downright plotters and malignant traitors. At length the death penalty was tacitly abolished, owing to the timely thought, that were strict sportsman's justice to be dispensed among such subjects, ere long the Nimrod King would have little or no remaining game to shoot. The human part of the life-guard was now disbanded, and set to work cultivating the soil, and raising potatoes; the regular army now solely consisting of the dog-regiment. These, as I have heard, were of a singularly ferocious character, though by severe training rendered docile to their master. Armed to the teeth, the Creole now goes in state, surrounded by his canine janizaries, whose terrific bayings prove quite as serviceable as bayonets in keeping down the surgings of revolt. But the census of the isle, sadly lessened by the dispensation of justice, and not materially recruited by matrimony, began to fill his mind with sad mistrust. Some way the population must be increased. Now, from its possessing a little water, and its comparative pleasantness of aspect, Charles's Isle at this period was occasionally visited by foreign whalers. These His Majesty had always levied upon for port charges, thereby contributing to his revenue. But now he had additional designs. By insidious arts he, from time to time, cajoles certain sailors to desert their ships, and enlist beneath his banner. Soon as missed, their captains crave permission to go and hunt them up. Whereupon His Majesty first hides them very carefully away, and then freely permits the search. In consequence, the delinquents are never found, and the ships retire without them. Thus, by a two-edged policy of this crafty monarch, foreign nations were crippled in the number of their subjects, and his own were greatly multiplied. He particularly petted these renegado strangers. But alas for the deep-laid schemes of ambitious princes, and alas for the vanity of glory. As the foreign-born Pretorians, unwisely introduced into the Roman state, and still more unwisely made favorites of the Emperors, at last insulted and overturned the throne, even so these lawless mariners, with all the rest of the body-guard and all the populace, broke out into a terrible mutiny, and defied their master. He marched against them with all his dogs. A deadly battle ensued upon the beach. It raged for three hours, the dogs fighting with determined valor, and the sailors reckless of everything but victory. Three men and thirteen dogs were left dead upon the field, many on both sides were wounded, and the king was forced to fly with the remainder of his canine regiment. The enemy pursued, stoning the dogs with their master into the wilderness of the interior. Discontinuing the pursuit, the victors returned to the village on the shore, stove the spirit casks, and proclaimed a Republic. The dead men were interred with the honors of war, and the dead dogs ignominiously thrown into the sea. At last, forced by stress of suffering, the fugitive Creole came down from the hills and offered to treat for peace. But the rebels refused it on any other terms than his unconditional banishment. Accordingly, the next ship that arrived carried away the ex-king to Peru. The history of the king of Charles's Island furnishes another illustration of the difficulty of colonizing barren islands with unprincipled pilgrims. Doubtless for a long time the exiled monarch, pensively ruralizing in Peru, which afforded him a safe asylum in his calamity, watched every arrival from the Encantadas, to hear news of the failure of the Republic, the consequent penitence of the rebels, and his own recall to royalty. Doubtless he deemed the Republic but a miserable experiment which would soon explode. But no, the insurgents had confederated themselves into a democracy neither Grecian, Roman, nor American. Nay, it was no democracy at all, but a permanent _Riotocracy_, which gloried in having no law but lawlessness. Great inducements being offered to deserters, their ranks were swelled by accessions of scamps from every ship which touched their shores. Charles's Island was proclaimed the asylum of the oppressed of all navies. Each runaway tar was hailed as a martyr in the cause of freedom, and became immediately installed a ragged citizen of this universal nation. In vain the captains of absconding seamen strove to regain them. Their new compatriots were ready to give any number of ornamental eyes in their behalf. They had few cannon, but their fists were not to be trifled with. So at last it came to pass that no vessels acquainted with the character of that country durst touch there, however sorely in want of refreshment. It became Anathema--a sea Alsatia--the unassailed lurking-place of all sorts of desperadoes, who in the name of liberty did just what they pleased. They continually fluctuated in their numbers. Sailors, deserting ships at other islands, or in boats at sea anywhere in that vicinity, steered for Charles's Isle, as to their sure home of refuge; while, sated with the life of the isle, numbers from time to time crossed the water to the neighboring ones, and there presenting themselves to strange captains as shipwrecked seamen, often succeeded in getting on board vessels bound to the Spanish coast, and having a compassionate purse made up for them on landing there. One warm night during my first visit to the group, our ship was floating along in languid stillness, when some one on the forecastle shouted "Light ho!" We looked and saw a beacon burning on some obscure land off the beam. Our third mate was not intimate with this part of the world. Going to the captain he said, "Sir, shall I put off in a boat? These must be shipwrecked men." The captain laughed rather grimly, as, shaking his fist towards the beacon, he rapped out an oath, and said--"No, no, you precious rascals, you don't juggle one of my boats ashore this blessed night. You do well, you thieves--you do benevolently to hoist a light yonder as on a dangerous shoal. It tempts no wise man to pull off and see what's the matter, but bids him steer small and keep off shore--that is Charles's Island; brace up, Mr. Mate, and keep the light astern." * * * * * Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Und hey, hier ist noch ein Zitat von Spenser. Der Vergleich mit der Faerie Queene wird für Melville einfach nicht alt. Charles's Isle liegt in der Nähe von Barrington Isle. Und einmal hat Melville tatsächlich eine echte Geschichte zu erzählen, irgendwie. Drei Hoch auf eine echte Geschichte! Hip, hip, hurra! Es ist nicht wirklich eine große Geschichte, aber Shmoop ist verzweifelt, und wird nehmen, was Shmoop kriegen kann. Während des Unabhängigkeitskampfes Perus gegen Spanien gab es einen kreolischen Mann, der für Peru kämpfte. Ein Kreole ist jemand, der sowohl europäische als auch indische Abstammung hat, übrigens. Wie auch immer, der Kreolische Mann kämpfte für Peru um des Geldes willen, aber am Ende der Revolution hatten sie kein Geld, um ihn zu bezahlen, also gaben sie ihm Charles's Island, das relativ bewohnbar und ziemlich groß war. Der kreolische Mann beschloss, die Insel zu regieren, und brachte einige Siedler mit, um seine Untertanen zu sein. Um Ordnung zu halten, brachte er einige große Hunde mit. Die Dinge gingen jedoch schnell bergab; die Untertanen waren nicht begeistert davon, vom Kreolen und seinen Hunden regiert zu werden, also erschoss der Kreol einige von ihnen. Mit dem Erschießen von Menschen und der Tatsache, dass es von Anfang an nicht viele gab, war die Bevölkerung nicht sehr groß. Also füllte der kreolische Mann sie auf, indem er Menschen dazu brachte, ihre Posten bei Walfängern aufzugeben und sich seiner nicht sehr fröhlichen Bande anzuschließen. Unser Held ist hinterlistig. Aber die Leute, die die Walfänger verlassen, sind auch hinterlistig, und irgendwann gibt es eine Revolte und der Kreol wird vertrieben, zurück nach Peru ins Exil. Er hoffte vermutlich, zu hören, dass seine Insel ohne ihn zusammenbricht, und das war sie irgendwie auch. Der Ort war völlig gesetzlos und würde Seeleute dazu ermutigen, ihre Schiffe zu verlassen, um Freiheit zu finden, wenn Walfänger dort landeten. Also landeten die Walfänger dort nicht mehr, obwohl Deserteur in den Encantadas immer noch ihren Weg dorthin fanden. Das ist alles. Wie Shmoop sagt, nicht wirklich eine große Geschichte, aber man nimmt, was man kriegen kann.

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: Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days. While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other. "Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and go out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people." "My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me." "I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns--my winter walk." "You cannot do better, sir." "I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey." "Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think the sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you." Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before. "I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman." "I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be wanting." "Come," said he, "you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle; she really does you credit." "Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may. _You_ do not often overpower me with it." "You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?" "Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she intended." "Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps." "Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!" "Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would." Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile, "I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage." "Indeed! how so? of what sort?" "A very serious sort, I assure you;" still smiling. "Very serious! I can think of but one thing--Who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant?" Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint. Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him. "I have reason to think," he replied, "that Harriet Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:--Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her." "He is very obliging," said Emma; "but is he sure that Harriet means to marry him?" "Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered (especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch." "Pray, Mr. Knightley," said Emma, who had been smiling to herself through a great part of this speech, "how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?" "Certainly," replied he, surprized, "I do not absolutely know it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?" "Come," said she, "I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was refused." This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said, "Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the foolish girl about?" "Oh! to be sure," cried Emma, "it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her." "Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken." "I saw her answer!--nothing could be clearer." "You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him." "And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over." "Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, "No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.'" "I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet's claims. They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.--The sphere in which she moves is much above his.--It would be a degradation." "A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!" "As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with whom she is brought up.--There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentleman--and a gentleman of fortune.--Her allowance is very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or comfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me; that she associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will deny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin." "Whoever might be her parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had encouragement." It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again. "You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess." "Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do." "To be sure!" cried she playfully. "I know _that_ is the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in--what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No--pray let her have time to look about her." "I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said Mr. Knightley presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity--and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life--or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-master's son." "We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more angry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet." "Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!" cried Mr. Knightley.--"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand." Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be; but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general, which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words. "Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;--and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain." Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued, "Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's. He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece." "I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again. "If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well." "Good morning to you,"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly. Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more indistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his. She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet's staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman's friendship and woman's feelings would not justify. He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton. Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_ _particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, "that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Harriet schläft in dieser Nacht in Hartfield, wie sie es mittlerweile häufig tut. Mr. Knightley, im alleinigen Gespräch mit Emma, lobt sie dafür, dass sie Harriet verbessert hat, indem sie sie von ihrem schulgirlichen Wesen geheilt hat. Als Mr. Knightley dann Emma mitteilt, dass er vermutet, dass Mr. Martin bald einen Heiratsantrag machen wird, informiert Emma stolz, dass Harriet bereits den Heiratsantrag von Mr. Martin abgelehnt hat. Mr. Knightley ist wütend und hält Harriet für einfältig, weil sie ablehnt. Er behauptet, dass Mr. Martin über Harriet stehe, denn während er sesshaft ist, ist sie ein törichtes Mädchen mit zweifelhafter Herkunft. Verärgert über Mr. Knightleys Tadel argumentiert Emma für Harriets Überlegenheit und behauptet, dass Harriets Eltern zur gehobenen Gesellschaftsschicht gehören müssen. Sie deutet auch auf eine mögliche Beziehung zwischen Harriet und Mr. Elton hin, eine Idee, die von Mr. Knightley jedoch schnell abgelehnt wird.

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: ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL. Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. You are all resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th' Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so! MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us. MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then? FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o' th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he 'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well. MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly? FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs? FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol, who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough! Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus- Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy your priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims- In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Stück beginnt in der Stadt Rom, wo das einfache Volk, oder Plebejer, gegen ihre Herrscher, die Patrizierklasse, randaliert, denen sie vorwerfen, Getreide zu horten, während das gemeine Volk hungert. Die Plebejer fordern das Recht, den Preis für Getreide festzulegen, anstatt einen vom Senat auferlegten Preis zu akzeptieren, und sie machen Caius Martius, einen patrizischen General und Kriegshelden, zum "Hauptfeind des Volkes". Auf dem Weg zum Kapitol werden sie von Menenius, einem Patrizier und Freund von Martius, abgefangen, der dem Mob sagt, dass die Patrizier ihr bestes Interesse im Herzen tragen. Er vergleicht die Rolle des Senats in Rom mit der Rolle des Magens im menschlichen Körper: Der Magen dient als Speicher- und Sammelstelle für alle Nährstoffe und gibt sie dann im Rest des Körpers weiter; Ähnlich sammeln und verteilen die Patrizier Getreide an die ganze Stadt. Während Menenius und die Randalierer streiten, kommt Caius Martius selbst herein und verflucht den Mob, nennt sie Hunde und Feiglinge. Dann sagt er Menenius, dass der Senat den Plebejern zustimmt, fünf "Tribunen" oder Vertreter zu wählen, die sich für ihre Interessen im römischen Staat einsetzen sollen. In diesem Moment stürmt ein Bote herein und bringt die Nachricht, dass sich die Volsker, einer von Roms Feinden unter den italienischen Stämmen, zum Krieg rüsten. Martius erklärt, dass der Krieg gut für ihre Stadt sein wird, und merkt an, dass die Volsker von einem großartigen General, Tullus Aufidius, angeführt werden, den er als würdigen Gegner respektiert. Eine Gruppe von Senatoren ist hereingekommen, und sie befehlen nun Cominius und Titus Lartius, den bevorstehenden Krieg zu befehligen - Martius wird als Leutnant unter Cominius handeln. Die Menge zerstreut sich, und die Senatoren kehren zurück zum Kapitol, um sich auf die Kampagne vorzubereiten. In der Zwischenzeit haben die Plebejer ihre Tribunen bereits gewählt. Zwei von ihnen, Sicinius und Brutus, haben Martius' Verhalten beobachtet, und jetzt kommentieren sie beide, wie stolz und herrschsüchtig er ist. Sicinius fragt sich, wie er es ertragen wird, unter dem Kommando von Cominius zu stehen, aber Brutus weist darauf hin, dass Martius, indem er der Stellvertreter ist, alle Schuld tragen wird, wenn die Dinge schlecht laufen, aber er wird alle Anerkennung erhalten, wenn die Dinge gut laufen.

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: CHAPTER XII ONE week of authentic spring, one rare sweet week of May, one tranquil moment between the blast of winter and the charge of summer. Daily Carol walked from town into flashing country hysteric with new life. One enchanted hour when she returned to youth and a belief in the possibility of beauty. She had walked northward toward the upper shore of Plover Lake, taking to the railroad track, whose directness and dryness make it the natural highway for pedestrians on the plains. She stepped from tie to tie, in long strides. At each road-crossing she had to crawl over a cattle-guard of sharpened timbers. She walked the rails, balancing with arms extended, cautious heel before toe. As she lost balance her body bent over, her arms revolved wildly, and when she toppled she laughed aloud. The thick grass beside the track, coarse and prickly with many burnings, hid canary-yellow buttercups and the mauve petals and woolly sage-green coats of the pasque flowers. The branches of the kinnikinic brush were red and smooth as lacquer on a saki bowl. She ran down the gravelly embankment, smiled at children gathering flowers in a little basket, thrust a handful of the soft pasque flowers into the bosom of her white blouse. Fields of springing wheat drew her from the straight propriety of the railroad and she crawled through the rusty barbed-wire fence. She followed a furrow between low wheat blades and a field of rye which showed silver lights as it flowed before the wind. She found a pasture by the lake. So sprinkled was the pasture with rag-baby blossoms and the cottony herb of Indian tobacco that it spread out like a rare old Persian carpet of cream and rose and delicate green. Under her feet the rough grass made a pleasant crunching. Sweet winds blew from the sunny lake beside her, and small waves sputtered on the meadowy shore. She leaped a tiny creek bowered in pussy-willow buds. She was nearing a frivolous grove of birch and poplar and wild plum trees. The poplar foliage had the downiness of a Corot arbor; the green and silver trunks were as candid as the birches, as slender and lustrous as the limbs of a Pierrot. The cloudy white blossoms of the plum trees filled the grove with a springtime mistiness which gave an illusion of distance. She ran into the wood, crying out for joy of freedom regained after winter. Choke-cherry blossoms lured her from the outer sun-warmed spaces to depths of green stillness, where a submarine light came through the young leaves. She walked pensively along an abandoned road. She found a moccasin-flower beside a lichen-covered log. At the end of the road she saw the open acres--dipping rolling fields bright with wheat. "I believe! The woodland gods still live! And out there, the great land. It's beautiful as the mountains. What do I care for Thanatopsises?" She came out on the prairie, spacious under an arch of boldly cut clouds. Small pools glittered. Above a marsh red-winged blackbirds chased a crow in a swift melodrama of the air. On a hill was silhouetted a man following a drag. His horse bent its neck and plodded, content. A path took her to the Corinth road, leading back to town. Dandelions glowed in patches amidst the wild grass by the way. A stream golloped through a concrete culvert beneath the road. She trudged in healthy weariness. A man in a bumping Ford rattled up beside her, hailed, "Give you a lift, Mrs. Kennicott?" "Thank you. It's awfully good of you, but I'm enjoying the walk." "Great day, by golly. I seen some wheat that must of been five inches high. Well, so long." She hadn't the dimmest notion who he was, but his greeting warmed her. This countryman gave her a companionship which she had never (whether by her fault or theirs or neither) been able to find in the matrons and commercial lords of the town. Half a mile from town, in a hollow between hazelnut bushes and a brook, she discovered a gipsy encampment: a covered wagon, a tent, a bunch of pegged-out horses. A broad-shouldered man was squatted on his heels, holding a frying-pan over a camp-fire. He looked toward her. He was Miles Bjornstam. "Well, well, what you doing out here?" he roared. "Come have a hunk o' bacon. Pete! Hey, Pete!" A tousled person came from behind the covered wagon. "Pete, here's the one honest-to-God lady in my bum town. Come on, crawl in and set a couple minutes, Mrs. Kennicott. I'm hiking off for all summer." The Red Swede staggered up, rubbed his cramped knees, lumbered to the wire fence, held the strands apart for her. She unconsciously smiled at him as she went through. Her skirt caught on a barb; he carefully freed it. Beside this man in blue flannel shirt, baggy khaki trousers, uneven suspenders, and vile felt hat, she was small and exquisite. The surly Pete set out an upturned bucket for her. She lounged on it, her elbows on her knees. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Just starting off for the summer, horse-trading." Bjornstam chuckled. His red mustache caught the sun. "Regular hoboes and public benefactors we are. Take a hike like this every once in a while. Sharks on horses. Buy 'em from farmers and sell 'em to others. We're honest--frequently. Great time. Camp along the road. I was wishing I had a chance to say good-by to you before I ducked out but----Say, you better come along with us." "I'd like to." "While you're playing mumblety-peg with Mrs. Lym Cass, Pete and me will be rambling across Dakota, through the Bad Lands, into the butte country, and when fall comes, we'll be crossing over a pass of the Big Horn Mountains, maybe, and camp in a snow-storm, quarter of a mile right straight up above a lake. Then in the morning we'll lie snug in our blankets and look up through the pines at an eagle. How'd it strike you? Heh? Eagle soaring and soaring all day--big wide sky----" "Don't! Or I will go with you, and I'm afraid there might be some slight scandal. Perhaps some day I'll do it. Good-by." Her hand disappeared in his blackened leather glove. From the turn in the road she waved at him. She walked on more soberly now, and she was lonely. But the wheat and grass were sleek velvet under the sunset; the prairie clouds were tawny gold; and she swung happily into Main Street. II Through the first days of June she drove with Kennicott on his calls. She identified him with the virile land; she admired him as she saw with what respect the farmers obeyed him. She was out in the early chill, after a hasty cup of coffee, reaching open country as the fresh sun came up in that unspoiled world. Meadow larks called from the tops of thin split fence-posts. The wild roses smelled clean. As they returned in late afternoon the low sun was a solemnity of radial bands, like a heavenly fan of beaten gold; the limitless circle of the grain was a green sea rimmed with fog, and the willow wind-breaks were palmy isles. Before July the close heat blanketed them. The tortured earth cracked. Farmers panted through corn-fields behind cultivators and the sweating flanks of horses. While she waited for Kennicott in the car, before a farmhouse, the seat burned her fingers and her head ached with the glare on fenders and hood. A black thunder-shower was followed by a dust storm which turned the sky yellow with the hint of a coming tornado. Impalpable black dust far-borne from Dakota covered the inner sills of the closed windows. The July heat was ever more stifling. They crawled along Main Street by day; they found it hard to sleep at night. They brought mattresses down to the living-room, and thrashed and turned by the open window. Ten times a night they talked of going out to soak themselves with the hose and wade through the dew, but they were too listless to take the trouble. On cool evenings, when they tried to go walking, the gnats appeared in swarms which peppered their faces and caught in their throats. She wanted the Northern pines, the Eastern sea, but Kennicott declared that it would be "kind of hard to get away, just NOW." The Health and Improvement Committee of the Thanatopsis asked her to take part in the anti-fly campaign, and she toiled about town persuading householders to use the fly-traps furnished by the club, or giving out money prizes to fly-swatting children. She was loyal enough but not ardent, and without ever quite intending to, she began to neglect the task as heat sucked at her strength. Kennicott and she motored North and spent a week with his mother--that is, Carol spent it with his mother, while he fished for bass. The great event was their purchase of a summer cottage, down on Lake Minniemashie. Perhaps the most amiable feature of life in Gopher Prairie was the summer cottages. They were merely two-room shanties, with a seepage of broken-down chairs, peeling veneered tables, chromos pasted on wooden walls, and inefficient kerosene stoves. They were so thin-walled and so close together that you could--and did--hear a baby being spanked in the fifth cottage off. But they were set among elms and lindens on a bluff which looked across the lake to fields of ripened wheat sloping up to green woods. Here the matrons forgot social jealousies, and sat gossiping in gingham; or, in old bathing-suits, surrounded by hysterical children, they paddled for hours. Carol joined them; she ducked shrieking small boys, and helped babies construct sand-basins for unfortunate minnows. She liked Juanita Haydock and Maud Dyer when she helped them make picnic-supper for the men, who came motoring out from town each evening. She was easier and more natural with them. In the debate as to whether there should be veal loaf or poached egg on hash, she had no chance to be heretical and oversensitive. They danced sometimes, in the evening; they had a minstrel show, with Kennicott surprisingly good as end-man; always they were encircled by children wise in the lore of woodchucks and gophers and rafts and willow whistles. If they could have continued this normal barbaric life Carol would have been the most enthusiastic citizen of Gopher Prairie. She was relieved to be assured that she did not want bookish conversation alone; that she did not expect the town to become a Bohemia. She was content now. She did not criticize. But in September, when the year was at its richest, custom dictated that it was time to return to town; to remove the children from the waste occupation of learning the earth, and send them back to lessons about the number of potatoes which (in a delightful world untroubled by commission-houses or shortages in freight-cars) William sold to John. The women who had cheerfully gone bathing all summer looked doubtful when Carol begged, "Let's keep up an outdoor life this winter, let's slide and skate." Their hearts shut again till spring, and the nine months of cliques and radiators and dainty refreshments began all over. III Carol had started a salon. Since Kennicott, Vida Sherwin, and Guy Pollock were her only lions, and since Kennicott would have preferred Sam Clark to all the poets and radicals in the entire world, her private and self-defensive clique did not get beyond one evening dinner for Vida and Guy, on her first wedding anniversary; and that dinner did not get beyond a controversy regarding Raymie Wutherspoon's yearnings. Guy Pollock was the gentlest person she had found here. He spoke of her new jade and cream frock naturally, not jocosely; he held her chair for her as they sat down to dinner; and he did not, like Kennicott, interrupt her to shout, "Oh say, speaking of that, I heard a good story today." But Guy was incurably hermit. He sat late and talked hard, and did not come again. Then she met Champ Perry in the post-office--and decided that in the history of the pioneers was the panacea for Gopher Prairie, for all of America. We have lost their sturdiness, she told herself. We must restore the last of the veterans to power and follow them on the backward path to the integrity of Lincoln, to the gaiety of settlers dancing in a saw-mill. She read in the records of the Minnesota Territorial Pioneers that only sixty years ago, not so far back as the birth of her own father, four cabins had composed Gopher Prairie. The log stockade which Mrs. Champ Perry was to find when she trekked in was built afterward by the soldiers as a defense against the Sioux. The four cabins were inhabited by Maine Yankees who had come up the Mississippi to St. Paul and driven north over virgin prairie into virgin woods. They ground their own corn; the men-folks shot ducks and pigeons and prairie chickens; the new breakings yielded the turnip-like rutabagas, which they ate raw and boiled and baked and raw again. For treat they had wild plums and crab-apples and tiny wild strawberries. Grasshoppers came darkening the sky, and in an hour ate the farmwife's garden and the farmer's coat. Precious horses painfully brought from Illinois, were drowned in bogs or stampeded by the fear of blizzards. Snow blew through the chinks of new-made cabins, and Eastern children, with flowery muslin dresses, shivered all winter and in summer were red and black with mosquito bites. Indians were everywhere; they camped in dooryards, stalked into kitchens to demand doughnuts, came with rifles across their backs into schoolhouses and begged to see the pictures in the geographies. Packs of timber-wolves treed the children; and the settlers found dens of rattle-snakes, killed fifty, a hundred, in a day. Yet it was a buoyant life. Carol read enviously in the admirable Minnesota chronicles called "Old Rail Fence Corners" the reminiscence of Mrs. Mahlon Black, who settled in Stillwater in 1848: "There was nothing to parade over in those days. We took it as it came and had happy lives. . . . We would all gather together and in about two minutes would be having a good time--playing cards or dancing. . . . We used to waltz and dance contra dances. None of these new jigs and not wear any clothes to speak of. We covered our hides in those days; no tight skirts like now. You could take three or four steps inside our skirts and then not reach the edge. One of the boys would fiddle a while and then some one would spell him and he could get a dance. Sometimes they would dance and fiddle too." She reflected that if she could not have ballrooms of gray and rose and crystal, she wanted to be swinging across a puncheon-floor with a dancing fiddler. This smug in-between town, which had exchanged "Money Musk" for phonographs grinding out ragtime, it was neither the heroic old nor the sophisticated new. Couldn't she somehow, some yet unimagined how, turn it back to simplicity? She herself knew two of the pioneers: the Perrys. Champ Perry was the buyer at the grain-elevator. He weighed wagons of wheat on a rough platform-scale, in the cracks of which the kernels sprouted every spring. Between times he napped in the dusty peace of his office. She called on the Perrys at their rooms above Howland & Gould's grocery. When they were already old they had lost the money, which they had invested in an elevator. They had given up their beloved yellow brick house and moved into these rooms over a store, which were the Gopher Prairie equivalent of a flat. A broad stairway led from the street to the upper hall, along which were the doors of a lawyer's office, a dentist's, a photographer's "studio," the lodge-rooms of the Affiliated Order of Spartans and, at the back, the Perrys' apartment. They received her (their first caller in a month) with aged fluttering tenderness. Mrs. Perry confided, "My, it's a shame we got to entertain you in such a cramped place. And there ain't any water except that ole iron sink outside in the hall, but still, as I say to Champ, beggars can't be choosers. 'Sides, the brick house was too big for me to sweep, and it was way out, and it's nice to be living down here among folks. Yes, we're glad to be here. But----Some day, maybe we can have a house of our own again. We're saving up----Oh, dear, if we could have our own home! But these rooms are real nice, ain't they!" As old people will, the world over, they had moved as much as possible of their familiar furniture into this small space. Carol had none of the superiority she felt toward Mrs. Lyman Cass's plutocratic parlor. She was at home here. She noted with tenderness all the makeshifts: the darned chair-arms, the patent rocker covered with sleazy cretonne, the pasted strips of paper mending the birch-bark napkin-rings labeled "Papa" and "Mama." She hinted of her new enthusiasm. To find one of the "young folks" who took them seriously, heartened the Perrys, and she easily drew from them the principles by which Gopher Prairie should be born again--should again become amusing to live in. This was their philosophy complete . . . in the era of aeroplanes and syndicalism: The Baptist Church (and, somewhat less, the Methodist, Congregational, and Presbyterian Churches) is the perfect, the divinely ordained standard in music, oratory, philanthropy, and ethics. "We don't need all this new-fangled science, or this terrible Higher Criticism that's ruining our young men in colleges. What we need is to get back to the true Word of God, and a good sound belief in hell, like we used to have it preached to us." The Republican Party, the Grand Old Party of Blaine and McKinley, is the agent of the Lord and of the Baptist Church in temporal affairs. All socialists ought to be hanged. "Harold Bell Wright is a lovely writer, and he teaches such good morals in his novels, and folks say he's made prett' near a million dollars out of 'em." People who make more than ten thousand a year or less than eight hundred are wicked. Europeans are still wickeder. It doesn't hurt any to drink a glass of beer on a warm day, but anybody who touches wine is headed straight for hell. Virgins are not so virginal as they used to be. Nobody needs drug-store ice cream; pie is good enough for anybody. The farmers want too much for their wheat. The owners of the elevator-company expect too much for the salaries they pay. There would be no more trouble or discontent in the world if everybody worked as hard as Pa did when he cleared our first farm. IV Carol's hero-worship dwindled to polite nodding, and the nodding dwindled to a desire to escape, and she went home with a headache. Next day she saw Miles Bjornstam on the street. "Just back from Montana. Great summer. Pumped my lungs chuck-full of Rocky Mountain air. Now for another whirl at sassing the bosses of Gopher Prairie." She smiled at him, and the Perrys faded, the pioneers faded, till they were but daguerreotypes in a black walnut cupboard. 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.

Carol beginnt, alleine lange Spaziergänge in der Natur zu machen, um ihren Geist zu beruhigen und sich besser über ihren Platz in der Welt zu fühlen. Das ist die einzige Zeit, in der sie sich wie ein Kind fühlen kann. Während sie läuft, sieht Carol Miles Bjornstam. Der Mann lädt sie ein, sich ihm und einem Kumpel namens Pete zum Essen von Speck anzuschließen. Es hört sich so an, als würde Miles gerade die Stadt verlassen, um im Sommer Pferde zu handeln. Als Carol schließlich von Miles weggeht, fühlt sie sich einsam. Wenn die Sommerhitze einsetzt, wird die ganze Stadt Gopher Prairie ungemütlich. Die Familien von Gopher Prairie fahren schließlich in ihre Sommerhäuschen. Carol besucht ein Paar namens "Champ Perry", das früher sehr reich war, aber viel Geld verloren hat und jetzt in einer engen Wohnung lebt. Alles, was sie von ihnen hört, ist die gleiche konservative Dogmatik, die sie schon immer von Gopher Prairie gehört hat. Carol hatte sie besucht, in der Hoffnung auf Inspiration, weil Champ Perrys Vorfahren Pioniere waren - aber sie ist traurig festzustellen, dass Champ genauso ist wie alle anderen. Beim nächsten Mal trifft Carol Miles, der gerade vom Pferdehandel zurückgekehrt ist. Sie empfindet sofort mehr Bewunderung für ihn als für jeden anderen, den sie kennt.

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: Fünfter Akt. Erste Szene. Die Königin und die Damen betreten die Bühne. Qu. Auf dieser Seite wird der König kommen: Dies ist der Weg zur schlecht erbauten Burg von Julius Cäsar. In deren steinernem Herzen mein verurteilter Herr von dem stolzen Bullingbrooke gefangengehalten wird. Lass uns hier rasten, wenn diese rebellische Erde Ruhe für ihre wahren Königinnen bietet. Richard und die Wache treten auf. Aber halt, schau, oder besser gesagt, schau weg; sieh nicht, wie meine schöne Rose verwelkt: Schau doch auf; betrachte, dass du in Mitleid zergehen kannst und ihn mit Tränen wahrer Liebe wieder erfrischt. Oh du, das Modell, wo einst Troja stand, du Ehrenkarte, du Königs Richards Grab und nicht König Richard: du schönste Herberge. Warum solltest du von hässlichem Kummer beherbergt werden, wenn Triumph zu einem Gasthaus geworden ist? Rich. Verbünde dich nicht mit Kummer, schöne Frau, tu dies nicht, um mein Ende zu plötzlich zu machen. Lerne, liebe Seele, unseren früheren Zustand als einen glücklichen Traum zu betrachten, aus dem wir erwacht sind und dessen Wahrheit uns nur das hier zeigt. Ich bin ein verschworener Bruder (Liebling) des schrecklichen Zwangs; und er und ich werden Frieden halten bis zum Tod. Mach dich schnell nach Frankreich auf und verstecke dich in einem Kloster: Unsere heiligen Leben müssen sich eine neue Königskrone verdienen, die unsere sündigen Stunden hier zerstört haben. Qu. Was, ist mein Richard sowohl äußerlich als auch innerlich verändert und geschwächt? Hat Bullingbrooke deine Intelligenz abgesetzt und war er in deinem Herzen? Der sterbende Löwe streckt seine Kralle aus und verletzt die Erde, wenn nichts anderes, vor Wut überwältigt zu werden. Und du willst, wie ein Schüler, deine Bestrafung stillschweigend akzeptieren, die Rute küssen und imütig vor Wut kriechen, du der Löwe bist, der König der Tiere? Rich. Ein König der Tiere in der Tat: wäre ich nicht mehr als ein Tier, dann wäre ich immer noch ein glücklicher König der Menschen gewesen. Gut (ehemalige Königin) bereite dich auf Frankreich vor: Denke, ich bin tot und dass du selbst hier meinen letzten Abschied nimmst, als käme er von meinem Sterbebett. In den langweiligen Winternächten setz dich mit guten alten Leuten ans Feuer und lass sie dir von traurigen Zeiten vor langer Zeit erzählen. Und bevor du sie zum Abschied grüßt, um ihre Trauer zu lindern, erzähle du den beklagenswerten Sturz von mir und schicke die Zuhörer weinend zu ihren Betten: Warum? Die gefühllosen Scheite werden mitfühlen mit den schweren Tönen deiner berührenden Zunge und im Mitgefühl das Feuer zum Erlöschen bringen: Einige werden in Asche trauern, manche schwarz wie Kohle, wegen der Entmachtung eines rechtmäßigen Königs. Northumberland tritt auf. North. Mein Lord, die Meinung von Bullingbrooke hat sich geändert. Du musst nach Pomfret, nicht in den Tower. Und Madame, für dich wurde eine Verfügung getroffen: Mit aller Eile musst du nach Frankreich aufbrechen. Rich. Northumberland, du Leiter, auf der Bullingbrooke den Thron erklimmt, wird es nicht viele Stunden dauern, bis die Sünde zum Zerfall wird; du wirst denken, obwohl er das Reich teilt und dir die Hälfte gibt, dass es zu wenig ist, ihm bei allem zu helfen. Er wird denken, dass du, der du den Weg kennst, unrechtmäßige Könige zu installieren, auch wissen wirst, wenn er auch nur wenig beeinflusst wird, ihn vom Usurpatenthron zu stürzen. Die Liebe böser Freunde verwandelt sich in Angst, diese Angst in Hass und Haß verwandelt eine oder beide in verdiente Gefahr und verdienten Tod. North. Meine Schuld liegt auf meinem Kopf und dort ist es vorbei: Tschüss und geh, denn du musst sofort gehen. Rich. Zweifach geschieden? (Schlechte Männer) ihr verletzt eine zweifache Ehe. Zwischen meiner Krone und mir und dann zwischen mir und meiner Ehefrau. Lass mich den Eid, den wir zwischen uns geschlossen haben, lösen, aber nicht ganz, denn er wurde mit einem Kuss gemacht. Trenne uns, Northumberland: Ich gehe in den Norden, wo eisige Kälte und Krankheit das Klima schwächen. Meine Königin geht nach Frankreich, von wo aus sie in pompöser Pracht hierher gekommen ist, wie der süße Mai. Sie wird zurückgeschickt wie Allerheiligen oder der kürzeste Tag. Qu. Und müssen wir getrennt sein? Müssen wir uns trennen? Rich. Ja, Hand von Hand (meine Liebe), und Herz von Herz. Qu. Verbann uns beide und schick den König mit mir. North. Das wäre eine Art von Liebe, aber wenig Klugheit. Qu. Dann wohin er geht, dorthin lasse mich gehen. Rich. So werden zwei Wehklagen gemeinsam zu einem Schmerz. Weine du um mich in Frankreich; ich weine um dich hier. Es ist besser, weit weg zu sein als in der Nähe, von der Nähe ganz zu schweigen. Gehe, zähle deinen Weg mit Seufzern; ich zähle meinen mit Stöhnen. Qu. Der längste Weg wird die längsten Klagen haben. Rich. Ich werde für einen einzigen Schritt zweimal seufzen, wenn der Weg kurz ist und mit schwerem Herzen den Weg fortsetzen. Komm, komm, in der Liebespein wollen wir kurz sein, denn in der Hochzeit liegt so viel Trauer. Ein Kuss soll unsere Münder schließen und uns stumm trennen. So gebe ich meins und nehme dein Herz. Qu. Gib mir meins zurück: Es wäre keine gute Tat, es zu behalten und dein Herz zu töten. So, jetzt habe ich meins wieder, geh weg, damit ich versuchen kann, es mit einem Seufzer zu töten. Rich. Mit dieser törichten Verzögerung machen wir aus der Trauer eine Lust. Noch einmal Lebewohl; den Rest soll die Trauer sagen. Beide verlassen die Bühne. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In einer Londoner Straße, die zum Tower führt, sieht die Königin Richard, begleitet von einem Wächter. Richard sagt ihr, dass sie sich nicht in seiner Trauer anschließen soll. Er rät ihr, nach Frankreich zu gehen und in ein Kloster einzutreten. Die Königin wirft ihm vor, zu resigniert zu sein, und wünscht sich, dass er sich aggressiver verhält. Richard sagt ihr erneut, dass sie nach Frankreich gehen und ihn für tot halten soll. An Winterabenden solle sie sich mit einigen guten alten Leuten treffen, ihren traurigen Geschichten zuhören und dann seine traurige Geschichte über die Entmachtung eines rechtmäßigen Königs erzählen. Northumberland tritt ein und teilt Richard mit, dass Bolingbroke beschlossen hat, ihn nach Pomfret Castle in Yorkshire zu bringen, anstatt zum Tower. Er hat auch einen Befehl, die Königin nach Frankreich zu schicken. Richard prophezeit, dass Northumberland bald unzufrieden mit der Menge an Land sein wird, die Heinrich IV ihm zuweist, und dass Heinrich IV wiederum Northumberland misstrauen wird. Es wird einen tödlichen Streit zwischen ihnen geben. Northumberland weist die Vorhersage ab. Die Königin protestiert gegen ihre Trennung von Richard und fleht darum, dass ihnen beiden erlaubt wird, nach Frankreich zu gehen. Als Northumberland ihren Vorschlag ablehnt, sagt sie, dass sie dorthin gehen möchte, wo auch Richard hingeht, aber Richard selbst sagt, es wäre besser, wenn sie weit voneinander entfernt sind als nah beieinander und sich nicht treffen oder zusammen glücklich sein können. Sie küssen sich und verabschieden sich.

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: Scene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she 'promis'd to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so. O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours; yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me, But old folks, many feign as they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Enter Nurse [and Peter]. O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter.] Jul. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had! Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath? Jul. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that. Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad? Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What, have you din'd at home? Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? What of that? Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down! Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where is your mother? Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within. Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest! 'Your love says, like an honest gentleman, "Where is your mother?"' Nurse. O God's Lady dear! Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? Jul. I have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell; There stays a husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks: They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burthen soon at night. Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. Exeunt. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Drei Stunden nachdem sie die Amme nach Neuigkeiten von Romeo geschickt hat, wartet Juliet ungeduldig auf ihre Rückkehr. Die Amme, die von Juliet's Ungeduld weiß, ärgert absichtlich die junge Braut, indem sie ihr das bevorstehende Hochzeitsdatum vorenthält. Stattdessen beschwert sich die Amme über ihre Schmerzen und Beschwerden. Die Amme gibt endlich nach, als Juliet fast hysterisch vor Frustration ist, und erzählt ihr, dass sie an diesem Nachmittag in der Zelle von Bruder Laurence Romeo heiraten wird. Die Amme verlässt dann den Raum, um die Seilleiter zu holen, die Romeo verwenden wird, um in Juliet's Schlafzimmer zu klettern.

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: SCENE III. The garden of the castle. Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia. DESDEMONA. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do All my abilities in thy behalf. EMILIA. Good madam, do. I warrant it grieves my husband As if the cause were his. DESDEMONA. O, that's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio, But I will have my lord and you again As friendly as you were. CASSIO. Bounteous madam, Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, He's never anything but your true servant. DESDEMONA. I know't: I thank you. You do love my lord: You have known him long; and be you well assured He shall in strangeness stand no farther off Than in a politic distance. CASSIO. Ay, but, lady, That policy may either last so long, Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, Or breed itself so out of circumstances, That I being absent and my place supplied, My general will forget my love and service. DESDEMONA. Do not doubt that. Before Emilia here I give thee warrant of thy place, assure thee, If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it To the last article. My lord shall never rest; I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; I'll intermingle everything he does With Cassio's suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio, For thy solicitor shall rather die Than give thy cause away. Enter Othello and Iago, at a distance. EMILIA. Madam, here comes my lord. CASSIO. Madam, I'll take my leave. DESDEMONA. Nay, stay and hear me speak. CASSIO. Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease, Unfit for mine own purposes. DESDEMONA. Well, do your discretion. Exit Cassio. IAGO. Ha! I like not that. OTHELLO. What dost thou say? IAGO. Nothing, my lord; or if--I know not what. OTHELLO. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife? IAGO. Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it, That he would steal away so guilty-like, Seeing you coming. OTHELLO. I do believe 'twas he. DESDEMONA. How now, my lord! I have been talking with a suitor here, A man that languishes in your displeasure. OTHELLO. Who is't you mean? DESDEMONA. Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord, If I have any grace or power to move you, His present reconciliation take; For if he be not one that truly loves you, That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, I have no judgement in an honest face. I prithee, call him back. OTHELLO. Went he hence now? DESDEMONA. Ay, sooth; so humbled That he hath left part of his grief with me To suffer with him. Good love, call him back. OTHELLO. Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time. DESDEMONA. But shall't be shortly? OTHELLO. The sooner, sweet, for you. DESDEMONA. Shall't be tonight at supper? OTHELLO. No, not tonight. DESDEMONA. Tomorrow dinner then? OTHELLO. I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel. DESDEMONA. Why then tomorrow night, or Tuesday morn, On Tuesday noon, or night, on Wednesday morn. I prithee, name the time, but let it not Exceed three days. In faith, he's penitent; And yet his trespass, in our common reason-- Save that, they say, the wars must make example Out of their best--is not almost a fault To incur a private check. When shall he come? Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul, What you would ask me, that I should deny, Or stand so mammering on. What? Michael Cassio, That came awooing with you, and so many a time When I have spoke of you dispraisingly Hath ta'en your part--to have so much to do To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much-- OTHELLO. Prithee, no more. Let him come when he will; I will deny thee nothing. DESDEMONA. Why, this is not a boon; 'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves, Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit To your own person. Nay, when I have a suit Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, It shall be full of poise and difficult weight, And fearful to be granted. OTHELLO. I will deny thee nothing, Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself. DESDEMONA. Shall I deny you? No. Farewell, my lord. OTHELLO. Farewell, my Desdemona; I'll come to thee straight. DESDEMONA. Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you; Whate'er you be, I am obedient. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. OTHELLO. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again. IAGO. My noble lord-- OTHELLO. What dost thou say, Iago? IAGO. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, Know of your love? OTHELLO. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask? IAGO. But for a satisfaction of my thought; No further harm. OTHELLO. Why of thy thought, Iago? IAGO. I did not think he had been acquainted with her. OTHELLO. O, yes, and went between us very oft. IAGO. Indeed! OTHELLO. Indeed? ay, indeed. Discern'st thou aught in that? Is he not honest? IAGO. Honest, my lord? OTHELLO. Honest? Ay, honest. IAGO. My lord, for aught I know. OTHELLO. What dost thou think? IAGO. Think, my lord? OTHELLO. Think, my lord? By heaven, he echoes me, As if there were some monster in his thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something. I heard thee say even now, thou like'st not that, When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, "Indeed!" And didst contract and purse thy brow together, As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, Show me thy thought. IAGO. My lord, you know I love you. OTHELLO. I think thou dost; And for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more; For such things in a false disloyal knave Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's just They're close dilations, working from the heart, That passion cannot rule. IAGO. For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. OTHELLO. I think so too. IAGO. Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none! OTHELLO. Certain, men should be what they seem. IAGO. Why then I think Cassio's an honest man. OTHELLO. Nay, yet there's more in this. I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words. IAGO. Good my lord, pardon me; Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false; As where's that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? Who has a breast so pure, But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days, and in session sit With meditations lawful? OTHELLO. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. IAGO. I do beseech you-- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature's plague To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy Shapes faults that are not--that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts. OTHELLO. What dost thou mean? IAGO. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. OTHELLO. By heaven, I'll know thy thoughts. IAGO. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand; Nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody. OTHELLO. Ha! IAGO. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! OTHELLO. O misery! IAGO. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy! OTHELLO. Why, why is this? Think'st thou I'ld make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No! To be once in doubt Is once to be resolved. Exchange me for a goat When I shall turn the business of my soul To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, Matching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; Where virtue is, these are more virtuous. Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt; For she had eyes and chose me. No, Iago, I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; And on the proof, there is no more but this-- Away at once with love or jealousy! IAGO. I am glad of it, for now I shall have reason To show the love and duty that I bear you With franker spirit. Therefore, as I am bound, Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio; Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure. I would not have your free and noble nature Out of self-bounty be abused. Look to't. I know our country disposition well; In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown. OTHELLO. Dost thou say so? IAGO. She did deceive her father, marrying you; And when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks, She loved them most. OTHELLO. And so she did. IAGO. Why, go to then. She that so young could give out such a seeming, To seal her father's eyes up close as oak-- He thought 'twas witchcraft--but I am much to blame; I humbly do beseech you of your pardon For too much loving you. OTHELLO. I am bound to thee forever. IAGO. I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits. OTHELLO. Not a jot, not a jot. IAGO. I'faith, I fear it has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you're moved; I am to pray you not to strain my speech To grosser issues nor to larger reach Than to suspicion. OTHELLO. I will not. IAGO. Should you do so, my lord, My speech should fall into such vile success Which my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend-- My lord, I see you're moved. OTHELLO. No, not much moved. I do not think but Desdemona's honest. IAGO. Long live she so! and long live you to think so! OTHELLO. And yet, how nature erring from itself-- IAGO. Ay, there's the point, as--to be bold with you-- Not to affect many proposed matches Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, Whereto we see in all things nature tends-- Foh, one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural. But pardon me. I do not in position Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear, Her will, recoiling to her better judgement, May fall to match you with her country forms, And happily repent. OTHELLO. Farewell, farewell. If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago. IAGO. [Going.] My lord, I take my leave. OTHELLO. Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. IAGO. [Returning.] My lord, I would I might entreat your honor To scan this thing no further; leave it to time. Though it be fit that Cassio have his place, For sure he fills it up with great ability, Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile, You shall by that perceive him and his means. Note if your lady strain his entertainment With any strong or vehement importunity; Much will be seen in that. In the meantime, Let me be thought too busy in my fears-- As worthy cause I have to fear I am-- And hold her free, I do beseech your honor. OTHELLO. Fear not my government. IAGO. I once more take my leave. Exit. OTHELLO. This fellow's of exceeding honesty, And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have, or for I am declined Into the vale of years--yet that's not much-- She's gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapor of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones: Prerogatived are they less than the base; 'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death. Even then this forked plague is fated to us When we do quicken. Desdemona comes: Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia. If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I'll not believe't. DESDEMONA. How now, my dear Othello! Your dinner, and the generous islanders By you invited, do attend your presence. OTHELLO. I am to blame. DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so faintly? Are you not well? OTHELLO. I have a pain upon my forehead here. DESDEMONA. Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again. Let me but bind it hard, within this hour It will be well. OTHELLO. Your napkin is too little; He puts the handkerchief from him, and she drops it. Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with you. DESDEMONA. I am very sorry that you are not well. Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. EMILIA. I am glad I have found this napkin; This was her first remembrance from the Moor. My wayward husband hath a hundred times Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token, For he conjured her she should ever keep it, That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out, And give't Iago. What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I; I nothing but to please his fantasy. Re-enter Iago. IAGO. How now, what do you here alone? EMILIA. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you. IAGO. A thing for me? It is a common thing-- EMILIA. Ha! IAGO. To have a foolish wife. EMILIA. O, is that all? What will you give me now For that same handkerchief? IAGO. What handkerchief? EMILIA. What handkerchief? Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona, That which so often you did bid me steal. IAGO. Hast stol'n it from her? EMILIA. No, faith; she let it drop by negligence, And, to the advantage, I being here took't up. Look, here it is. IAGO. A good wench; give it me. EMILIA. What will you do with't, that you have been so earnest To have me filch it? IAGO. [Snatching it.] Why, what is that to you? EMILIA. If't be not for some purpose of import, Give't me again. Poor lady, she'll run mad When she shall lack it. IAGO. Be not acknown on't; I have use for it. Go, leave me. Exit Emilia. I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin, And let him find it. Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ; this may do something. The Moor already changes with my poison: Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons, Which at the first are scarce found to distaste, But with a little act upon the blood Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so. Look, where he comes! Re-enter Othello. Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday. OTHELLO. Ha, ha, false to me? IAGO. Why, how now, general! No more of that. OTHELLO. Avaunt! be gone! Thou hast set me on the rack. I swear 'tis better to be much abused Than but to know't a little. IAGO. How now, my lord? OTHELLO. What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust? I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me; I slept the next night well, was free and merry; I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips. He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n, Let him not know't and he's not robb'd at all. IAGO. I am sorry to hear this. OTHELLO. I had been happy if the general camp, Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body, So I had nothing known. O, now forever Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell, Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone! IAGO. Is't possible, my lord? OTHELLO. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore; Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof; Or, by the worth of man's eternal soul, Thou hadst been better have been born a dog Than answer my waked wrath! IAGO. Is't come to this? OTHELLO. Make me to see't; or at the least so prove it, That the probation bear no hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life! IAGO. My noble lord-- OTHELLO. If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more; abandon all remorse; On horror's head horrors accumulate; Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed; For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than that. IAGO. O grace! O heaven defend me! Are you a man? have you a soul or sense? God be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool, That livest to make thine honesty a vice! O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe. I thank you for this profit, and from hence I'll love no friend sith love breeds such offense. OTHELLO. Nay, stay; thou shouldst be honest. IAGO. I should be wise; for honesty's a fool, And loses that it works for. OTHELLO. By the world, I think my wife be honest, and think she is not; I think that thou art just, and think thou art not. I'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black As mine own face. If there be cords or knives, Poison or fire, or suffocating streams, I'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied! IAGO. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion; I do repent me that I put it to you. You would be satisfied? OTHELLO. Would? Nay, I will. IAGO. And may. But, how? how satisfied, my lord? Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on? Behold her topp'd? OTHELLO. Death and damnation! O! IAGO. It were a tedious difficulty, I think, To bring them to that prospect. Damn them then, If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster More than their own! What then? how then? What shall I say? Where's satisfaction? It is impossible you should see this Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say, If imputation and strong circumstances, Which lead directly to the door of truth, Will give you satisfaction, you may have't. OTHELLO. Give me a living reason she's disloyal. IAGO. I do not like the office; But sith I am enter'd in this cause so far, Prick'd to't by foolish honesty and love, I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately And, being troubled with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs; One of this kind is Cassio. In sleep I heard him say, "Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us hide our loves"; And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, Cry, "O sweet creature!" and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots, That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd and kiss'd; and then Cried, "Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!" OTHELLO. O monstrous! monstrous! IAGO. Nay, this was but his dream. OTHELLO. But this denoted a foregone conclusion. 'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. IAGO. And this may help to thicken other proofs That do demonstrate thinly. OTHELLO. I'll tear her all to pieces. IAGO. Nay, but be wise; yet we see nothing done; She may be honest yet. Tell me but this; Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand? OTHELLO. I gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift. IAGO. I know not that; but such a handkerchief-- I am sure it was your wife's--did I today See Cassio wipe his beard with. OTHELLO. If it be that-- IAGO. If it be that, or any that was hers, It speaks against her with the other proofs. OTHELLO. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago, All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow hell! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics' tongues! IAGO. Yet be content. OTHELLO. O, blood, blood, blood! IAGO. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change. OTHELLO. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven, In the due reverence of a sacred vow Kneels. I here engage my words. IAGO. Do not rise yet. Kneels. Witness, you ever-burning lights above, You elements that clip us round about, Witness that here Iago doth give up The execution of his wit, hands, heart, To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever. They rise. OTHELLO. I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous, And will upon the instant put thee to't: Within these three days let me hear thee say That Cassio's not alive. IAGO. My friend is dead, 'tis done at your request; But let her live. OTHELLO. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. IAGO. I am your own forever. Exeunt. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Cassio hat die ganze Situation Desdemona erklärt und sie verspricht, nicht aufzugeben, bis sie Othello überzeugt hat, Cassio wieder als seinen Leutnant einzusetzen und ihre Freundschaft zu erneuern. Cassio erklärt, dass er dafür auf ewig in ihrer Schuld steht, und Desdemona betont erneut, dass sie alles tun wird, was sie kann. Sie sagt sogar: "Dein Fürsprecher wird eher sterben, / als deine Sache preiszugeben." Definition: Vorausdeutung. Als Othello kommt, entscheidet Cassio, dass es Zeit ist zu gehen. Desdemona sagt ihm, er solle bleiben, aber Cassio fühlt sich komisch und beeilt sich hinauszugehen. Nun beginnt Iago seine Kampagne, um Othello eifersüchtig zu machen, indem er darauf hinweist, wie merkwürdig es ist, dass Cassio so schnell davongerannt ist, wie ein Dieb, der sich in der Nacht davonstiehlt. Desdemona beginnt sofort damit, Othello zu umschmeicheln und für Cassio zu werben. Sie behauptet, dass Cassio wirklich reumütig ist, und schlägt vor, dass Othello Cassio zurückrufen solle, um seinen Standpunkt darzulegen. Othello sagt "nicht jetzt", und Desdemona sagt etwas wie "na gut, vielleicht morgen, oder Dienstagmorgen, oder Dienstagnacht, oder Mittwochmorgen, oder wie wäre es mit Mittwochnacht?" Als Othello sie immer wieder vertröstet, behauptet Desdemona, sie würde ihm niemals etwas verweigern, also warum höre er ihr nicht zu? Außerdem habe sie sein Bestes im Sinn. Othello antwortet, dass er ihr nichts verweigern wird, aber im Moment möchte er bitte alleine gelassen werden. Iago stellt scheinbar beiläufig Fragen über Cassio, über den Othello sagt, dass er oft als Vermittler fungierte, als er um Desdemona warb. Iago wirft immer wieder unangenehme Andeutungen ein, und schließlich verlangt Othello zu wissen, was ihn bedrückt. Iago sagt, er möchte lieber nichts sagen, aber Othello drängt ihn, und dann sagt Iago, er möchte lieber nichts sagen, und Othello drängt weiter. Schließlich, nachdem Iago Zweifel an Cassios Ehrlichkeit gesät, angedeutet hat, dass er unloyal ist, und angedeutet hat, dass Desdemona untreu ist, sagt Iago zu Othello: "O hüte dich, mein Herr, vor der Eifersucht; Sie ist das grünäugige Monster, das das Fleisch belächelt, von dem es lebt." Das ist großartig, außer dass er mit "hüte dich" eigentlich meint "ich hoffe, du wirst eifersüchtig und tötest deine Frau, denn das wäre ironisch." Othello sagt, dass er nicht der Typ ist, der eifersüchtig wird - er zieht seine Schlüsse erst, nachdem er Verdacht geschöpft hat und sie untersucht hat. Wenn etwas nicht stimmt, findet er sofort heraus, was los ist und löst die Situation. Othello weiß, dass Desdemona begehrenswert ist und er selbst nicht, aber das stört ihn nicht. "Sie hatte Augen und wählte mich", sagt sich Othello. Außerdem verspricht er, dass er etwas sehen müsste, um seinen Verdacht zu wecken, bevor er Zweifel an der Treue seiner Frau hat, und wenn er Zweifel sieht, wird er sofort überprüfen, ob sie gerechtfertigt sind. Diese Strategie hilft ihm dabei, zu verhindern, dass Liebe oder Eifersucht seine Vernunft zu sehr beeinflussen. Es ist ein guter Plan, außer dass er, wenn es ihn gibt, ihn nicht nutzt. Iago sagt im Grunde genommen: "Ok, wenn du versprichst, eifersüchtig zu sein, solltest du Desdemona im Auge behalten, aber objektiv, und nicht aus Eifersucht." Iago sagt, er kenne die Wege der Frauen von Venedig gut: Sie seien zügellos, und obwohl der Himmel von ihren kleinen Erlebnissen wisse, wüssten ihre Männer es nicht. Iago fügt hilfreich hinzu, dass Desdemona ihren Vater getäuscht hat, um Othello zu heiraten. Er deutet, wie zuvor Brabantio, an, dass man Desdemona nicht trauen könne, da sie eine Frau und somit eine Lügnerin sei. Im Grunde genommen könnte sich Hamlet mit diesen Kerlen zusammentun und eine große Anti-Frauen-Party feiern. Iago überzeugt Othello mit dem, was er gesagt hat, und es ist klar, dass der Samen des Verdachts gesät wurde. Iago erzählt Othello, dass er hofft, er habe seinen Tag nicht ruiniert. Das ist der tückischste und hinterhältigste Teil von allem, denn er hofft wirklich, Othellos Tag ruiniert zu haben. Wer ist jetzt der Lügner? Othello versichert Iago, dass es ihm gut geht, und Iago beteuert, dass alle seine Spekulationen aus einer Liebe heraus kommen. Außerdem bittet er Othello, diese Verdachtsmomente nicht zu etwas Ernsthafterem oder Gefährlicherem auszudehnen. Othello verspricht, dass er nicht stark bewegt ist und dass er immer noch glauben kann, dass Desdemona ehrlich ist. "Trotzdem", zögert Othello, "manchmal begeht die Natur einen Fehler..." Iago greift diesen Gedanken auf und spielt schmerzhaft mit Othellos Unsicherheit. Iago behauptet, dass es gegen Desdemonas von Gott gegebene Natur war, alle Verehrer abzuweisen, die aus ihrem Land kamen, ihre Hautfarbe und ihren Status hatten. Iago behauptet, dass Desdemonas unnatürliche Wahl gegen diese Bewerber darauf hinweist, dass in ihrem Herzen andere "widerliche, unnatürliche Gedanken" wohnen könnten. Iago bringt dies nur zur Sprache, um darauf hinzuweisen, dass Desdemona eines Tages wieder zur Vernunft kommen und ihre Wahl, Othello zu heiraten, bereuen und ihn für jemand anderen aufgeben könnte, der nicht so... nun... schwarz ist. Mit diesem abscheulichen Gedanken verlässt Iago Othello, der über die Möglichkeit grübelt, dass Desdemona ihn betrügt, ein unerwünschter schwarzer Mann. Während Othello sich fragt, warum er überhaupt geheiratet hat, kommt Iago zurück, um dem noch weiteres Salz in die Wunde zu streuen. Iago gibt vor, bedauerlich zu sein und sagt Othello, er solle nicht zu viel darüber nachdenken - es ist wahrscheinlich nichts, er übertreibt wahrscheinlich, aber für den Fall, dass Othello auf etwas Verdächtiges achtet, vor allem darauf, dass Desdemona sehr darauf bedacht ist, dass Cassio seine Position zurückbekommt. Iago lässt Othello erneut mit seinen Gedanken allein. Nun allein, lobt Othello Iago dafür, ein ehrlicher Mann zu sein, der sich gut mit Herzangelegenheiten auskennt. Dann reflektiert er über seine Beziehung zu Desdemona und verwendet dabei Terminologie aus dem edlen Sport der Falknerei: In einem seltenen Moment der exquisiten Verletzlichkeit vergleicht Othello Desdemona mit seinem Falken. Er sagt, wenn er herausfindet, dass sie wild ist, dann würde er sie, obwohl die Ledergurte, die sie an seine Handgelenke binden würden, eigentlich seine Herzstränge sind, freilassen, damit sie im Wind des Schicksals fliegen kann, sowohl "zufällig" als auch "zu ihrem Schicksal", auch wenn er nicht wissen würde, ob sie jemals zu ihm zurückkehren würde. Othello untergräbt dieses edle Gefühl jedoch, indem er an andere Gründe denkt, warum Desdemona ihm untreu sein könnte. Was auch immer es ist, Othello kommt zu dem Schluss, dass Desdemona ihm verloren ist; seine einzige Erleichterung von seinem Kummer wird nun sein, sie zu hassen. Othello beklagt seine Lage: Männer mögen sagen, dass ihre Frauen ihnen gehören, aber sie können niemals über die Liebes- und Lustgelüste ihrer Frauen verfügen. Dennoch gibt Othello zu, dass er es nicht ertragen könnte, wenn andere auch nur ein bisschen von der Liebe seiner Geliebten haben. Er entscheidet, dass dies das unvermeidliche Schicksal wichtiger Männer ist: dass sie verraten werden, schon von dem Moment ihrer Geburt an. Emilia und Desdemona kommen herein, und für einen Moment ändert sich Othellos Gedanken fast sofort: er kann nicht glauben, dass seine Frau ihn betrügen würde. Desdemona ist gekommen, um ihn zum Abendessen zu bringen, zusammen mit den einheimischen Zyprern, die er zum Essen eingeladen hat. Aber er ist nicht so bereit für das Feiern; Othellos Eifersucht hat ihn bereits körperlich krank gemacht. Desdemona bemerkt, dass ihr Ehemann krank aussieht, und sie versucht, ihn zu beruhigen, indem sie anbietet, sein Kopf mit ihrem Taschentuch zu verbinden. Othello erklärt ihr Taschentuch für zu klein und schiebt es von sich weg. Die beiden gehen ab und lassen Emilia allein im Raum. Emilia hat Desdemonas Taschentuch im Auge, das Othello während seines wütenden Moments fallen ließ. Emilia enthüllt, dass dies Othellos erstes Liebeszeichen für seine Frau war und ihr Ehemann, Iago, sie oft gebeten hat, es zu stehlen. Bisher konnte sie es nicht tun, da Desdemona es wie eine Sicherheitsdecke liebt. Emilia beschließt, das Stickmuster kopieren zu lassen, und dann will sie es ihrem Ehemann, Iago, geben. Sie weiß nicht, welche Pläne er damit hat, aber sie wird ihn glücklich machen, in der Hoffnung, dass er sie dafür lieben wird. Iago kommt herein und spottet wie gewöhnlich lässig über seine Frau. Emilia, stolz, zeigt das Taschentuch. Sie gibt zu, dass sie es nicht gestohlen hat, sondern dass Desdemona es aus Nachlässigkeit fallen ließ. Iago freut sich. Er gibt seiner Frau ein schnelles "braves Mädchen", bevor er wieder zu seinem üblichen groben Selbst zurückkehrt und ihr befiehlt, es ihm zu geben. Sie fragt, was er damit vorhat, bevor sie es ihm gibt, und Iago erklärt, das gehe sie nichts an. Emilia sagt, möge es ihre Angelegenheit sein oder nicht, es sollte besser ein guter Grund sein, da Desdemona verrückt werden wird, wenn sie merkt, dass ihr Liebeszeichen verschwunden ist. Iago instruiert seine Frau, den Vorfall zu vergessen. Nachdem er das Taschentuch ergriffen hat, befiehlt er ihr zu gehen. Iago beschließt, das Taschentuch in Cassios Zimmer zu legen, um Othellos Verdacht zu schüren. Obwohl das Zeichen nur eine kleine Sache ist, ist es doch genug Bestätigung, um Othellos eifersüchtige Fantasien darüber auszulösen, was Cassio mit dem Taschentuch tun könnte. Während er Othello erneut eintreten sieht, frohlockt Iago, dass keine Droge der Welt den Mann zur Ruhe bringen kann, jetzt da er sich um seine Frau sorgt. Othello wird nun selbst zum Fluchenden; er erklärt, dass es besser ist, stark verletzt zu werden und es zu wissen, als nur einen Hauch von Verdacht zu haben, dass man verletzt wird. Iago stellt sich verwirrt, als ob er nicht verstünde, dass Othello über ihn verärgert ist, weil er den Verdacht gesät hat. Othello erklärt, dass er Desdemona nie verdächtigt hätte, denn ein Mann, dem etwas gestohlen wurde und der es nicht weiß, ist so gut wie nicht bestohlen worden. Im Grunde genommen wäre Othello sogar besser dran, wenn Desdemona überall in Zypern herumschläft. So wie es ist, hat das Wissen um Desdemonas mögliche Untreue Othellos eigene Identität zerstört. Sein friedlicher Geist, sein Glück und sogar sein Rang als Soldat sind alle von diesem Wissen befleckt. Desdemona hat ihm die Männlichkeit genommen, und selbst Othellos stolze Siege auf dem Schlachtfeld scheinen nun unerreichbar. Er verlangt von Iago, ihm den Beweis für Desdemonas Betrug zu geben. Wenn Iago mit ihm nur spielt, wird er es wirklich bereuen. Iago gibt vor, beleidigt zu sein, dass Othello ihm nicht vertraut, und ruft aus, dass es eine schreckliche Welt sei, in der man für seine gut gemeinte Ehrlichkeit so bestraft werden kann. Othello stimmt zu, dass Iago ehrlich sein sollte, und verlangt erneut von ihm, ihm den Beweis für Desdemonas Untreue zu bringen. Iago beschreibt, wie schwer es wäre, Untreue zu beweisen; möchte Othello Desdemona und Cassio in den Armen des anderen erwischen? Iago ruft dann detailliert ein Bild herauf, wie Desdemona und Cassio zusammen leidenschaftlich sind, und sagt, dass Othello das nicht sehen würde wollen, oder? Die Kraft des geistigen Bildes ist hier entscheidend. Nach dieser lebendigen Beschreibung drängt Othello Iago erneut auf eine gute Begründung, warum er Desdemona verdächtigen sollte. Iago beschreibt, wie er einmal "mit Cassio gelegen" hat. Iago hatte Zahnschmerzen und konnte nicht schlafen, behauptet er, und er war wach genug, um Cassio, wie er sagt, im Schlaf murmeln zu hören. Iago erzählt, dass Cassio angeblich Desdemona im Schlaf gerufen hat und ihr sagte, sie solle vorsichtig sein und ihre Liebe verstecken. Dann fing Cassio an, sich im Bett hin und her zu werfen und Iagos Hand zu küssen, als ob es Desdemona wäre. An diesem Punkt sind wir ein wenig verwirrt, warum Iago Cassio nicht aufgeweckt und gesagt hat: "Entschuldigung, bitte hör auf, mit meiner Hand herumzumachen." Wie dem auch sei, der immer noch schlafende und träumende Cassio warf dann angeblich seine Beine über Iagos Schenkel, küsste weiter und erklärte schließlich: "Verfluchtes Schicksal, das dich dem Mohren gab!" - falls Iago noch Zweifel hatte. Othello ist, wenig überraschend, wütend, aber Iago stellt schnell klar, dass dies alles nur Cassios Traum war, ein hoch belastender Traum, zweifellos, aber immer noch ein Traum. Trotzdem ist Othello von dieser Geschichte über Cassio im Bett total überzeugt. Mit großem Timing schlägt Iago den letzten Nagel in den Sarg ein. Er spielt immer noch unschuldig und fordert Othello auf, ruhig zu sein und erklärt ihm dann, dass er Cassio mit Desdemonas besonderem Taschentuch gesehen hat. Nachdem er das gehört hat, erklärt Othello, dass seine gesamte Liebe zu Desdemona verschwunden ist. Jetzt ist er auf Blut und Rache aus, wenn möglich in einem einzigen bequemen Paket. Iago, als er das hört, bemüht sich, Othello daran zu erinnern, dass sie nur Verdachtsgründe haben, aber das schärft nur Othellos Rachedurst. Othello kniet dann nieder und schwört, dass seine ehemalige Liebe zu Desdemona ihn nicht davon abhalten wird, ihr Verrat blutig zu rächen. Iago kniet mit ihm und schwört, alles zu tun, um zur Ehre zurückzukehren. Othello bittet ihn, Cassio zu töten. Iago stimmt zu und fügt verschlagen hinzu: "Aber lasst sie leben", und spricht von Desdemona. "Verdammt sei sie, lüderliches Weib!" flucht Othello. Othello hat beschlossen, dass sie sterben muss. Um die Szene abzuschließen, verkündet Iago "Ich gehöre für immer dir" und meint damit tatsächlich, dass er Othello völlig im Griff hat.

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: Nur eines fehlte Emma, um den Ball vollständig zufriedenstellend zu finden - dass er auf einen Tag innerhalb des gewährten Aufenthalts von Frank Churchill in Surry festgelegt wurde. Denn trotz der Zuversicht von Mr. Weston konnte sie es nicht so unwahrscheinlich finden, dass die Churchills ihrem Neffen erlauben würden, einen Tag über seine zwei Wochen hinaus zu bleiben. Aber das wurde als nicht machbar angesehen. Die Vorbereitungen würden ihre Zeit brauchen, nichts könnte ordnungsgemäß vorbereitet werden, bis die dritte Woche begonnen hätte, und für ein paar Tage müssten sie in Ungewissheit planen, vorankommen und hoffen - mit dem Risiko - ihrer Meinung nach das große Risiko -, dass alles umsonst sein könnte. Enscombe jedoch war gnädig, tatsächlich gnädig, wenn auch nicht wortwörtlich. Sein Wunsch, länger zu bleiben, schien offensichtlich nicht zu gefallen, aber es wurde nicht abgewiesen. Alles war sicher und erfolgreich, und da das Verschwinden einer Sorge normalerweise Platz für eine andere schafft, begann Emma, nachdem sie sich nun sicher war, dass es den Ball geben würde, Mr. Knightleys verärger He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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An einem Abend, als Emma mit ihrem Vater Randalls besucht, schlägt Frank Churchill vor, einen Ball in Randalls abzuhalten. Als Frank die Liste der zehn Tanzpaare vorbereitet, widerspricht Emma, denn Randalls hat keinen Raum, der groß genug ist, um zehn Paaren das Tanzen zu ermöglichen. Am nächsten Morgen besucht Frank Emma und informiert sie darüber, dass Mr. Weston das Crown Inn für den Ball empfohlen hat. Mr. Woodhouse ist gegen den Ball im Gasthaus aus Angst, dass sich die Gäste erkälten könnten. Alle Vorbereitungen für den Ball werden von Mrs. Weston übernommen, die Emma dafür lobt, dass sie immer vorsichtig bei ihren Plänen ist. Emma begleitet Frank dann zu den Westons, die im Crown Inn die notwendigen Vorkehrungen treffen. Bevor sie die Speisepläne endgültig festlegen, möchte Frank die Meinung von Miss Bates und Jane Fairfax einholen. Emma widerspricht Miss Bates' Meinung, aber Frank spricht positiv über sie. Er geht dann, um die beiden Frauen ins Crown Inn zu holen.

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: An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward. At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel's position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive. What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor. How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said "between eleven and twelve knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction. If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire. During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer. Passepartout was delighted. His master's last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed. Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg's command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair. As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board. On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east. This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel's speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves. Passepartout's visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead. The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless. The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg's departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam. On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, "You are certain of what you tell me?" "Certain, sir," replied the engineer. "You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven't enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool." "I will consider," replied Mr. Fogg. Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! "Ah, if my master can get over that," muttered he, "he'll be a famous man!" He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard. "Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?" "Of course." "Ass!" replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel. Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained. And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, "Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted." A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day. "Do not let the fires go down," replied Mr. Fogg. "Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled." Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, "He will be like a madman!" In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. "Where are we?" were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man been an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath. "Where are we?" he repeated, with purple face. "Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool," replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness. "Pirate!" cried Captain Speedy. "I have sent for you, sir--" "Pickaroon!" "--sir," continued Mr. Fogg, "to ask you to sell me your vessel." "No! By all the devils, no!" "But I shall be obliged to burn her." "Burn the Henrietta!" "Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out." "Burn my vessel!" cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. "A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!" "Here are sixty thousand," replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match. "And I shall still have the iron hull," said the captain in a softer tone. "The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?" "Agreed." And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket. During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank. When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, "Don't let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool--" "And I did well!" cried Andrew Speedy; "for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!" He added, more sedately, "Do you know one thing, Captain--" "Fogg." "Captain Fogg, you've got something of the Yankee about you." And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, "The vessel now belongs to me?" "Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts--all the wood, that is." "Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them." It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition. The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether! "Sir," said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg's project, "I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown." "Ah," said Mr. Fogg, "is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?" "Yes." "Can we enter the harbour?" "Not under three hours. Only at high tide." "Stay," replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune. Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers. Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening. The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o'clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for. The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about "his man"? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them. Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London. But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg's shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, "You are really Phileas Fogg?" "I am." "I arrest you in the Queen's name!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem er einen Tag lang auf der "Henrietta" gewesen ist, übernimmt Fogg die Position des Kapitäns des Schiffes, nachdem er die gesamte Besatzung bestochen hat und Andrew Speedy in einer Kabine eingesperrt hat. Fogg möchte das Schiff nach Liverpool bringen. Die ersten Tage verlaufen gut, dann gerät das Schiff in einen Sturm. Das Schiff muss gegen den Wind kämpfen und verliert dadurch Zeit. Da das Schiff auf volle Kraft gefahren ist, geht auch der Treibstoff, Kohle, zur Neige. Trotzdem bittet Fogg den Ingenieur, das Schiff weiterhin mit voller Kraft zu betreiben. Er ruft Speedy zu sich und bezahlt ihm genug Geld, um Teile des Schiffes als Treibstoff verbrennen zu dürfen. Speedy schätzt die große Summe Geld und lässt Fogg mit dem Schiff machen, was er will. Das Schiff schafft es bis zum Hafen von Queenstown und Fogg plant, von hier aus nach Liverpool zu gelangen. Sie erreichen Liverpool und haben nun nur noch sechs Stunden Zeit, um nach England zu gelangen. In diesem Moment verhaftet Fix Fogg.

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: A Vanishing Gleam Mr. Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had recurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and entrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He had lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggie told her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice of them. They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near the head of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put her hand on her father's without causing any change in his face. Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy selecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom had brought from his father's bureau. They succeeded in opening the chest,--which stood opposite the foot of Mr. Tulliver's bed,--and propping the lid with the iron holder, without much noise. "There's a tin box," whispered Mr. Glegg; "he'd most like put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I'll just lift up these deeds,--they're the deeds o' the house and mill, I suppose,--and see what there is under 'em." Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawn back a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fell with a loud bang that resounded over the house. Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of the strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on the frame of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the obstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his father's father, and it had always been rather a solemn business to visit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or a particular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognized voice to us,--a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been used to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyes in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the chest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, and Tom holding the tin box, with a glance of perfect consciousness and recognition. "What are you going to do with those deeds?" he said, in his ordinary tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. "Come here, Tom. What do you do, going to my chest?" Tom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father had recognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr. Glegg and the deeds. "What's been happening, then?" he said sharply. "What are you meddling with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don't you tell me what you've been a-doing?" he added impatiently, as Mr. Glegg advanced to the foot of the bed before speaking. "No, no, friend Tulliver," said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone. "Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and see what was in the chest. You've been ill, you know, and we've had to look after things a bit. But let's hope you'll soon be well enough to attend to everything yourself." Mr. Tulliver looked around him meditatively, at Tom, at Mr. Glegg, and at Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated by his side at the head of the bed he turned sharply round and saw his sister. "Eh, Gritty!" he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in which he had been wont to speak to her. "What! you're there, are you? How could you manage to leave the children?" "Oh, brother!" said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, "I'm thankful I'm come now to see you yourself again; I thought you'd never know us any more." "What! have I had a stroke?" said Mr. Tulliver, anxiously, looking at Mr. Glegg. "A fall from your horse--shook you a bit,--that's all, I think," said Mr. Glegg. "But you'll soon get over it, let's hope." Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained silent for two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He looked up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, "You got the letter, then, my wench?" "Yes, father," she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if her father were come back to her from the dead, and her yearning to show him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled. "Where's your mother?" he said, so preoccupied that he received the kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it. "She's downstairs with my aunts, father. Shall I fetch her?" "Ay, ay; poor Bessy!" and his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie left the room. "You'll have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, Tom. You'll be badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. And mind,--there's fifty pound o' Luke's as I put into the business,--he gave me a bit at a time, and he's got nothing to show for it. You must pay him first thing." Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concerned than ever, but Tom said firmly: "Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss for three hundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be done about it, father?" "Ah! I'm glad you thought o' that, my lad," said Mr. Tulliver. "I allays meant to be easy about that money, because o' your aunt. You mustn't mind losing the money, if they can't pay it,--and it's like enough they can't. The note's in that box, mind! I allays meant to be good to you, Gritty," said Mr. Tulliver, turning to his sister; "but you know you aggravated me when you would have Moss." At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who came in much agitated by the news that her husband was quite himself again. "Well, Bessy," he said, as she kissed him, "you must forgive me if you're worse off than you ever expected to be. But it's the fault o' the law,--it's none o' mine," he added angrily. "It's the fault o' raskills. Tom, you mind this: if ever you've got the chance, you make Wakem smart. If you don't, you're a good-for-nothing son. You might horse-whip him, but he'd set the law on you,--the law's made to take care o' raskills." Mr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on his face. Mr. Glegg wanted to say something soothing, but he was prevented by Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. "They'll make a shift to pay everything, Bessy," he said, "and yet leave you your furniture; and your sisters'll do something for you--and Tom'll grow up--though what he's to be I don't know--I've done what I could--I've given him a eddication--and there's the little wench, she'll get married--but it's a poor tale----" The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with the last words the poor man fell again, rigid and insensible. Though this was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all present as if it had been death, not only from its contrast with the completeness of the revival, but because his words had all had reference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poor Tulliver death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under thickening shadows. Mr. Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had passed, he said this complete restoration, though only temporary, was a hopeful sign, proving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimate recovery. Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up, he had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of memory had only lit up prominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half his humiliation unlearned. Aber Tom war sich über zwei Dinge im Klaren: dass der Brief seines Onkels Moss zerstört werden musste und dass Lukes Geld, wenn es anders nicht möglich war, aus dem eigenen Geld von ihm und Maggie in der Sparkasse bezahlt werden musste. Sie sehen, es gab Themen, bei denen Tom viel schneller war als bei den Feinheiten klassischer Konstruktion oder den Beziehungen einer mathematischen Demonstration. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Maggie und Frau Moss gehen zu Mr. Tullivers Bett, während Tom und Mr. Glegg nach dem Brief in Tullivers alter Eichentruhe suchen. Sie nehmen einige Papiere heraus, aber der Truhendeckel fällt zu und das Geräusch weckt Mr. Tulliver auf. Er fragt scharf, was los ist. Er erkennt seine Schwester und Maggie und fragt nach Mrs. Tulliver. Er sagt Tom, sich um sie zu kümmern, und erinnert ihn daran, die fünfzig Pfund zurückzuzahlen, die Luke in die Mühle investiert hatte. Tom fragt nach dem Brief und Tulliver sagt ihm, er solle "den Verlust des Geldes nicht beachten". Er sagt, der Brief sei in der Kiste. Als Maggie Mrs. Tulliver hereinbringt, bittet er um Vergebung, sagt aber "es ist die Schuld des Gesetzes - es ist nicht meine". Er besteht darauf, dass Tom "Wakem zur Verantwortung ziehen" müsse. Er fängt an, aufgeregt zu werden, und sagt, dass Mrs. Tullivers Familie "alles bezahlen kann... und trotzdem euch euer Mobiliar lässt"; und dass Toms Bildung ihm helfen wird; und dass Maggie heiraten wird. Er verliert wieder das Bewusstsein. Als der Arzt kommt, prognostiziert er eine endgültige Genesung für Mr. Tulliver. Aber Tullivers Worte lassen Tom deutlich werden, dass der Brief zerstört und Lukes Geld bezahlt werden müssen.

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: SCENE 8. Venice. A street [Enter SALARINO and SALANIO.] SALARINO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SALANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. SALARINO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SALANIO. I never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. 'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter! And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl! She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.' SALARINO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SALANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. SALARINO. Marry, well remember'd. I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me,--in the narrow seas that part The French and English,--there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish'd in silence that it were not his. SALANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answer'd 'Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted. SALANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALARINO. Do we so. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Paragraphen schreiben?

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Nachdem er Shylocks Wut über die Flucht von Jessica miterlebt hat, beschreibt Solanio die Szene Salarino. Shylock, so berichtet er, wetterte gegen den Verlust seiner Tochter und seiner Dukaten und schrie lautstark und dringend nach Gerechtigkeit und dem Sieg des Gesetzes. Solanio hofft, dass Antonio seine Schulden begleichen kann, aber Salarino erinnert ihn an Gerüchte, dass die lang erwarteten Schiffe im Ärmelkanal gekentert sind. Die beiden Männer erinnern sich warm an Bassanios Abschied von Antonio, bei dem der Kaufmann darauf bestand, dass sein junger Freund sich nicht von Gedanken an Schulden oder Gefahr bei seiner Verehrung von Portia ablenken lässt.

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: "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey." "Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses." "The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?" "Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for"-- Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with, "Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea." "Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld." Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on. "Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Churchill's illness." "If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to Clifton?" "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired." "Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society." "Frank was here in February for a fortnight." "So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world." This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed, "My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible. Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton." He had done his duty and could return to his son. "When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth--I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next." "Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen's saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage--we had disappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair." She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on. "You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than Enscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we intended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than having him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston's partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him." "And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of him.--I am no flatterer." Mr. Weston was musing. "I hope," said he presently, "I have not been severe upon poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the instigator. Frank's mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart." "Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him--I believe, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his death." They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away. After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent. Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with-- "Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them." "I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic." "And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again." "That is very likely. You think so, do not you?" "I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately." "Increase!" "Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life." "Difference! No indeed I am not." "There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great." "Yes," said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all." "Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home." "No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure." "Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you--(nodding at Mr. John Knightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts." Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him. VOLUME III Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Mr. Weston findet es höflich, Mrs. Elton mitzuteilen, wie erfreut er wäre, sie Frank vorzustellen. Mrs. Elton nimmt sofort an, dass Mr. Weston ihr ein besonderes Kompliment macht. Mr. Weston erklärt, dass Franks Tante eine "feine Dame" sei. Mrs. Elton möchte nicht übertroffen werden und betont, dass auch ihre Schwester eine feine Dame sei. Es wird klar, dass Mr. Weston seinen Kommentar nicht als Kompliment gemeint hat. Mrs. Elton ist in der Klemme: Sie möchte, dass Mr. Weston ihre Schwester bewundert, aber sie will nicht, dass sie die gleiche Art von feiner Dame ist wie Mrs. Churchill. Sie versucht sich elegant zurückzuziehen. Glücklicherweise ist Mr. Westons Aufmerksamkeitsspanne nicht besonders gut. Innerhalb von Sekunden hat er das gesamte Gespräch vergessen. Mr. Weston und Mrs. Elton beginnen einen Wettstreit der Worte: Er spricht eine Weile über Frank und die Churchills. Sie antwortet mit einer Rede über ihre Schwester und Maple Grove. Er antwortet mit einer Antwort über Frank. Sie spricht über ihre Schwester. Es ist fast so, als ob zwei Monologe nebeneinander ablaufen. Emma lässt Tee kommen. Einige Mitglieder der Gesellschaft spielen Karten. Emma bleibt übrig, um mit ihrem Schwager, Mr. John Knightley, zu reden. Mr. John Knightley mag normalerweise keine Abendessenpartys. Außerdem ist er von Natur aus etwas mürrisch. Emma freut sich tatsächlich, dass er anscheinend in einer ziemlich guten Stimmung ist! Mr. John Knightley erwähnt, dass seine beiden Jungs manchmal etwas laut werden können. Er bietet an, sie zurückzunehmen, wann immer sie Ärger machen. Da Emma anscheinend einen weitaus aktiveren sozialen Terminkalender hat als früher, fragt er mit einem Lächeln, ob sie überhaupt noch Zeit für die Jungs haben wird. Mr. Knightley unterbricht und sagt, dass die Jungs jederzeit zu ihm kommen können, wenn Emma es wünscht. Empört lehnt Emma es ab, auch nur eine Minute mit ihren geliebten Neffen aufzugeben. Die Knightley-Brüder amüsieren sich über Emmas aufgeregtes Gemüt.

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: "Piacer e popone Vuol la sua stagione." --Italian Proverb. Mr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the progress of his great work--the Key to all Mythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the happy termination of courtship. But he had deliberately incurred the hindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was. As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. It had once or twice crossed his mind that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for the moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him better; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. "Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?" said Dorothea to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; "could I not learn to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to their father, without understanding what they read?" "I fear that would be wearisome to you," said Mr. Casaubon, smiling; "and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion against the poet." "Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I hope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?" "I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well to begin with a little reading." Dorothea seized this as a precious permission. She would not have asked Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all things to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out of devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and Greek. Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a standing-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly. As it was, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her own ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few roots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian. And she had not reached that point of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself. Miss Brooke was certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose mind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other people's pretensions much more readily. To have in general but little feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any particular occasion. However, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover, to whom a mistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a touching fitness. Few scholars would have disliked teaching the alphabet under such circumstances. But Dorothea herself was a little shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got to some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable of explanation to a woman's reason. Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the reading was going forward. "Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman--too taxing, you know." "Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply," said Mr. Casaubon, evading the question. "She had the very considerate thought of saving my eyes." "Ah, well, without understanding, you know--that may not be so bad. But there is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and go--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune. That is what I like; though I have heard most things--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that sort. But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know. I stick to the good old tunes." "Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not," said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had always been asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer," she would have required much resignation. "He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick, and it is covered with books." "Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it's a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that kind of thing, you know--will not do." "I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears teased with measured noises," said Mr. Casaubon. "A tune much iterated has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not immediately concerned." "No; but music of that sort I should enjoy," said Dorothea. "When we were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ at Freiberg, and it made me sob." "That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear," said Mr. Brooke. "Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?" He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam. "It is wonderful, though," he said to himself as he shuffled out of the room--"it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the match is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery." Und hier muss ich einen Anspruch auf philosophische Nachdenklichkeit rechtfertigen, indem ich darauf hinweise, dass Herr Brooke bei dieser Gelegenheit wenig an die radikale Rede dachte, zu der er später über die Einnahmen der Bischöfe aufgefordert wurde. Welcher elegante Historiker würde es versäumen, eine bemerkenswerte Gelegenheit zu nutzen, um darauf hinzuweisen, dass seine Helden die Geschichte der Welt oder sogar ihre eigenen Handlungen nicht vorausgesehen haben? Zum Beispiel dachte Heinrich von Navarra als protestantischer Säugling wenig daran, ein katholischer Monarch zu werden, oder Alfred der Große hatte keine Vorstellung davon, dass zukünftige Herren ihre faulen Tage mit Uhren messen würden, als er seine mühevollen Nächte mit brennenden Kerzen maß. Hier liegt eine Mine der Wahrheit, die, wie energisch auch immer sie bearbeitet wird, wohl unsere Kohle überdauern wird. Aber über Herrn Brooke möchte ich eine weitere Bemerkung machen, die vielleicht weniger durch Vorbilder gerechtfertigt ist: Wenn er seine Rede vorausgesehen hätte, hätte es vielleicht keinen großen Unterschied gemacht. Die Vorstellung, dass der Ehemann seiner Nichte ein großes kirchliches Einkommen hat, war eine Sache - eine liberale Rede zu halten, eine andere Sache; und es ist ein engstirniger Geist, der ein Thema nicht aus verschiedenen Blickwinkeln betrachten kann. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mr. Casaubon, der einen Großteil seines Lebens allein verbracht hat, freut sich nun auf seine Ehe und "die Annehmlichkeiten weiblicher Begleitung und Unterstützung". Aber während Dorothea mit ganzem Herzen Zuneigung zeigt, kann er diese Intensität nicht in sich selbst finden. Er kommt zu dem Schluss, "die Dichter haben die Kraft männlicher Leidenschaft stark übertrieben." Dorothea bittet nun begeistert darum, Griechisch zu lernen, damit sie ihm durch das Vorlesen der Schrift helfen kann, wie "Miltons Töchter es für ihren Vater taten." Casaubon ist skeptisch, da er von dem Aufstand der blinden Dichtertöchter weiß. Doch von ihrer Begeisterung überwältigt, stimmt er zu, ihr jeden Tag eine Stunde lang Griechisch beizubringen. Dorothea ergreift die Gelegenheit aus zwei Gründen: Sie möchte ihm helfen und sie glaubt, dass "diese Bereiche männlichen Wissens... ein fester Standpunkt sind, von dem aus die Wahrheit besser erkannt werden kann." Brooke missbilligt dies und ist überzeugt, dass "tiefgreifende Studien... zu anstrengend für eine Frau" sind. Er würde seine Nichte lieber "eine gute alte englische Melodie" auf dem Klavier spielen lassen. Dorothea, die nicht am "kleinen Geklimper" interessiert ist, dem solch weibliche Talente zugewiesen werden, ist glücklich, wenn Casaubon sie unterstützt. Brooke tröstet sich mit dem Gedanken, dass Dorotheas extreme Begeisterung von Casaubons Nüchternheit eingehegt wird.

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: [The Spanish Court] Enter SPANISH KING, GENERAL, CASTILLE, HIERONIMO. KING. Now say, lord general: how fares our camp? GEN. All well, my sovereign liege, except some few That are deceas'd by fortune of the war. KING. But what portends thy cheerful countenance And posting to our presence thus in haste? Speak, man: hath fortune given us victory? GEN. Victory, my liege, and that with little loss. KING. Our Portugals will pay us tribute then? GEN. Tribute, and wonted homage therewithal. KING. Then blest be Heav'n, and Guider of the heav'ns, From whose fair influence such justice flows! CAST. O multum dilecte Deo, tibi militat aether, Et conjuratae curvato poplite gentes Succumbunt: recti soror est victoria juris! KING. Thanks to my loving brother of Castille. But, general, unfold in brief discourse Your form of battle and your war's success, That, adding all the pleasure of thy news Unto the height of former happiness, With deeper wage and gentle dignity We may reward thy blissful chivalry. GEN. Where Spain and Portingal do jointly knit Their frontiers, leaning on each other's bound, There met our armies in the proud array: Both furnish'd well, both full of hope and fear, Both menacing alike with daring shows, Both vaunting sundry colours of device, Both cheerly sounding trumpets, drums and fifes, Both raising dreadful clamors to the sky, That valleys, hills, and rivers made rebound And heav'n itself was frighted with the sound. Our battles both were pitch'd in squadron form, Each corner strongly fenc'd with wings of shot; But, ere we join'd and came to push of pike, I brought a squadron of our readiest shot From out our rearward to begin the fight; They brought another wing to encounter us; Meanwhile our ordnance play'd on either side, And captains strove to have their valours try'd. Don Pedro, their chief horsemen's colonel, Did with his cornet bravely make attempt To break the order of our battle ranks; But Don Rogero, worthy man of war, March'd forth against him with our musketeers And stopp'd the malice of his fell approach. While they maintain hot skirmish to and fro, Both battles join and fall to handy blows, Their violent shot resembling th' oceans rage When, roaring loud and with a swelling tide, It beats upon the rampiers of huge rocks, And gapes to swallow neighbor-bounding lands. Now, while Bellona rageth here and there, Thick storms of bullets ran like winter's hail, And shiver'd lances dark the troubled air; Pede pes & cuspide cuspis, Arma sonant armis, vir petiturque viro; On every side drop captains to the ground, And soldiers, some ill-maim'd, some slain outright: Here falls a body sunder'd from his head; There legs and arms lie bleeding on the grass, Mingled with weapons and unbowel'd steeds, That scattering over-spread the purple plain. In all this turmoil, three long hours and more The victory to neither part inclin'd, Till Don Andrea with his brave lancers In their main battle made so great a breach That, half dismay'd, the multitude retir'd. But Balthazar, the Portingales' young prince, Brought rescue and encourag'd them to stay. Here-hence the fight was eagerly renew'd, And in that conflict was Andrea slain,-- Brave man-at-arms, but weak to Balthazar. Yet, while the prince, insulting over him, Breath'd out proud vaunts, sounding to our reproach, Friendship and hardy valour join'd in one Prick'd forth Horatio, our knight-marshall's son, To challenge forth that prince in single fight. Not long between these twain the fight endur'd, But straight the prince was beaten from his horse And forc'd to yield him prisoner to his foe. When he was taken, all the rest fled, And our carbines pursu'd them to death, Till, Phoebus waning to the western deep, Our trumpeters were charg'd to sound retreat. KING. Thanks, good lord general, for these good news! And, for some argument of more to come, Take this and wear it for thy sovereign's sake. Give him his chain. But tell me now: hast thou confirm'd a peace? GEN. No peace, my liege, but peace conditional, That, if with homage tribute be well paid, The fury of your forces will be stay'd. And to this peace their viceroy hath subscrib'd, Give the King a paper. And made a solemn vow that during life His tribute shall be truly paid to Spain. KING. These words, these deeds become thy person well. But now, knight-marshall, frolic with thy king, For 'tis thy son that wins this battle's prize. HIERO. Long may he live to serve my sovereign liege! And soon decay unless he serve my liege! A trumpet afar off. KING. Nor thou nor he shall die without reward. What means this warning of this trumpet's sound? GEN. This tells me that your Grace's men of war, Such as war's fortune hath reserv'd from death, Come marching on towards your royal seat, To show themselves before your Majesty; For so gave I in charge at my depart. Whereby by demonstration shall appear That all, except three hundred or few more, Are safe return'd and by their foes enrich'd. The army enters, BALTHAZAR between LORENZO and HORATIO, captive. KING. A gladsome sight! I long to see them here. They enter and pass by. Was that the warlike prince of Portingal That by our nephew was in triumph led? GEN. It was, my liege, the prince of Portingal. KING. But what was he that on the other side Held him by th' arm as partner of the prize? HIERO. That was my son, my gracious sovereign; Of whom though from his tender infancy My loving thoughts did never hope but well, He never pleasd his father's eyes till now, Nor fill'd my heart with overcloying joys. KING. Go, let them march once more about these walls, That staying them we may confer and talk With our brave prisoner and his double guard. [Exit a MESSENGER.] Hieoronimo, it greatly pleaseth us That in our victory thou have a share By virtue of thy worthy son's exploit. Enter again. Bring hither the young prince of Portingal! The rest march on, but, ere they be dismiss'd, We will bestow on every soldier Two ducats, and on every leader ten, That they may know our largesse welcomes them. Exeunt all [the army] but BAL[THAZAR], LOR[ENZO], and HOR[ATIO]. KING. Welcome, Don Balthazar! Welcome nephew! And thou, Horatio, thou art welcome too! Young prince, although thy father's hard misdeeds In keeping back the tribute that he owes Deserve but evil measure at our hands, Yet shalt thou know that Spain is honourable. BALT. The trespass that my father made in peace Is now controll'd by fortune of the wars; And cards once dealt, it boots not ask why so. His men are slain,--a weakening to his realm; His colours seiz'd,--a blot unto his name; His son distress'd,--a corsive to his heart; These punishments may clear his late offence. KING. Aye, Balthazar, if he observe this truce, Our peace will grow the stronger for these wars. Meanwhile live thou, though not in liberty, Yet free from bearing any servile yoke; For in our hearing thy deserts were great. And in our sight thyself art gracious. BALT. And I shall study to deserve this grace. KING. But tell me,--for their holding makes me doubt: To which of these twain art thou prisoner? LOR. To me, my liege. HOR. To me, my sovereign. LOR. This hand first took his courser by the reins. HOR. But first my lance did put him from his horse. LOR. I seiz'd the weapon and enjoy'd it first. HOR. But first I forc'd him lay his weapons down. KING. Let go his arm, upon my privilege! Let him go. Say, worthy prince: to whether didst thou yield? BALT. To him in courtesy; to this perforce; He spake me fair, this other gave me strokes; He promis'd life, this other threaten'd death; He won my love, this other conquer'd me; And, truth to say, I yield myself to both. HIERO. But that I know your Grace is just and wise, And might seem partial in this difference, Enforc'd by nature and by law of arms, My tongue should plead for young Horatio's right. He hunted well that was a lion's death, Not he that in a garment wore his skin; So hares may pull dead lions by the beard. KING. Content thee, marshall; thou shalt have no wrong, And for thy sake thy son shall want to right. Will both abide the censure of my doom? LOR. I crave no better than your Grace awards. HOR. Nor I, although I sit beside my right. KING. Then by judgment thus your strife shall end: You both deserve and both shall have reward. Nephew, thou took'st his weapons and his horse: His weapons and his horse are thy reward. Horatio, thou did'st force him first to yield: His ransom therefore is thy valour's fee; Appoint the sum as you shall both agree. But, nephew, thou shalt have the prince in guard, For thine estate best fitteth such a guest; Horatio's house were small for all his train. Yet, in regard thy substance passeth his, And that just guerdon may befall desert, To him we yield the armour of the prince. How likes Don Balthazar of this device? BALT. Right well, my liege, if this proviso were: That Don Horatio bear us company, Whom I admire and love for chivalry. KING. Horatio, leave him not that loves thee so. Now let us hence, to see our soldiers paid, And feast our prisoner as our friendly guest. Exeunt. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die erste Szene beginnt mit dem Geist des gerade verstorbenen Don Andrea, der dem Publikum direkt die Geschichte seines Lebens und Todes erzählt. Er wird von Rache begleitet. Er erzählt uns, dass er ein Mitglied des spanischen Königshofes war, der eine Liebesaffäre mit der sehr schönen Bel-Imperia hatte, bevor er im Krieg gegen Portugal getötet wurde. Andrea sagt uns, dass er direkt nach seinem Tod zum Fluss Acheron hinabgestiegen ist. Aber Charon verwehrte ihm den Zugang, weil Andrea's Beerdigungsriten nicht vollzogen wurden. Wir können alle damit sympathisieren, oder? Nachdem er von Charon wie ein VIP behandelt wurde, verweilt Andrea drei Tage, bis sein Freund Don Horatio seine Beerdigungsriten durchführt. Charon bringt Andrea dann zu dem See Avernus, wo Andrea Cerberus dazu bringt, ihn gefahrlos passieren zu lassen - das mindeste, was er tun konnte, wenn man bedenkt, dass Andrea drei Tage im Wartezimmer der Hölle festsaß. Andrea unterhält sich dann mit den drei Typen, die im Jenseits entscheiden, wo jeder hingehen sollte. Diese drei Typen sind Minos, Aeacus und Rhadamanth. Nach einigen Diskussionen behauptet Aeacus, dass Andrea mit Liebenden "in unseren Liebesfeldern" gehen sollte, weil er starb, als seine Liebe in voller Blüte stand. Aber Rhadamanth dagegen argumentiert, dass Andrea seine Ewigkeit mit Kriegern verbringen sollte und dass es für einen Krieger nicht angemessen ist, ewig mit Liebenden zu verweilen. Nehmen wir einfach an, dass es einige Beschwerden über Körpergeruch auf den Feldern der Liebenden gab. Minos, immer die Stimme der Vernunft, beendet den Streit, indem er vorschlägt, dass Andrea zu Pluto gehen sollte, um seinen Nachlebensauftrag zu erhalten. Auf dem Weg zu Pluto sieht Andrea schreckliche Anblicke wie Seelen, die in Blei brennen, Liebende, die von furchterregenden Schlangen umarmt werden, und Typen, die für die Ewigkeit qualvolle Aufgaben erledigen. Das verleiht dem Ausdruck "Höllenqual" eine völlig neue Bedeutung, oder? Schließlich kommt er auf die elysischen Gründe, wo er auf Pluto und seine Frau, Proserpina, trifft. Das glückliche Paar infernalen Unglücks hört seine Geschichte, woraufhin Proserpina Pluto fleht, dass sie über das Schicksal von Andrea entscheiden darf. Pluto gewährt Proserpina die Ehre, Andreas ewiges Schicksal zu bestimmen. Proserpina ruft die personifizierte Rache und Andrea und Rache werden sofort zurück ins Reich der Lebenden transportiert. Nach Andreas langer Rede teilt Rache ihm dann mit, dass sie zurückgekehrt sind, um herauszufinden, wer ihn getötet hat, und dabei als Chor in dieser Tragödie fungieren. Mit dieser Tragödie meint Rache das Stück, das Sie gerade lesen, und der Chor wird zwischen den Akten des Stücks Kommentare abgeben und wichtige Dinge hervorheben.

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: Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a Pocket-Knife In that dark time of December, the sale of the household furniture lasted beyond the middle of the second day. Mr. Tulliver, who had begun, in his intervals of consciousness, to manifest an irritability which often appeared to have as a direct effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility, had lain in this living death throughout the critical hours when the noise of the sale came nearest to his chamber. Mr. Turnbull had decided that it would be a less risk to let him remain where he was than to remove him to Luke's cottage,--a plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs. Tulliver, thinking it would be very bad if the master were "to waken up" at the noise of the sale; and the wife and children had sat imprisoned in the silent chamber, watching the large prostrate figure on the bed, and trembling lest the blank face should suddenly show some response to the sounds which fell on their own ears with such obstinate, painful repetition. But it was over at last, that time of importunate certainty and eye-straining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice, almost as metallic as the rap that followed it, had ceased; the tramping of footsteps on the gravel had died out. Mrs. Tulliver's blond face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty hours; the poor woman's mind had been busy divining when her favorite things were being knocked down by the terrible hammer; her heart had been fluttering at the thought that first one thing and then another had gone to be identified as hers in the hateful publicity of the Golden Lion; and all the while she had to sit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such things bring lines in well-rounded faces, and broaden the streaks of white among the hairs that once looked as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine. Already, at three o'clock, Kezia, the good-hearted, bad-tempered housemaid, who regarded all people that came to the sale as her personal enemies, the dirt on whose feet was of a peculiarly vile quality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy much assisted by a continual low muttering against "folks as came to buy up other folk's things," and made light of "scrazing" the tops of mahogany tables over which better folks than themselves had had to--suffer a waste of tissue through evaporation. She was not scrubbing indiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of the same atrocious kind made by people who had still to fetch away their purchases; but she was bent on bringing the parlor, where that "pipe-smoking pig," the bailiff, had sat, to such an appearance of scant comfort as could be given to it by cleanliness and the few articles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mistress and the young folks should have their tea in it that night, Kezia was determined. It was between five and six o'clock, near the usual teatime, when she came upstairs and said that Master Tom was wanted. The person who wanted him was in the kitchen, and in the first moments, by the imperfect fire and candle light, Tom had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaintance with the rather broad-set but active figure, perhaps two years older than himself, that looked at him with a pair of blue eyes set in a disc of freckles, and pulled some curly red locks with a strong intention of respect. A low-crowned oilskin-covered hat, and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the rest of the costume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, suggested a calling that had to do with boats; but this did not help Tom's memory. "Sarvant, Master Tom," said he of the red locks, with a smile which seemed to break through a self-imposed air of melancholy. "You don't know me again, I doubt," he went on, as Tom continued to look at him inquiringly; "but I'd like to talk to you by yourself a bit, please." "There's a fire i' the parlor, Master Tom," said Kezia, who objected to leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting. "Come this way, then," said Tom, wondering if this young fellow belonged to Guest & Co.'s Wharf, for his imagination ran continually toward that particular spot; and uncle Deane might any time be sending for him to say that there was a situation at liberty. The bright fire in the parlor was the only light that showed the few chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor, and the one table--no, not the _one_ table; there was a second table, in a corner, with a large Bible and a few other books upon it. It was this new strange bareness that Tom felt first, before he thought of looking again at the face which was also lit up by the fire, and which stole a half-shy, questioning glance at him as the entirely strange voice said: "Why! you don't remember Bob, then, as you gen the pocket-knife to, Mr. Tom?" The rough-handled pocket-knife was taken out in the same moment, and the largest blade opened by way of irresistible demonstration. "What! Bob Jakin?" said Tom, not with any cordial delight, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy symbolized by the pocket-knife, and was not at all sure that Bob's motives for recalling it were entirely admirable. "Ay, ay, Bob Jakin, if Jakin it must be, 'cause there's so many Bobs as you went arter the squerrils with, that day as I plumped right down from the bough, and bruised my shins a good un--but I got the squerril tight for all that, an' a scratter it was. An' this littlish blade's broke, you see, but I wouldn't hev a new un put in, 'cause they might be cheatin' me an' givin' me another knife instid, for there isn't such a blade i' the country,--it's got used to my hand, like. An' there was niver nobody else gen me nothin' but what I got by my own sharpness, only you, Mr. Tom; if it wasn't Bill Fawks as gen me the terrier pup istid o' drowndin't it, an' I had to jaw him a good un afore he'd give it me." Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and got through his long speech with surprising despatch, giving the blade of his knife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when he had finished. "Well, Bob," said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the foregoing reminscences having disposed him to be as friendly as was becoming, though there was no part of his acquaintance with Bob that he remembered better than the cause of their parting quarrel; "is there anything I can do for you?" "Why, no, Mr. Tom," answered Bob, shutting up his knife with a click and returning it to his pocket, where he seemed to be feeling for something else. "I shouldn't ha' come back upon you now ye're i' trouble, an' folks say as the master, as I used to frighten the birds for, an' he flogged me a bit for fun when he catched me eatin' the turnip, as they say he'll niver lift up his head no more,--I shouldn't ha' come now to ax you to gi' me another knife 'cause you gen me one afore. If a chap gives me one black eye, that's enough for me; I sha'n't ax him for another afore I sarve him out; an' a good turn's worth as much as a bad un, anyhow. I shall niver grow down'ards again, Mr. Tom, an' you war the little chap as I liked the best when _I_ war a little chap, for all you leathered me, and wouldn't look at me again. There's Dick Brumby, there, I could leather him as much as I'd a mind; but lors! you get tired o' leatherin' a chap when you can niver make him see what you want him to shy at. I'n seen chaps as 'ud stand starin' at a bough till their eyes shot out, afore they'd see as a bird's tail warn't a leaf. It's poor work goin' wi' such raff. But you war allays a rare un at shying, Mr. Tom, an' I could trusten to you for droppin' down wi' your stick in the nick o' time at a runnin' rat, or a stoat, or that, when I war a-beatin' the bushes." Bob had drawn out a dirty canvas bag, and would perhaps not have paused just then if Maggie had not entered the room and darted a look of surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon he pulled his red locks again with due respect. But the next moment the sense of the altered room came upon Maggie with a force that overpowered the thought of Bob's presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place where the bookcase had hung; there was nothing now but the oblong unfaded space on the wall, and below it the small table with the Bible and the few other books. "Oh, Tom!" she burst out, clasping her hands, "where are the books? I thought my uncle Glegg said he would buy them. Didn't he? Are those all they've left us?" "I suppose so," said Tom, with a sort of desperate indifference. "Why should they buy many books when they bought so little furniture?" "Oh, but, Tom," said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears, as she rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued. "Our dear old Pilgrim's Progress that you colored with your little paints; and that picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, looking just like a turtle--oh dear!" Maggie went on, half sobbing as she turned over the few books, "I thought we should never part with that while we lived; everything is going away from us; the end of our lives will have nothing in it like the beginning!" Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a chair, with the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks, quite blinded to the presence of Bob, who was looking at her with the pursuant gaze of an intelligent dumb animal, with perceptions more perfect than his comprehension. "Well, Bob," said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books was unseasonable, "I suppose you just came to see me because we're in trouble? That was very good-natured of you." "I'll tell you how it is, Master Tom," said Bob, beginning to untwist his canvas bag. "You see, I'n been with a barge this two 'ear; that's how I'n been gettin' my livin',--if it wasn't when I was tentin' the furnace, between whiles, at Torry's mill. But a fortni't ago I'd a rare bit o' luck,--I allays thought I was a lucky chap, for I niver set a trap but what I catched something; but this wasn't trap, it was a fire i' Torry's mill, an' I doused it, else it 'ud set th' oil alight, an' the genelman gen me ten suvreigns; he gen me 'em himself last week. An' he said first, I was a sperrited chap,--but I knowed that afore,--but then he outs wi' the ten suvreigns, an' that war summat new. Here they are, all but one!" Here Bob emptied the canvas bag on the table. "An' when I'd got 'em, my head was all of a boil like a kettle o' broth, thinkin' what sort o' life I should take to, for there war a many trades I'd thought on; for as for the barge, I'm clean tired out wi't, for it pulls the days out till they're as long as pigs' chitterlings. An' I thought first I'd ha' ferrets an' dogs, an' be a rat-catcher; an' then I thought as I should like a bigger way o' life, as I didn't know so well; for I'n seen to the bottom o' rat-catching; an' I thought, an' thought, till at last I settled I'd be a packman,--for they're knowin' fellers, the packmen are,--an' I'd carry the lightest things I could i' my pack; an' there'd be a use for a feller's tongue, as is no use neither wi' rats nor barges. An' I should go about the country far an' wide, an' come round the women wi' my tongue, an' get my dinner hot at the public,--lors! it 'ud be a lovely life!" Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if resolutely turning his back on that paradisaic picture: "But I don't mind about it, not a chip! An' I'n changed one o' the suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an' I'n bought a blue plush wescoat, an' a sealskin cap,--for if I meant to be a packman, I'd do it respectable. But I don't mind about it, not a chip! My yead isn't a turnip, an' I shall p'r'aps have a chance o' dousing another fire afore long. I'm a lucky chap. So I'll thank you to take the nine suvreigns, Mr. Tom, and set yoursen up with 'em somehow, if it's true as the master's broke. They mayn't go fur enough, but they'll help." Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and suspicion. "You're a very kind fellow, Bob," he said, coloring, with that little diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain charm even to Tom's pride and severity, "and I sha'n't forget you again, though I didn't know you this evening. But I can't take the nine sovereigns; I should be taking your little fortune from you, and they wouldn't do me much good either." "Wouldn't they, Mr. Tom?" said Bob, regretfully. "Now don't say so 'cause you think I want 'em. I aren't a poor chap. My mother gets a good penn'orth wi' picking feathers an' things; an' if she eats nothin' but bread-an'-water, it runs to fat. An' I'm such a lucky chap; an' I doubt you aren't quite so lucky, Mr. Tom,--th' old master isn't, anyhow,--an' so you might take a slice o' my luck, an' no harm done. Lors! I found a leg o' pork i' the river one day; it had tumbled out o' one o' them round-sterned Dutchmen, I'll be bound. Come, think better on it, Mr. Tom, for old 'quinetance' sake, else I shall think you bear me a grudge." Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could speak Maggie, clasping her hands, and looking penitently at Bob, said: "Oh, I'm so sorry, Bob; I never thought you were so good. Why, I think you're the kindest person in the world!" Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which Maggie was performing an inward act of penitence, but he smiled with pleasure at this handsome eulogy,--especially from a young lass who, as he informed his mother that evening, had "such uncommon eyes, they looked somehow as they made him feel nohow." "No, indeed Bob, I can't take them," said Tom; "but don't think I feel your kindness less because I say no. I don't want to take anything from anybody, but to work my own way. And those sovereigns wouldn't help me much--they wouldn't really--if I were to take them. Let me shake hands with you instead." Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place his hard, grimy hand within it. "Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again," said Maggie; "and you'll come and see us when you've bought your pack, Bob." "It's like as if I'd come out o' make believe, o' purpose to show 'em you," said Bob, with an air of discontent, as Maggie gave him the bag again, "a-taking 'em back i' this way. I _am_ a bit of a Do, you know; but it isn't that sort o' Do,--it's on'y when a feller's a big rogue, or a big flat, I like to let him in a bit, that's all." "Now, don't you be up to any tricks, Bob," said Tom, "else you'll get transported some day." "No, no; not me, Mr. Tom," said Bob, with an air of cheerful confidence. "There's no law again' flea-bites. If I wasn't to take a fool in now and then, he'd niver get any wiser. But, lors! hev a suvreign to buy you and Miss summat, on'y for a token--just to match my pocket-knife." Während Bob sprach, legte er den Goldsouverän ab und wickelte entschlossen wieder seine Tasche zusammen. Tom schob das Gold zurück und sagte: "Nein, wirklich, Bob; vielen Dank, aber ich kann es nicht annehmen." Und Maggie nahm es zwischen ihre Finger, hielt es Bob entgegen und sagte noch überzeugender: "Nicht jetzt, aber vielleicht ein anderes Mal. Wenn Tom oder mein Vater Hilfe brauchen, die du geben kannst, lassen wir es dich wissen; nicht wahr, Tom? Das ist es, was du möchtest, dass wir immer auf dich als Freund angewiesen sind, zu dem wir gehen können, oder, Bob?" "Ja, Fräulein, und vielen Dank", sagte Bob widerwillig das Geld nehmend; "das ist es, was ich möchte, alles wie du magst. Und ich wünsche Ihnen auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein, und viel Glück, Herr Tom, und danke Ihnen, dass Sie mir die Hand geschüttelt haben, auch wenn Sie das Geld nicht genommen haben." Kezias Eintritt, mit sehr finsterem Blick, um zu fragen, ob sie den Tee jetzt hereinkommen lassen solle oder ob das Toast hart wie ein Ziegelstein werden solle, verschaffte Bob eine willkommene Unterbrechung in seinem Redefluss und beschleunigte seinen Abschiedsgruß. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Zustand von Mr. Tulliver hat sich verschlechtert und der Doktor, Mr. Turnbull, ist besorgt. Der Verkauf des Tulliver-Möbels findet statt und Mr. Tulliver ist währenddessen bewusstlos. Die Familie bleibt während des Verkaufs im Obergeschoss. Dann kommt das Dienstmädchen, um Tom zu holen, da er unten Besuch hat. Der Besucher ist Bob Jakin, den Tom anfangs nicht erkennt. Tom ist traurig, dass alle Familienbesitztümer weg sind, außer der Familienbibel und ein paar Möbelstücken. Bob ist ein Schwätzer und plaudert darüber, wie sehr er Tom mochte, als sie Kinder waren, und dass er ihn immer noch als Freund betrachtet. Maggie kommt jetzt auch nach unten und ist bestürzt, dass alle Familienbesitztümer weg sind. Sie ist besonders bestürzt darüber, dass die meisten Bücher verkauft wurden. Bob plappert weiter und erklärt, dass er von den Schwierigkeiten der Tullivers gehört habe und beschlossen habe, ihnen zu helfen. Bob arbeitet als Hausierer, also als reisender Verkäufer. Er hat kürzlich eine gute Summe Geld verdient und versucht, den Tullivers etwas davon zu geben. Tom und Maggie sind tief berührt, aber sie sagen Bob, dass sie sein Geld wirklich nicht nehmen können. Bob ist enttäuscht, aber sagt, dass er immer ihr Freund sein wird und sie wissen lassen soll, wenn sie etwas brauchen.

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: When autumn nights were long and drear, And forest walks were dark and dim, How sweetly on the pilgrim's ear Was wont to steal the hermit's hymn Devotion borrows Music's tone, And Music took Devotion's wing; And, like the bird that hails the sun, They soar to heaven, and soaring sing. The Hermit of St Clement's Well It was after three hours' good walking that the servants of Cedric, with their mysterious guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in the centre of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing its twisted branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five yeomen lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked to and fro in the moonlight shade. Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six arrows placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which the travellers approached, when their guide, being recognised, was welcomed with every token of respect and attachment, and all signs and fears of a rough reception at once subsided. "Where is the Miller?" was his first question. "On the road towards Rotherham." "With how many?" demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be. "With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St Nicholas." "Devoutly spoken," said Locksley; "and where is Allan-a-Dale?" "Walked up towards the Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx." "That is well thought on also," replied the Captain;--"and where is the Friar?" "In his cell." "Thither will I go," said Locksley. "Disperse and seek your companions. Collect what force you can, for there's game afoot that must be hunted hard, and will turn to bay. Meet me here by daybreak.--And stay," he added, "I have forgotten what is most necessary of the whole--Two of you take the road quickly towards Torquilstone, the Castle of Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been masquerading in such guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither--Watch them closely, for even if they reach the castle before we collect our force, our honour is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so. Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch one of your comrades, the lightest of foot, to bring the news of the yeomen thereabout." They promised implicit obedience, and departed with alacrity on their different errands. In the meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now looked upon him with great respect, as well as some fear, pursued their way to the Chapel of Copmanhurst. When they had reached the little moonlight glade, having in front the reverend, though ruinous chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well suited to ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, "If this be the habitation of a thief, it makes good the old proverb, The nearer the church the farther from God.--And by my coxcomb," he added, "I think it be even so--Hearken but to the black sanctus which they are singing in the hermitage!" In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing, at the full extent of their very powerful lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was the burden:-- "Come, trowl the brown bowl to me, Bully boy, bully boy, Come, trowl the brown bowl to me: Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking, Come, trowl the brown bowl to me." "Now, that is not ill sung," said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his own flourishes to help out the chorus. "But who, in the saint's name, ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit's cell at midnight!" "Marry, that should I," said Gurth, "for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst is a known man, and kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk. Men say that the keeper has complained to his official, and that he will be stripped of his cowl and cope altogether, if he keeps not better order." While they were thus speaking, Locksley's loud and repeated knocks had at length disturbed the anchorite and his guest. "By my beads," said the hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, "here come more benighted guests. I would not for my cowl that they found us in this goodly exercise. All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and there be those malignant enough to construe the hospitable refreshment which I have been offering to you, a weary traveller, for the matter of three short hours, into sheer drunkenness and debauchery, vices alike alien to my profession and my disposition." "Base calumniators!" replied the knight; "I would I had the chastising of them. Nevertheless, Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their enemies; and there be those in this very land whom I would rather speak to through the bars of my helmet than barefaced." "Get thine iron pot on thy head then, friend Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature will permit," said the hermit, "while I remove these pewter flagons, whose late contents run strangely in mine own pate; and to drown the clatter--for, in faith, I feel somewhat unsteady--strike into the tune which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the words--I scarce know them myself." So saying, he struck up a thundering "De profundis clamavi", under cover of which he removed the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight, laughing heartily, and arming himself all the while, assisted his host with his voice from time to time as his mirth permitted. "What devil's matins are you after at this hour?" said a voice from without. "Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveller!" said the hermit, whose own noise, and perhaps his nocturnal potations, prevented from recognising accents which were tolerably familiar to him--"Wend on your way, in the name of God and Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy brother." "Mad priest," answered the voice from without, "open to Locksley!" "All's safe--all's right," said the hermit to his companion. "But who is he?" said the Black Knight; "it imports me much to know." "Who is he?" answered the hermit; "I tell thee he is a friend." "But what friend?" answered the knight; "for he may be friend to thee and none of mine?" "What friend?" replied the hermit; "that, now, is one of the questions that is more easily asked than answered. What friend?--why, he is, now that I bethink me a little, the very same honest keeper I told thee of a while since." "Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious hermit," replied the knight, "I doubt it not. But undo the door to him before he beat it from its hinges." The dogs, in the meantime, which had made a dreadful baying at the commencement of the disturbance, seemed now to recognise the voice of him who stood without; for, totally changing their manner, they scratched and whined at the door, as if interceding for his admission. The hermit speedily unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley, with his two companions. "Why, hermit," was the yeoman's first question as soon as he beheld the knight, "what boon companion hast thou here?" "A brother of our order," replied the friar, shaking his head; "we have been at our orisons all night." "He is a monk of the church militant, I think," answered Locksley; "and there be more of them abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the rosary and take up the quarter-staff; we shall need every one of our merry men, whether clerk or layman.--But," he added, taking him a step aside, "art thou mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost not know? Hast thou forgot our articles?" "Not know him!" replied the friar, boldly, "I know him as well as the beggar knows his dish." "And what is his name, then?" demanded Locksley. "His name," said the hermit--"his name is Sir Anthony of Scrabelstone--as if I would drink with a man, and did not know his name!" "Thou hast been drinking more than enough, friar," said the woodsman, "and, I fear, prating more than enough too." "Good yeoman," said the knight, coming forward, "be not wroth with my merry host. He did but afford me the hospitality which I would have compelled from him if he had refused it." "Thou compel!" said the friar; "wait but till have changed this grey gown for a green cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon thy pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woodsman." While he spoke thus, he stript off his gown, and appeared in a close black buckram doublet and drawers, over which he speedily did on a cassock of green, and hose of the same colour. "I pray thee truss my points," said he to Wamba, "and thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy labour." "Gramercy for thy sack," said Wamba; "but think'st thou it is lawful for me to aid you to transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful forester?" "Never fear," said the hermit; "I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my greyfriar's frock, and all shall be well again." "Amen!" answered the Jester; "a broadcloth penitent should have a sackcloth confessor, and your frock may absolve my motley doublet into the bargain." So saying, he accommodated the friar with his assistance in tying the endless number of points, as the laces which attached the hose to the doublet were then termed. While they were thus employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart, and addressed him thus:--"Deny it not, Sir Knight--you are he who decided the victory to the advantage of the English against the strangers on the second day of the tournament at Ashby." "And what follows if you guess truly, good yeoman?" replied the knight. "I should in that case hold you," replied the yeoman, "a friend to the weaker party." "Such is the duty of a true knight at least," replied the Black Champion; "and I would not willingly that there were reason to think otherwise of me." "But for my purpose," said the yeoman, "thou shouldst be as well a good Englishman as a good knight; for that, which I have to speak of, concerns, indeed, the duty of every honest man, but is more especially that of a true-born native of England." "You can speak to no one," replied the knight, "to whom England, and the life of every Englishman, can be dearer than to me." "I would willingly believe so," said the woodsman, "for never had this country such need to be supported by those who love her. Hear me, and I will tell thee of an enterprise, in which, if thou be'st really that which thou seemest, thou mayst take an honourable part. A band of villains, in the disguise of better men than themselves, have made themselves master of the person of a noble Englishman, called Cedric the Saxon, together with his ward, and his friend Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and have transported them to a castle in this forest, called Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good knight and a good Englishman, wilt thou aid in their rescue?" "I am bound by my vow to do so," replied the knight; "but I would willingly know who you are, who request my assistance in their behalf?" "I am," said the forester, "a nameless man; but I am the friend of my country, and of my country's friends--With this account of me you must for the present remain satisfied, the more especially since you yourself desire to continue unknown. Believe, however, that my word, when pledged, is as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs." "I willingly believe it," said the knight; "I have been accustomed to study men's countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution. I will, therefore, ask thee no further questions, but aid thee in setting at freedom these oppressed captives; which done, I trust we shall part better acquainted, and well satisfied with each other." "So," said Wamba to Gurth,--for the friar being now fully equipped, the Jester, having approached to the other side of the hut, had heard the conclusion of the conversation,--"So we have got a new ally?--l trust the valour of the knight will be truer metal than the religion of the hermit, or the honesty of the yeoman; for this Locksley looks like a born deer-stealer, and the priest like a lusty hypocrite." "Hold thy peace, Wamba," said Gurth; "it may all be as thou dost guess; but were the horned devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to set at liberty Cedric and the Lady Rowena, I fear I should hardly have religion enough to refuse the foul fiend's offer, and bid him get behind me." The friar was now completely accoutred as a yeoman, with sword and buckler, bow, and quiver, and a strong partisan over his shoulder. He left his cell at the head of the party, and, having carefully locked the door, deposited the key under the threshold. "Art thou in condition to do good service, friar," said Locksley, "or does the brown bowl still run in thy head?" "Not more than a drought of St Dunstan's fountain will allay," answered the priest; "something there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of instability in my legs, but you shall presently see both pass away." So saying, he stepped to the stone basin, in which the waters of the fountain as they fell formed bubbles which danced in the white moonlight, and took so long a drought as if he had meant to exhaust the spring. "When didst thou drink as deep a drought of water before, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst?" said the Black Knight. "Never since my wine-butt leaked, and let out its liquor by an illegal vent," replied the friar, "and so left me nothing to drink but my patron's bounty here." Then plunging his hands and head into the fountain, he washed from them all marks of the midnight revel. Thus refreshed and sobered, the jolly priest twirled his heavy partisan round his head with three fingers, as if he had been balancing a reed, exclaiming at the same time, "Where be those false ravishers, who carry off wenches against their will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if I am not man enough for a dozen of them." "Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?" said the Black Knight. "Clerk me no Clerks," replied the transformed priest; "by Saint George and the Dragon, I am no longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my back--When I am cased in my green cassock, I will drink, swear, and woo a lass, with any blithe forester in the West Riding." "Come on, Jack Priest," said Locksley, "and be silent; thou art as noisy as a whole convent on a holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to bed.--Come on you, too, my masters, tarry not to talk of it--I say, come on, we must collect all our forces, and few enough we shall have, if we are to storm the Castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf." "What! is it Front-de-Boeuf," said the Black Knight, "who has stopt on the king's highway the king's liege subjects?--Is he turned thief and oppressor?" "Oppressor he ever was," said Locksley. "And for thief," said the priest, "I doubt if ever he were even half so honest a man as many a thief of my acquaintance." "Move on, priest, and be silent," said the yeoman; "it were better you led the way to the place of rendezvous, than say what should be left unsaid, both in decency and prudence." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Wie in Kapitel 18 mit dem Titel "Ettrick Forest" ist auch das Epigramm dieses Kapitels eines von Scotts eigenen Gedichten: "The Hermit of St. Clement's Well". Das Gedicht beschreibt einen Einsiedler, der Hymnen des Glaubens singt. Dies ist offensichtlich ein Scherz, da wir in diesem Kapitel nur den Mönch ein Trinklied singen sehen. Nachdem Wamba, Gurth und Locksley drei Stunden lang gewandert sind, erreichen sie ein bewaffnetes Lager tief im Wald. Hierbei handelt es sich um Geächtete unter der Führung von Locksley. Locksley sagt seinen Männern, dass eine Gruppe von Leuten, die wie wir gekleidet sind, Gefangene an der Kapelle von Copmanhurst vorbeibringt. Locksley, Wamba und Gurth gehen zum Mönch. Als sie sich der Kapelle nähern, hören sie den Klang betrunkenen Gesangs: Es ist der Schwarze Ritter und der Mönch. Gurth bestätigt, dass der Mönch dafür bekannt ist, betrunken und undiszipliniert zu sein; er ist auch ein Wilderer. Als es an der Tür klopft, versteckt der Mönch schnell den Wein, den er und der Schwarze Ritter getrunken haben. Der Mönch versucht, seine Besucher dazu zu bringen, wegzugehen, indem er vorgibt, dass er und der Schwarze Ritter mitten im Gebet sind. Locksley verlangt, dass der Mönch sie hineinlässt. Sobald der Mönch sieht, dass es Locksley ist, entspannt er sich. Locksley erinnert den Mönch daran, dass es völlig verboten ist, fremde Ritter in ihrer Gruppe von Geächteten willkommen zu heißen. Der Mönch behauptet, er und der Schwarze Ritter seien alte Freunde. Der Mönch zieht sich schnell die gleiche grüne Kleidung an, die Locksley und seine Bande tragen. Locksley zieht den Schwarzen Ritter beiseite und fragt, ob er der gleiche Mann ist, der ihnen geholfen hat, die Normannen im Turnier zu besiegen. Der Schwarze Ritter bestätigt, dass er es ist. Als ein weiterer Liebhaber Englands möchte Locksley, dass der Schwarze Ritter ihnen hilft, Rowena und Cedric aus den Händen der Normannen zu befreien. Der Schwarze Ritter stimmt freudig zu. Der Mönch ist jetzt komplett als Geächteter gekleidet und bewaffnet. Er trinkt etwas Wasser und wäscht sein Gesicht, um nüchtern zu werden. Sie sind nun bereit, das Schloss Torquilstone von Reginald Front-de-Boeuf zu überfallen.

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: Enter Trumpets sounding: Then two Aldermen, L[ord]. Maior, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolke with his Marshals Staffe, Duke of Suffolke, two Noblemen, bearing great standing Bowles for the Christening Guifts: Then foure Noblemen bearing a Canopy, vnder which the Dutchesse of Norfolke, Godmother, bearing the Childe richly habited in a Mantle, &c. Traine borne by a Lady: Then followes the Marchionesse Dorset, the other Godmother, and Ladies. The Troope passe once about the Stage, and Garter speakes. Gart. Heauen From thy endlesse goodnesse, send prosperous life, Long, and euer happie, to the high and Mighty Princesse of England Elizabeth. Flourish. Enter King and Guard. Cran. And to your Royall Grace, & the good Queen, My Noble Partners, and my selfe thus pray All comfort, ioy in this most gracious Lady, Heauen euer laid vp to make Parents happy, May hourely fall vpon ye Kin. Thanke you good Lord Archbishop: What is her Name? Cran. Elizabeth Kin. Stand vp Lord, With this Kisse, take my Blessing: God protect thee, Into whose hand, I giue thy Life Cran. Amen Kin. My Noble Gossips, y'haue beene too Prodigall; I thanke ye heartily: So shall this Lady, When she ha's so much English Cran. Let me speake Sir, For Heauen now bids me; and the words I vtter, Let none thinke Flattery; for they'l finde 'em Truth. This Royall Infant, Heauen still moue about her; Though in her Cradle; yet now promises Vpon this Land a thousand thousand Blessings, Which Time shall bring to ripenesse: She shall be, (But few now liuing can behold that goodnesse) A Patterne to all Princes liuing with her, And all that shall succeed: Saba was neuer More couetous of Wisedome, and faire Vertue Then this pure Soule shall be. All Princely Graces That mould vp such a mighty Piece as this is, With all the Vertues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall Nurse her, Holy and Heauenly thoughts still Counsell her: She shall be lou'd and fear'd. Her owne shall blesse her; Her Foes shake like a Field of beaten Corne, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good growes with her. In her dayes, Euery Man shall eate in safety, Vnder his owne Vine what he plants; and sing The merry Songs of Peace to all his Neighbours. God shall be truely knowne, and those about her, From her shall read the perfect way of Honour, And by those claime their greatnesse; not by Blood. Nor shall this peace sleepe with her: But as when The Bird of Wonder dyes, the Mayden Phoenix, Her Ashes new create another Heyre, As great in admiration as her selfe. So shall she leaue her Blessednesse to One, (When Heauen shal call her from this clowd of darknes) Who, from the sacred Ashes of her Honour Shall Star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Loue, Truth, Terror, That were the Seruants to this chosen Infant, Shall then be his, and like a Vine grow to him; Where euer the bright Sunne of Heauen shall shine, His Honour, and the greatnesse of his Name, Shall be, and make new Nations. He shall flourish, And like a Mountaine Cedar, reach his branches, To all the Plaines about him: Our Childrens Children Shall see this, and blesse Heauen Kin. Thou speakest wonders Cran. She shall be to the happinesse of England, An aged Princesse; many dayes shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to Crowne it. Would I had knowne no more: But she must dye, She must, the Saints must haue her; yet a Virgin, A most vnspotted Lilly shall she passe To th' ground, and all the World shall mourne her Kin. O Lord Archbishop Thou hast made me now a man, neuer before This happy Child, did I get any thing. This Oracle of comfort, ha's so pleas'd me, That when I am in Heauen, I shall desire To see what this Child does, and praise my Maker. I thanke ye all. To you my good Lord Maior, And you good Brethren, I am much beholding: I haue receiu'd much Honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankfull. Lead the way Lords, Ye must all see the Queene, and she must thanke ye, She will be sicke els. This day, no man thinke 'Has businesse at his house; for all shall stay: This Little-One shall make it Holy-day. Exeunt. THE EPILOGVE. Tis ten to one, this Play can neuer please All that are heere: Some come to take their ease, And sleepe an Act or two; but those we feare W'haue frighted with our Trumpets: so 'tis cleare, They'l say tis naught. Others to heare the City Abus'd extreamly, and to cry that's witty, Which wee haue not done neither; that I feare All the expected good w'are like to heare. For this Play at this time, is onely in The mercifull construction of good women, For such a one we shew'd 'em: If they smile, And say twill doe; I know within a while, All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap, If they hold, when their Ladies bid 'em clap. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Auf dem Schlosshof versammelt sich eine Gruppe für die Taufe des Babys. Ein Pförtner versucht, die Leute davon abzuhalten zu schreien und eine zivilisierte Veranstaltung daraus zu machen. Der Pförtner streitet mit verschiedenen Leuten, die hinein wollen und mehr sehen möchten. Er muss das Tor halten, damit niemand hereinkommt, der nicht dort sein soll. Die Leute, die auf die Taufe warten, sind dieselben Halunken, die bei Hinrichtungen schreien oder ins Theater gehen. Als der Kammerherr all das sieht, macht er dem Pförtner Vorwürfe. Das ist eine königliche Taufe und er lässt Schurken schreien? Zieh dich zusammen, Mann. Der Pförtner befürchtet, dass der König ihm die ganze Aufregung direkt ankreiden wird. Lasst die Trompeten erschallen, denn die königliche Familie ist auf dem Rückweg von der Taufe.

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: The detective and Passepartout met often on deck after this interview, though Fix was reserved, and did not attempt to induce his companion to divulge any more facts concerning Mr. Fogg. He caught a glimpse of that mysterious gentleman once or twice; but Mr. Fogg usually confined himself to the cabin, where he kept Aouda company, or, according to his inveterate habit, took a hand at whist. Passepartout began very seriously to conjecture what strange chance kept Fix still on the route that his master was pursuing. It was really worth considering why this certainly very amiable and complacent person, whom he had first met at Suez, had then encountered on board the Mongolia, who disembarked at Bombay, which he announced as his destination, and now turned up so unexpectedly on the Rangoon, was following Mr. Fogg's tracks step by step. What was Fix's object? Passepartout was ready to wager his Indian shoes--which he religiously preserved--that Fix would also leave Hong Kong at the same time with them, and probably on the same steamer. Passepartout might have cudgelled his brain for a century without hitting upon the real object which the detective had in view. He never could have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being tracked as a robber around the globe. But, as it is in human nature to attempt the solution of every mystery, Passepartout suddenly discovered an explanation of Fix's movements, which was in truth far from unreasonable. Fix, he thought, could only be an agent of Mr. Fogg's friends at the Reform Club, sent to follow him up, and to ascertain that he really went round the world as had been agreed upon. "It's clear!" repeated the worthy servant to himself, proud of his shrewdness. "He's a spy sent to keep us in view! That isn't quite the thing, either, to be spying Mr. Fogg, who is so honourable a man! Ah, gentlemen of the Reform, this shall cost you dear!" Passepartout, enchanted with his discovery, resolved to say nothing to his master, lest he should be justly offended at this mistrust on the part of his adversaries. But he determined to chaff Fix, when he had the chance, with mysterious allusions, which, however, need not betray his real suspicions. During the afternoon of Wednesday, 30th October, the Rangoon entered the Strait of Malacca, which separates the peninsula of that name from Sumatra. The mountainous and craggy islets intercepted the beauties of this noble island from the view of the travellers. The Rangoon weighed anchor at Singapore the next day at four a.m., to receive coal, having gained half a day on the prescribed time of her arrival. Phileas Fogg noted this gain in his journal, and then, accompanied by Aouda, who betrayed a desire for a walk on shore, disembarked. Fix, who suspected Mr. Fogg's every movement, followed them cautiously, without being himself perceived; while Passepartout, laughing in his sleeve at Fix's manoeuvres, went about his usual errands. The island of Singapore is not imposing in aspect, for there are no mountains; yet its appearance is not without attractions. It is a park checkered by pleasant highways and avenues. A handsome carriage, drawn by a sleek pair of New Holland horses, carried Phileas Fogg and Aouda into the midst of rows of palms with brilliant foliage, and of clove-trees, whereof the cloves form the heart of a half-open flower. Pepper plants replaced the prickly hedges of European fields; sago-bushes, large ferns with gorgeous branches, varied the aspect of this tropical clime; while nutmeg-trees in full foliage filled the air with a penetrating perfume. Agile and grinning bands of monkeys skipped about in the trees, nor were tigers wanting in the jungles. After a drive of two hours through the country, Aouda and Mr. Fogg returned to the town, which is a vast collection of heavy-looking, irregular houses, surrounded by charming gardens rich in tropical fruits and plants; and at ten o'clock they re-embarked, closely followed by the detective, who had kept them constantly in sight. Passepartout, who had been purchasing several dozen mangoes--a fruit as large as good-sized apples, of a dark-brown colour outside and a bright red within, and whose white pulp, melting in the mouth, affords gourmands a delicious sensation--was waiting for them on deck. He was only too glad to offer some mangoes to Aouda, who thanked him very gracefully for them. At eleven o'clock the Rangoon rode out of Singapore harbour, and in a few hours the high mountains of Malacca, with their forests, inhabited by the most beautifully-furred tigers in the world, were lost to view. Singapore is distant some thirteen hundred miles from the island of Hong Kong, which is a little English colony near the Chinese coast. Phileas Fogg hoped to accomplish the journey in six days, so as to be in time for the steamer which would leave on the 6th of November for Yokohama, the principal Japanese port. The Rangoon had a large quota of passengers, many of whom disembarked at Singapore, among them a number of Indians, Ceylonese, Chinamen, Malays, and Portuguese, mostly second-class travellers. The weather, which had hitherto been fine, changed with the last quarter of the moon. The sea rolled heavily, and the wind at intervals rose almost to a storm, but happily blew from the south-west, and thus aided the steamer's progress. The captain as often as possible put up his sails, and under the double action of steam and sail the vessel made rapid progress along the coasts of Anam and Cochin China. Owing to the defective construction of the Rangoon, however, unusual precautions became necessary in unfavourable weather; but the loss of time which resulted from this cause, while it nearly drove Passepartout out of his senses, did not seem to affect his master in the least. Passepartout blamed the captain, the engineer, and the crew, and consigned all who were connected with the ship to the land where the pepper grows. Perhaps the thought of the gas, which was remorselessly burning at his expense in Saville Row, had something to do with his hot impatience. "You are in a great hurry, then," said Fix to him one day, "to reach Hong Kong?" "A very great hurry!" "Mr. Fogg, I suppose, is anxious to catch the steamer for Yokohama?" "Terribly anxious." "You believe in this journey around the world, then?" "Absolutely. Don't you, Mr. Fix?" "I? I don't believe a word of it." "You're a sly dog!" said Passepartout, winking at him. This expression rather disturbed Fix, without his knowing why. Had the Frenchman guessed his real purpose? He knew not what to think. But how could Passepartout have discovered that he was a detective? Yet, in speaking as he did, the man evidently meant more than he expressed. Passepartout went still further the next day; he could not hold his tongue. "Mr. Fix," said he, in a bantering tone, "shall we be so unfortunate as to lose you when we get to Hong Kong?" "Why," responded Fix, a little embarrassed, "I don't know; perhaps--" "Ah, if you would only go on with us! An agent of the Peninsular Company, you know, can't stop on the way! You were only going to Bombay, and here you are in China. America is not far off, and from America to Europe is only a step." Fix looked intently at his companion, whose countenance was as serene as possible, and laughed with him. But Passepartout persisted in chaffing him by asking him if he made much by his present occupation. "Yes, and no," returned Fix; "there is good and bad luck in such things. But you must understand that I don't travel at my own expense." "Oh, I am quite sure of that!" cried Passepartout, laughing heartily. Fix, fairly puzzled, descended to his cabin and gave himself up to his reflections. He was evidently suspected; somehow or other the Frenchman had found out that he was a detective. But had he told his master? What part was he playing in all this: was he an accomplice or not? Was the game, then, up? Fix spent several hours turning these things over in his mind, sometimes thinking that all was lost, then persuading himself that Fogg was ignorant of his presence, and then undecided what course it was best to take. Nevertheless, he preserved his coolness of mind, and at last resolved to deal plainly with Passepartout. If he did not find it practicable to arrest Fogg at Hong Kong, and if Fogg made preparations to leave that last foothold of English territory, he, Fix, would tell Passepartout all. Either the servant was the accomplice of his master, and in this case the master knew of his operations, and he should fail; or else the servant knew nothing about the robbery, and then his interest would be to abandon the robber. Such was the situation between Fix and Passepartout. Meanwhile Phileas Fogg moved about above them in the most majestic and unconscious indifference. He was passing methodically in his orbit around the world, regardless of the lesser stars which gravitated around him. Yet there was near by what the astronomers would call a disturbing star, which might have produced an agitation in this gentleman's heart. But no! the charms of Aouda failed to act, to Passepartout's great surprise; and the disturbances, if they existed, would have been more difficult to calculate than those of Uranus which led to the discovery of Neptune. It was every day an increasing wonder to Passepartout, who read in Aouda's eyes the depths of her gratitude to his master. Phileas Fogg, though brave and gallant, must be, he thought, quite heartless. As to the sentiment which this journey might have awakened in him, there was clearly no trace of such a thing; while poor Passepartout existed in perpetual reveries. One day he was leaning on the railing of the engine-room, and was observing the engine, when a sudden pitch of the steamer threw the screw out of the water. The steam came hissing out of the valves; and this made Passepartout indignant. "The valves are not sufficiently charged!" he exclaimed. "We are not going. Oh, these English! If this was an American craft, we should blow up, perhaps, but we should at all events go faster!" Kannst du eine passende 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.

Passepartout fragt sich, was Detective Fix die ganze Zeit auf ihren Fersen gehalten hat, seit er den Mann auf dem Weg nach Suez getroffen hat. Er entscheidet, dass der Detektiv ein Spion ist, der vom Reformclub geschickt wurde, um Fogg's Aufenthaltsort im Auge zu behalten. Die Rangoon legt in Singapur an, um Kohle aufzunehmen, und Fogg und Aouda machen einen Spaziergang. Fix folgt ihnen und Passepartout erledigt einige Besorgungen, besichtigt die Gegend und schnappt sich etwas leckeres Obst. Das Schiff setzt dann seine Reise nach Hongkong fort. Die Reise ist rau und Passepartout wird ziemlich ungeduldig. Er beschließt, mit Fix zu scherzen und ihn zu fragen, warum er immer in der Nähe ist und "mitreist". Fix fragt sich jetzt, ob Passepartout ihm auf die Schliche gekommen ist. Passepartout fängt an zu realisieren, dass Aouda sich in Phileas Fogg verliebt.

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: Sie hatte kein verborgenes Motiv, als sie ihn nicht nach Hause nehmen wollte; es fiel ihr einfach auf, dass sie in den letzten Tagen eine übermäßige Menge an seiner Zeit in Anspruch genommen hatte und der unabhängige Geist des amerikanischen Mädchens, den die Verschwendung von Hilfe in eine Haltung versetzt, die sie letztendlich als "aufgesetzt" empfindet, hatte sie dazu veranlasst, dass sie für diese wenigen Stunden alleine ausreichen musste. Zudem mochte sie lange Zeit alleine sein, was seit ihrer Ankunft in England nur selten der Fall gewesen war. Es war ein Luxus, den sie immer zuhause genießen konnte und von dem sie wissentlich abstand genommen hatte. An diesem Abend ereignete sich jedoch ein Vorfall, der - hätte es einen Kritiker gegeben, der es bemerkt hätte - der Theorie, dass der Wunsch, ganz alleine zu sein, sie dazu gebracht hatte, auf die Begleitung ihres Cousins zu verzichten, jegliche Berechtigung genommen hätte. Als sie gegen neun Uhr im spärlichen Licht des Pratt-Hotels saß und mit Hilfe von zwei großen Kerzen versuchte, sich in einem Buch zu verlieren, das sie aus Gardencourt mitgebracht hatte, gelang es ihr nur, andere Worte als die auf der Seite gedruckten zu lesen - Worte, die Ralph ihr an diesem Nachmittag gesagt hatte. Plötzlich wurde die gut in ihre Muffe gehüllte Knöchel von Seiten des Kellners gegen die Tür geschlagen, die bald darauf seinem Auftritt weichen musste, wie ein glorreiches Trophäe, with der Karte eines Besuchers. Als dieses Andenken vor ihren Augen den Namen von Herrn Caspar Goodwood präsentierte, ließ sie den Mann vor sich stehen, ohne ihre Wünsche zu äußern. "Soll ich den Herrn heraufbringen, gnädige Frau?" fragte er mit leicht ermutigender Betonung. Isabel zögerte noch und während sie zögerte, sah sie in den Spiegel. "Er kann hereinkommen", sagte sie schließlich und wartete auf ihn, nicht so sehr damit beschäftigt, ihre Haare zu glätten, als viel mehr ihren Geist zu stärken. Caspar Goodwood schüttelte ihr daraufhin augenblicklich die Hand, sagte jedoch nichts, bis der Diener den Raum verlassen hatte. "Warum hast du meinen Brief nicht beantwortet?", fragte er dann in einem schnellen, emphatischen Ton - dem Ton eines Mannes, dessen Fragen gewöhnlich zielsicher sind und der in der Lage ist, hartnäckig zu sein. Sie antwortete mit einer entgegengesetzten Frage: "Wie wusstest du, dass ich hier bin?" "Miss Stackpole hat es mir mitgeteilt", sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Sie hat mir geschrieben, dass du wahrscheinlich heute Abend alleine zu Hause sein wirst und bereit sein würdest, mich zu treffen." "Wo hat sie dich gesehen - um dir das mitzuteilen?" "Sie hat mich nicht gesehen; sie hat mir geschrieben." Isabel schwieg; weder sie noch er hatten Platz genommen; sie standen da mit einer gewissen Herausforderung, oder zumindest einer Auseinandersetzung. "Henrietta hat mir nie gesagt, dass sie dir schreibt", sagte sie schließlich. "Das war nicht nett von ihr." "Bist du so abgeneigt, mich zu sehen?", fragte der junge Mann. "Ich habe es nicht erwartet. Ich mag solche Überraschungen nicht." "Aber du wusstest, dass ich in der Stadt bin. Es schien natürlich, dass wir uns treffen würden." "Nennst du das ein Treffen? Ich hatte gehofft, dich nicht zu sehen. In so einer großen Stadt wie London schien es sehr möglich." "Offenbar war es dir sogar widerwärtig, mir zu schreiben", fuhr ihr Besucher fort. Isabel antwortete nicht; das Gefühl von Henrietta Stackpoles Verrat, wie sie es vorübergehend bezeichnete, war stark in ihr. "Henrietta ist sicherlich kein Vorbild für all die Feinheiten!", rief sie mit Bitterkeit aus. "Es war eine große Frechheit." "Ich vermute, ich bin auch kein Vorbild, weder für diese Tugenden noch für andere. Der Fehler liegt ebenso bei mir wie bei ihr." Als Isabel ihn ansah, schien es ihr, dass sein Kiefer noch nie so eckig gewesen sei. Das hätte sie missfallen können, aber sie nahm einen anderen Blickwinkel ein. "Nein, es ist nicht so sehr dein Fehler wie ihrer. Was du getan hast, war unausweichlich, nehme ich an." "Das war es in der Tat!", rief Caspar Goodwood mit einem freiwilligen Lachen. "Und jetzt, da ich gekommen bin, darf ich zumindest bleiben?" "Du kannst dich sicherlich setzen." Sie ging wieder zurück zu ihrem Stuhl, während ihr Besucher den ersten verfügbaren Platz einnahm, in der Art eines Mannes, der daran gewöhnt war, diesem Angebot wenig Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken. "Ich habe jeden Tag gehofft, eine Antwort auf meinen Brief zu bekommen. Du hättest mir ein paar Zeilen schreiben können." "Es war nicht die Mühe des Schreibens, die mich davon abgehalten hat; ich könnte dir genauso leicht vier Seiten wie eine schreiben. Aber mein Schweigen hatte Absicht", sagte Isabel. "Ich dachte, es sei das Beste." Er saß da und starrte sie an, während sie sprach; dann senkte er den Blick und heftete ihn auf einen Fleck auf dem Teppich, als ob er einen starken Versuch unternähme, nichts zu sagen, außer dem, was er sollte. Er war ein starker Mann im Unrecht und er war klug genug zu sehen, dass eine kompromisslose Darstellung seiner Stärke nur die Falschheit seiner Position verdeutlichen würde. Isabel war nicht unfähig, einen Vorteil aus ihrer Position gegenüber einer Person wie ihm zu ziehen, und obwohl sie wenig daran interessiert war, es ihm ins Gesicht zu schleudern, konnte sie es genießen, sagen zu können: "Du weißt, du hättest mir nicht selbst schreiben sollen!" und es mit einem Triumph in der Stimme zu sagen. Caspar Goodwood hob seine Augen wieder auf ihre eigenen; sie schienen durch das Visier eines Helms zu leuchten. Er hatte ein starkes Gerechtigkeitsgefühl und war an jedem Tag des Jahres bereit, über seine Rechte zu diskutieren, über diese hinaus. "Du hast gesagt, du hoffst, nie wieder von mir zu hören; das weiß ich. Aber ich habe diese Regel nie für mich selbst akzeptiert. Ich habe dich gewarnt, dass du sehr bald von mir hören wirst." "Ich habe nicht gesagt, dass ich hoffe, NIE wieder von dir zu hören", sagte Isabel. "Nicht für fünf Jahre dann; für zehn Jahre; zwanzig Jahre. Es ist dasselbe." "Findest du das? Es scheint mir einen großen Unterschied zu geben. Ich kann mir vorstellen, dass wir am Ende von zehn Jahren einen sehr angenehmen Briefwechsel haben könnten. Ich werde meinen Briefstil weiterentwickelt haben." Sie sah weg, während sie diese Worte sprach, da sie wusste, dass sie von weniger Ernsthaftigkeit waren als das Gesicht ihres Zuhörers verriet. Ihre Augen jedoch kamen schließlich zu ihm zurück, gerade als er sehr unpassenderweise sagte: "Genießt du deinen Besuch bei deinem Onkel?" "Sehr, sehr", sagte sie und verstummte, aber dann brach sie aus. "Was erwartest du davon, darauf zu bestehen?" "Garnichts, dich nicht zu verlieren", antwortete er. "Du hast kein Recht darüber zu sprechen, was nicht dein ist. Und sogar von deinem eigenen Standpunkt aus", fügte Isabel hinzu, "solltest du wissen, wann man jemanden in Ruhe lassen sollte." "Ich verabscheue dich sehr", sagte Caspar Goodwood düster, nicht um Mitleid für einen Mann zu erregen, der sich dieses vernichtenden Faktums bewusst war, sondern um es deutlich vor sich selbst darzustellen, so dass er versuchen konnte, mit seinen Augen darauf zu reagieren. "Ja, du erfreust mich überhaupt nicht, "Ein berechneter Aufwand wofür?" Und dann, während sie kurz zögerte, "Ich bin zu nichts fähig in Bezug auf dich", fuhr er fort, "außer höllisch in dich verliebt zu sein. Wenn man stark ist, liebt man nur umso stärker." "Darum steckt viel Wahres drin", und tatsächlich spürte unsere junge Dame die Kraft davon - sie spürte sie, wie sie praktisch ins Unendliche der Wahrheit und Poesie geworfen wurde, als eine Art Köder für ihre Vorstellungskraft. Aber sie kam prompt zurück. "Denk an mich oder nicht, wie du es am besten findest; lass mich nur in Ruhe." "Bis wann?" "Nun, für ein Jahr oder zwei." "Was meinst du? Zwischen einem Jahr und zwei gibt es einen riesigen Unterschied." "Sagen wir lieber zwei", sagte Isabel mit einer bewussten Wirkung von Eifer. "Und was bekomme ich dadurch?" fragte ihr Freund, ohne Anzeichen von Ergebung. "Du wirst mich sehr verpflichten." "Und was wird mein Lohn sein?" "Brauchst du eine Belohnung für eine großzügige Tat?" "Ja, wenn sie ein großes Opfer mit sich bringt." "Es gibt keine Großzügigkeit ohne Opfer. Männer verstehen solche Dinge nicht. Wenn du das Opfer bringst, wirst du meine volle Bewunderung haben." "Ich gebe nichts darauf, ob du mich bewunderst - nicht die geringste Spur, ohne etwas dafür zu bekommen. Wann wirst du mich heiraten? Das ist die einzige Frage." "Niemals - wenn du mich weiterhin nur so fühlen lässt, wie ich mich jetzt fühle." "Was gewinne ich dann, wenn ich nicht versuche, dass du dich anders fühlst?" "Du gewinnst genauso viel wie dadurch, mich zu Tode zu quälen!" Caspar Goodwood senkte wieder den Blick und starrte eine Weile in die Krone seines Hutes. Eine tiefe Röte überzog sein Gesicht; sie konnte erkennen, dass ihre Schärfe endlich durchgedrungen war. Dies hatte sofort einen Wert - klassisch, romantisch, erlösend, was wusste sie? - für sie; "der starke Mann im Schmerz" war eine der Kategorien des menschlichen Appells, so wenig Charme er auch in diesem Fall ausstrahlen mochte. "Warum bringst du mich dazu, solche Dinge zu dir zu sagen?", rief sie mit zitternder Stimme. "Ich will nur sanft sein - vollkommen freundlich. Es ist für mich nicht angenehm, das Gefühl zu haben, dass Leute sich um mich kümmern und dann versuchen zu müssen, sie davon zu überzeugen. Ich denke, andere sollten auch rücksichtsvoll sein; wir müssen jeder für sich selbst entscheiden. Ich weiß, du bist rücksichtsvoll, so gut wie du es sein kannst; du hast gute Gründe für das, was du tust. Aber ich möchte wirklich nicht heiraten, oder überhaupt darüber reden. Ich werde es wahrscheinlich nie tun - nein, niemals. Ich habe das absolute Recht, so zu fühlen, und es ist keine Freundlichkeit einer Frau gegenüber, sie so hartnäckig dazu zu drängen, gegen ihren Willen zu handeln. Wenn ich dich verletze, kann ich nur sagen, es tut mir sehr leid. Es ist nicht meine Schuld; ich kann dich nicht heiraten, nur um dich zufrieden zu stellen. Ich werde nicht sagen, dass ich immer deine Freundin bleiben werde, denn wenn Frauen das in solchen Situationen sagen, wird es, glaube ich, als eine Art Hohn betrachtet. Aber versuche es irgendwann mit mir." Während dieser Rede hatte Caspar Goodwood seine Augen auf den Namen seines Hutmachers gerichtet gehalten und es dauerte einige Zeit, nachdem sie aufgehört hatte zu sprechen, bis er sie wieder hob. Als er es tat, war der Anblick von rosiger, liebenswürdiger Begeisterung in Isabels Gesichtfür ihn verwirrend und brachte Verwirrung in seinen Versuch, ihre Worte zu analysieren. "Ich werde nach Hause gehen - morgen werde ich dich in Ruhe lassen", brachte er schließlich hervor. "Aber", fügte er schwer hinzu, "ich hasse es, dich aus den Augen zu verlieren!" "Keine Sorge. Ich werde keinen Schaden anrichten." "Du wirst einen anderen heiraten, da bin ich mir sicher", erklärte Caspar Goodwood. "Glaubst du, das ist eine großzügige Anklage?" "Warum nicht? Viele Männer werden es versuchen." "Ich habe dir gerade gesagt, dass ich nicht heiraten möchte und dass ich es höchstwahrscheinlich nie tun werde." "Ich weiß, und ich mag dein 'höchstwahrscheinlich'! Ich glaube nicht an das, was du sagst." "Vielen Dank dafür. Beschuldigst du mich zu lügen, um dich abzuschütteln? Du sagst sehr feine Dinge." "Warum sollte ich das nicht sagen? Du hast mir kein Versprechen gegeben." "Nein, das wäre das Einzige, was fehlen würde!" "Vielleicht glaubst du sogar, dass du sicher bist - dass du nicht wünschenswert sein möchtest. Aber das bist du nicht", fuhr der junge Mann fort, als ob er sich auf das Schlimmste vorbereiten würde. "In Ordnung, also stellen wir fest, dass ich nicht sicher bin. Hab es wie du möchtest." "Ich weiß jedoch nicht", sagte Caspar Goodwood, "ob es mich davon abhalten würde, dich im Blick zu behalten." "Denkst du das wirklich nicht? Ich habe auch großen Respekt vor dir. Glaubst du, ich bin so leicht zufriedenzustellen?", fragte sie plötzlich und änderte ihren Ton. "Nein, das glaube ich nicht; ich werde versuchen, mich damit zu trösten. Aber es gibt eine bestimmte Anzahl von sehr faszinierenden Männern auf der Welt, ohne Zweifel; und wenn es nur einen gäbe, würde das genügen. Der faszinierendste von allen wird direkt auf dich zugehen. Du wirst sicher niemanden nehmen, der nicht faszinierend ist." "Wenn du mit faszinierend brillant meinst", sagte Isabel, "und ich kann mir nicht vorstellen, was du sonst meinst, dann brauche ich die Hilfe eines cleveren Mannes nicht, um zu lernen, wie man lebt. Das kann ich selbst herausfinden." "Finde heraus, wie man alleine lebt? Das wünsche ich mir, dass du mir das beibringst!" Sie betrachtete ihn einen Moment; dann mit einem schnellen Lächeln sagte sie: "Oh, du solltest heiraten!". Man könnte ihm vergeben, wenn in einem Augenblick dieser Ausruf ihm wie ein höllischer Ton erschien, und es steht nicht dokumentiert, dass ihr Antrieb für das Abfeuern eines solchen Pfeils klar gewesen wäre. Er sollte jedoch nicht mager und hungrig herumlaufen - das fühlte sie sicher für ihn. "Gott vergebe dir!", murmelte er zwischen den Zähnen, als er sich abwandte. Ihr Akzent hatte sie leicht in die falsche Lage gebracht, und nach einem Moment fühlte sie das Bedürfnis, sich wieder zurechtzurücken. Der einfachste Weg, dies zu tun, bestand darin, ihn dorthin zu stellen, wo sie gewesen war. "Du machst mir sehr unrecht - du sagst, was du nicht weißt!" platzte sie heraus. "Ich wäre kein leichtes Opfer - das habe ich bewiesen." "Oh, für mich auf jeden Fall." "Ich habe es anderen gegenüber auch bewiesen." Und sie pausierte einen Moment. "Ich habe letzte Woche einen Heiratsantrag abgelehnt; was man zweifellos einen faszinierenden nennt." Caspar sah sie mit großer Neugier an. "Ist er Engländer?" "Er ist ein englischer Adliger", sagte Isabel. Ihrem Besucher wurde diese Ankündigung zunächst in Stille aufgenommen, aber schließlich sagte er: "Ich bin froh, dass er enttäuscht wurde." "Nun, da du Gefährten im Unglück hast, mach das Beste daraus." "Ich nenne ihn nicht meinen Gefährten", sagte Caspar grimmig. "Warum nicht - wo ich sein Angebot absolut abgelehnt Isabel schüttelte den Kopf, als würde sie einen Fehler übertünchen wollen. "Ich habe einen sehr netten, edlen Herrn abgelehnt. Machen Sie das Beste daraus." "Dann danke ich Ihnen", sagte Caspar Goodwood ernst. "Ich danke Ihnen unendlich." "Und jetzt sollten Sie lieber nach Hause gehen." "Darf ich Sie nicht wiedersehen?" fragte er. "Ich denke, es ist besser nicht. Sie werden sicherlich darüber sprechen und es führt zu nichts." "Ich verspreche Ihnen, kein Wort zu sagen, das Sie ärgern würde." Isabel überlegte und antwortete dann: "Ich kehre in ein oder zwei Tagen zu meinem Onkel zurück und ich kann Ihnen nicht vorschlagen, dorthin zu kommen. Es wäre zu inkonsistent." Caspar Goodwood dachte darüber nach. "Sie sollten mir auch gerecht werden. Ich habe vor mehr als einer Woche eine Einladung von Ihrem Onkel erhalten und abgelehnt." Sie zeigte Überraschung. "Von wem war Ihre Einladung?" "Von Herrn Ralph Touchett, von dem ich annehme, dass er Ihr Cousin ist. Ich habe sie abgelehnt, weil ich nicht Ihre Autorisierung erhalten hatte, sie anzunehmen. Der Vorschlag, dass Herr Touchett mich einladen sollte, schien von Miss Stackpole zu kommen." "Der ist bestimmt nie von mir gekommen. Henrietta geht wirklich zu weit", fügte Isabel hinzu. "Seien Sie nicht zu hart zu ihr - das berührt MICH." "Nein, wenn Sie abgelehnt haben, haben Sie es richtig gemacht, und dafür danke ich Ihnen." Und sie schauderte bei dem Gedanken, dass Lord Warburton und Herr Goodwood sich in Gardencourt hätten begegnen können - das wäre so unangenehm für Lord Warburton gewesen. "Wohin gehen Sie, wenn Sie Ihren Onkel verlassen?" fragte ihr Begleiter. "Ich gehe mit meiner Tante ins Ausland - nach Florenz und anderen Orten." Die Gelassenheit dieser Ankündigung traf das Herz des jungen Mannes wie ein Schlag; es schien, als würde sie in Kreisen davongetragen, von denen er unwiderruflich ausgeschlossen war. Dennoch fuhr er schnell mit seinen Fragen fort. "Wann kommen Sie nach Amerika zurück?" "Vielleicht für eine lange Zeit nicht. Ich bin hier sehr glücklich." "Wollen Sie Ihr Land aufgeben?" "Sei kein Kind!" "Nun, du wirst wirklich außerhalb meiner Sichtweite sein!", sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Ich weiß es nicht", antwortete sie eher großartig. "Die Welt - mit all diesen Orten, so angeordnet und so miteinander verbunden - erscheint einem recht klein." "Für MICH ist sie viel zu groß!", rief Caspar mit einer Simplizität aus, die unsere junge Dame als berührend empfunden hätte, wenn ihr Gesicht nicht gegen Zugeständnisse gewesen wäre. Diese Haltung war Teil eines Systems, einer Theorie, die sie vor kurzem übernommen hatte, und um gründlich zu sein, sagte sie nach einem Moment: "Nimm es mir nicht übel, wenn ich sage, dass es genau DAS ist - außerhalb deiner Sichtweite zu sein -, was ich mag. Wenn du am selben Ort wärst, würde ich das Gefühl haben, dass du mich beobachtest, und das mag ich nicht - ich liebe meine Freiheit zu sehr. Wenn es eine Sache auf der Welt gibt, die ich liebe", fuhr sie mit einer leichten Rückkehr zur Großartigkeit fort, "dann ist es meine persönliche Unabhängigkeit." Aber was auch immer in dieser Rede von Überlegenheit sein mochte, erweckte die Bewunderung von Caspar Goodwood; es gab nichts, worin er die Größe des ganzen Ausmaßes nicht spüren konnte. Er hatte nie angenommen, dass sie keine Flügel und kein Bedürfnis nach schönen, freien Bewegungen haben würde - er fürchtete sich mit seinen eigenen langen Armen und Schritten vor keiner Kraft in ihr. Isabels Worte, wenn sie ihn schockieren sollten, verfehlten ihr Ziel und ließen ihn nur mit dem Gefühl lächeln, dass hier gemeinsamer Boden war. "Wer würde deiner Unabhängigkeit weniger entgegenkommen als ich? Was könnte mir mehr Freude bereiten, als dich vollkommen unabhängig zu sehen - tun zu können, was du willst? Es ist deine Unabhängigkeit, die mich dazu bringen will, dich zu heiraten." "Das ist ein schöner Sophismus", sagte das Mädchen mit einem noch schöneren Lächeln. "Eine unverheiratete Frau - ein Mädchen in deinem Alter - ist nicht unabhängig. Es gibt allerlei Dinge, die sie nicht tun kann. Sie ist bei jedem Schritt behindert." "Das kommt darauf an, wie man die Frage betrachtet", antwortete Isabel mit viel Energie. "Ich bin nicht mehr in meiner jungen Jugend - ich kann tun, was ich will - ich gehöre vollkommen zur unabhängigen Klasse. Ich habe weder Vater noch Mutter; ich bin arm und von ernster Natur; ich bin nicht schön. Deshalb bin ich nicht dazu verpflichtet, ängstlich und konventionell zu sein; ich kann mir solche Luxuswünsche nicht leisten. Außerdem versuche ich, Dinge selbst zu beurteilen; falsch zu urteilen, finde ich ehrenwerter als gar nicht zu urteilen. Ich will keine bloße Schaf im Rudel sein; ich will mein Schicksal wählen und etwas von den menschlichen Angelegenheiten wissen, das andere Menschen mir für vereinbar mit Anstand halten können." Sie pausierte einen Moment, aber nicht lange genug für ihren Begleiter, um zu antworten. Er schien offensichtlich kurz davor zu sein, dies zu tun, als sie fortfuhr: "Erlaube mir, dir das zu sagen, Caspar Goodwood. Du bist so freundlich, von meiner Furcht vor einer Heirat zu sprechen. Wenn du ein Gerücht hören solltest, dass ich kurz davor stehe, zu heiraten - es wird oft solche Dinge über Mädchen gesagt -, denke daran, was ich dir über meine Liebe zur Freiheit erzählt habe, und wage es, daran zu zweifeln." In ihrem Ton, in dem sie ihm diesen Rat gab, lag etwas leidenschaftlich Positives, und er sah einen glänzenden Ernst in ihren Augen, der ihm half, ihr zu glauben. Insgesamt fühlte er sich beruhigt, und das konnte man an der Art erkennen, wie er ganz eifrig sagte: "Du möchtest einfach nur für zwei Jahre reisen? Ich bin vollkommen bereit, zwei Jahre zu warten, und du kannst in der Zwischenzeit tun, was du willst. Wenn das alles ist, was du willst, sag es bitte. Ich möchte nicht, dass du konventionell bist; wirke ich auf dich konventionell? Möchtest du deinen Geist verbessern? Dein Geist ist mir gut genug; aber wenn es dich interessiert, eine Weile umherzuziehen und verschiedene Länder zu sehen, werde ich begeistert sein, dir in jeder mir möglichen Weise zu helfen." "Du bist sehr großzügig; das ist für mich nichts Neues. Die beste Art, mir zu helfen, besteht darin, so viele Hundert Meilen Meer zwischen uns zu haben wie möglich." "Man könnte denken, du würdest eine Gräueltat begehen!" sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Vielleicht tue ich das. Ich möchte sogar frei sein, das zu tun, wenn es mich überkommt." "Nun gut", sagte er langsam, "ich werde jetzt gehen." Und er streckte seine Hand aus und versuchte zufrieden und zuversichtlich auszusehen. Isabels Vertrauen in ihn war jedoch größer als jeder, den er für sie empfinden konnte. Nicht dass er glaubte, sie sei zu einer Gräueltat fähig; aber egal wie sehr er es auch bedachte, es gab etwas Drohendes in der Art und Weise, wie sie ihre Option offenließ. Als sie seine Hand nahm, empfand sie große Bewunderung für ihn; sie wusste, wie sehr er sich um sie sorgte, und sie hielt ihn für großmütig. Sie standen einen Moment so da, schauten einander an, vereint durch einen Händedruck, der auf ihrer Seite nicht nur passiv war. "Gut gemacht", sagte sie sehr freundlich, fast zärtlich. "Du wirst nichts verlieren, indem du ein vernünftiger Mann bist." "Aber ich werde wiederkommen, wo auch immer du bist, in zwei Jahren", antwortete er mit charakteristischem Ernst. Wir haben gesehen, dass unsere junge Dame inkonsequent war, und plötzlich änderte sich ihre Tonlage. "Ah, denk dar Sie betete nicht; sie zitterte – zitterte am ganzen Körper. Vibrationen fielen ihr leicht, waren tatsächlich zu sehr ein ständiger Begleiter für sie, und jetzt summte sie wie eine getroffene Harfe vor sich hin. Sie bat nur darum, den Deckel aufzusetzen, sich wieder in braunes Holland zu hüllen, aber sie wollte ihrer Aufregung widerstehen, und die Haltung der Andacht, die sie eine Weile bewahrte, schien ihr zu helfen, still zu sein. Sie freute sich unendlich, dass Caspar Goodwood fort war. Es gab etwas darin, ihn auf diese Weise losgeworden zu sein, das wie die Bezahlung, ein quittierter Zahlungsbeleg, für einen zu lange in ihrem Kopf bestehenden Schuldschein war. Als sie die frohe Erleichterung spürte, neigte sie den Kopf etwas tiefer; das Gefühl war da, in ihrem Herzen pochend; es war Teil ihrer Emotion, aber es war etwas, wofür sie sich schämte – es war unheilig und unpassend. Erst nach zehn Minuten erhob sie sich von ihren Knien, und selbst als sie in das Wohnzimmer zurückkehrte, hatte sich ihr Zittern noch nicht ganz gelegt. Es hatte tatsächlich zwei Ursachen: Ein Teil davon war auf ihre lange Diskussion mit Mr. Goodwood zurückzuführen, aber es könnte befürchtet werden, dass der Rest einfach das Vergnügen war, das sie darin fand, ihre Macht auszuüben. Sie setzte sich wieder auf denselben Stuhl und nahm ihr Buch auf, jedoch ohne es zu öffnen. Sie lehnte sich zurück und gab mit ihrem niedrigen, sanften, aufrührenden Murmeln, mit dem sie oft ihre Reaktion auf Ereignisse äußerte, von denen die positiven Seiten nicht offensichtlich waren, ihrer Befriedigung nach, zwei begeisterte Freier in zwei Wochen abgewiesen zu haben. Diese Liebe zur Freiheit, von der sie Caspar Goodwood so kühn einen Entwurf gegeben hatte, war bisher fast ausschließlich theoretisch gewesen; sie hatte es nicht in großem Maßstab ausleben können. Aber es schien ihr, sie hätte etwas getan; sie hatte den Genuss, wenn auch nicht der Schlacht, so doch des Sieges gekostet; sie hatte getan, was ihrem Plan am treuesten war. Im Glanz dieses Bewusstseins stellte sich das Bild von Mr. Goodwood, der seinen traurigen Heimweg durch die schäbige Stadt antrat, mit einer gewissen vorwurfsvollen Kraft dar; so dass sie, als in genau diesem Moment die Tür des Raumes geöffnet wurde, aufstand und mit der Befürchtung, er sei zurückgekommen, sich umdrehte. Aber es war nur Henrietta Stackpole, die von ihrem Abendessen zurückkehrte. Fräulein Stackpole sah sofort, dass unsere junge Dame "etwas durchgemacht" hatte, und die Entdeckung erforderte in der Tat keine große Durchdringung. Sie ging direkt auf ihre Freundin zu, die sie ohne Begrüßung empfing. Isabels Hochgefühl, Caspar Goodwood in die USA geschickt zu haben, setzte voraus, dass sie auf gewisse Weise froh war, dass er zu ihr gekommen war. Aber gleichzeitig erinnerte sie sich nur zu gut daran, dass Henrietta kein Recht hatte, eine Falle für sie zu stellen. "War er hier, Liebes?" fragte letztere sehnsüchtig. Isabel drehte sich weg und antwortete einige Momente lang nichts. "Du hast dich sehr falsch verhalten", erklärte sie schließlich. "Ich habe es für das Beste gehalten. Ich hoffe nur, dass du es genauso gut getan hast." "Du bist nicht die Richterin. Ich kann dir nicht vertrauen", sagte Isabel. Diese Erklärung war nicht schmeichelhaft, aber Henrietta war viel zu selbstlos, um auf den darin enthaltenen Vorwurf zu achten. Sie kümmerte sich nur darum, was es in Bezug auf ihre Freundin bedeutete. "Isabel Archer", bemerkte sie mit gleicher Uneinnehmbarkeit und Feierlichkeit, "wenn du einen dieser Menschen heiratest, werde ich nie wieder mit dir sprechen!" "Bevor du so furchtbare Drohungen aussprichst, solltest du warten, bis ich gefragt werde", antwortete Isabel. Da sie Miss Stackpole kein Wort über Lord Warburtons Avancen gesagt hatte, hatte sie jetzt auch keinerlei Impuls, sich Henrietta zu rechtfertigen, indem sie ihr erzählte, dass sie diesen Edelmann abgelehnt hatte. "Oh, du wirst schnell genug gefragt werden, sobald du auf den Kontinent gehst. Annie Climber wurde in Italien dreimal gefragt – arme kleine Annie." "Nun, wenn Annie Climber nicht erobert wurde, warum sollte ich es werden?" "Ich glaube nicht, dass Annie gedrängt wurde, aber du wirst es." "Das ist eine schmeichelhafte Überzeugung", sagte Isabel ohne Angst. "Ich schmeichle dir nicht, Isabel, ich sage dir die Wahrheit!" rief ihre Freundin. "Ich hoffe, du willst mir nicht erzählen, dass du Mr. Goodwood keine Hoffnung gemacht hast." "Ich sehe nicht ein, warum ich dir irgend etwas erzählen sollte. Wie ich dir gerade gesagt habe, kann ich dir nicht vertrauen. Aber da du so sehr an Mr. Goodwood interessiert bist, werde ich dir nicht verheimlichen, dass er sofort nach Amerika zurückkehrt." "Du willst mir doch nicht sagen, dass du ihn weggeschickt hast?" Henrietta schrie beinahe. "Ich habe ihn gebeten, mich in Ruhe zu lassen; und ich bitte dasselbe von dir, Henrietta." Miss Stackpole funkelte einen Augenblick erstaunt, dann ging sie zum Spiegel über dem Kamin und zog ihren Hut ab. "Ich hoffe, du hast dein Abendessen genossen", fuhr Isabel fort. Aber ihre Begleiterin ließ sich nicht von belanglosen Vorschlägen ablenken. "Weißt du, wohin du steuerst, Isabel Archer?" "Jetzt gehe ich gerade ins Bett", sagte Isabel mit hartnäckiger Belanglosigkeit. "Weißt du, wohin du treibst?", fragte Henrietta und hielt ihren Hut sanft hoch. "Nein, ich habe keine Ahnung und finde es sehr angenehm, es nicht zu wissen. Ein schneller Wagen in einer dunklen Nacht, der mit vier Pferden über Straßen rattert, die man nicht sehen kann – das ist mein Glücksvorstellung." "Das hat dir Mr. Goodwood sicherlich nicht beigebracht, solche Dinge zu sagen – wie die Heldin eines unmoralischen Romans", sagte Miss Stackpole. "Du treibst auf einen großen Fehler zu." Isabel war von der Einmischung ihrer Freundin irritiert, aber sie versuchte noch immer, über diese Erklärung nachzudenken. Sie konnte nichts finden, was sie davon ablenkte, zu sagen: "Du musst mich sehr lieben, Henrietta, um so aggressiv zu sein." "Ich liebe dich zutiefst, Isabel", sagte Miss Stackpole mit Gefühl. "Nun, wenn du mich so sehr liebst, dann lass mich genauso sehr in Ruhe. Das habe ich von Mr. Goodwood verlangt, und das muss ich auch von dir verlangen." "Pass auf, dass du nicht zu viel in Ruhe gelassen wirst." "Das hat Mr. Goodwood zu mir gesagt. Ich sagte ihm, ich müsse das Risiko eingehen." "Du bist ein Wesen des Risikos – du jagst mir Schauer über den Rücken!", rief Henrietta aus. "Wann kehrt Mr. Goodwood nach Amerika zurück?" "Ich weiß es nicht – er hat es mir nicht gesagt." "Vielleicht hast du nicht gefragt", sagte Henrietta mit ironischem Ton. "Ich habe ihm zu wenig Zufriedenheit gegeben, um das Recht zu haben, ihm Fragen zu stellen." Diese Behauptung schien Miss Stackpole für einen Moment jeder Kommentierung zu trotzen, aber schließlich rief sie aus: "Nun, Isabel, wenn ich dich nicht kennen würde, könnte ich denken, du wärst gefühllos!" "Vorsicht", sagte Isabel. "Du verwöhnst mich." "Ich befürchte, das habe ich bereits getan. Ich hoffe zumindest", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu, "dass er Händchen halten wird mit "Ich habe beschlossen, zuerst den großartigen Arzt Sir Matthew Hope aufzusuchen", sagte Ralph. "Zu großem Glück ist er in der Stadt. Er wird mich um halb eins treffen und ich werde sicherstellen, dass er nach Gardencourt kommt - was er umso bereitwilliger tun wird, da er bereits mehrmals meinen Vater sowohl dort als auch in London gesehen hat. Es gibt einen Schnellzug um viertel vor drei, den ich nehmen werde; und du wirst entweder mit mir zurückkommen oder noch ein paar Tage hier bleiben, ganz wie du magst." "Ich werde auf jeden Fall mit dir gehen", erwiderte Isabel. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich meinem Onkel von Nutzen sein kann, aber wenn er krank ist, möchte ich in seiner Nähe sein." "Ich denke, du magst ihn", sagte Ralph mit einer gewissen schüchternen Freude in seinem Gesicht. "Du schätzt ihn, was nicht die ganze Welt getan hat. Die Qualität ist zu fein." "Ich verehre ihn wirklich", sagte Isabel nach einem Moment. "Das ist sehr gut. Nach seinem Sohn ist er dein größter Bewunderer." Sie begrüßte diese Gewissheit, aber sie seufzte heimlich erleichtert bei dem Gedanken, dass Mr. Touchett einer jener Bewunderer ist, der ihr keine Heiratsanträge machen kann. Dies war jedoch nicht das, was sie sagte; sie fuhr fort, Ralph mitzuteilen, dass es andere Gründe gibt, warum sie in London nicht bleiben möchte. Sie sei müde davon und möchte es verlassen; außerdem werde Henrietta weggehen - nach Bedfordshire fahren. "Nach Bedfordshire?" "Zu Lady Pensil, der Schwester von Mr. Bantling, der mir eine Einladung zugesichert hat." Ralph war besorgt, brach aber bei diesem Gedanken in Gelächter aus. Plötzlich kehrte jedoch seine Ernsthaftigkeit zurück. "Bantling ist ein mutiger Mann. Aber was ist, wenn die Einladung auf dem Weg verloren geht?" "Ich dachte, die britische Post sei unfehlbar." "Selbst der gute Homer schläft manchmal", sagte Ralph. "Aber der gute Bantling jedenfalls nicht, und was auch immer passiert, er wird sich um Henrietta kümmern." Ralph ging zu seinem Termin mit Sir Matthew Hope und Isabel machte ihre Vorkehrungen, um Pratts Hotel zu verlassen. Die Gefahr, in der ihr Onkel schwebte, berührte sie tief, und während sie vor ihrem offenen Koffer stand und sich vage nach Gegenständen umsah, die sie hineinlegen sollte, stiegen ihr plötzlich Tränen in die Augen. Vielleicht aus diesem Grund war sie um zwei Uhr noch nicht bereit, als Ralph kam, um sie zum Bahnhof zu bringen. Er fand jedoch Miss Stackpole im Wohnzimmer, wo sie gerade von ihrem Mittagessen aufgestanden war, und diese Dame drückte sofort ihr Bedauern über die Krankheit seines Vaters aus. "Er ist ein großartiger alter Mann", sagte sie. "Er ist bis zum Schluss treu geblieben. Wenn es wirklich das Ende ist - verzeihen Sie meine Anspielung darauf, aber Sie müssen häufig an die Möglichkeit gedacht haben -, dann bedauere ich es, dass ich nicht in Gardencourt sein werde." "Sie werden sich in Bedfordshire viel besser amüsieren." "Ich werde es bedauern, mich in solch einer Zeit zu amüsieren", sagte Henrietta mit viel Anstand. Aber sie fügte sofort hinzu: "Ich würde gerne das Abschlussbild festhalten." "Mein Vater kann noch lange leben", sagte Ralph einfach. Dann fragte er Miss Stackpole nach ihrer eigenen Zukunft. Jetzt, da Ralph in Schwierigkeiten steckte, sprach sie ihn mit größerer Toleranz an und sagte ihm, dass sie ihm sehr dankbar sei, dass er sie mit Mr. Bantling bekannt gemacht habe. "Er hat mir genau die Dinge erzählt, die ich wissen wollte", sagte sie. "Alle Gesellschaftsneuigkeiten und alles über die königliche Familie. Ich kann nicht behaupten, dass das, was er mir über die königliche Familie erzählt, zu ihrer Ehre gereicht; aber er sagt, das sei nur meine eigene Art, es zu betrachten. Nun, alles, was ich will, ist, dass er mir die Fakten gibt; ich kann sie schnell genug zusammensetzen, sobald ich sie habe." Und sie fügte hinzu, dass Mr. Bantling so nett gewesen sei, ihr zu versprechen, am Nachmittag vorbeizukommen und sie auszuführen. "Wohin bringt er Sie?" wagte Ralph zu fragen. "Zum Buckingham Palace. Er wird mir dort alles zeigen, damit ich eine Vorstellung davon bekomme, wie sie dort leben." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "wir überlassen Sie guten Händen. Das erste, was wir hören werden, ist, dass Sie zu Windsor Castle eingeladen sind." "Wenn sie mich fragen, werde ich auf jeden Fall gehen. Wenn ich einmal in Fahrt komme, habe ich keine Angst. Aber trotzdem", fügte Henrietta nach einem Moment hinzu, "bin ich nicht zufrieden; ich bin nicht im Frieden mit Isabel." "Was ist ihre neueste Verfehlung?" "Nun, ich habe es Ihnen schon einmal gesagt, und ich denke, es ist nichts dabei, wenn ich weitermache. Mr. Goodwood war gestern Abend hier." Ralph öffnete überrascht die Augen; er wurde sogar ein wenig rot - sein Erröten war das Zeichen der Erregung. Er erinnerte sich daran, dass Isabel, als sie sich von ihm in Winchester Square trennte, seinen Vorschlag abgelehnt hatte, dass ihr Grund dafür darin bestand, dass sie einen Besuch in Pratts Hotel erwartete, und es war ein neuer Schmerz für ihn, sie des Betrugs verdächtigen zu müssen. Andererseits sagte er sich schnell, was ging es ihn an, wenn sie eine Verabredung mit einem Liebhaber hatte? War es nicht in jedem Zeitalter als elegant angesehen worden, dass junge Damen ein Mysterium um solche Verabredungen machten? Ralph gab Miss Stackpole eine diplomatische Antwort. "Ich hätte gedacht, dass dies, angesichts Ihrer Ansichten, die Sie mir neulich mitgeteilt haben, Sie vollkommen zufriedenstellen würde." "Dass er sie besuchen kommt? Das ist gut und schön, soweit es geht. Es war ein kleiner Plan von mir; ich habe ihn wissen lassen, dass wir in London sind, und als vereinbart war, dass ich den Abend außer Haus verbringe, habe ich ihm ein Wort geschickt - das Wort, das wir gerade zu den 'Weisen' sagen. Ich hoffte, er würde sie alleine antreffen; ich will nicht bestreiten, dass ich gehofft habe, dass du aus dem Weg bist. Er ist gekommen, um sie zu sehen, aber er hätte genauso gut fernbleiben können." "War Isabel grausam?" - und Ralphs Gesicht erhellt sich erleichtert, dass seine Cousine keine Verstellung gezeigt hat. "Ich weiß nicht genau, was zwischen ihnen geschehen ist. Aber sie hat ihm keine Zufriedenheit gegeben - sie hat ihn zurück nach Amerika geschickt." "Armer Mr. Goodwood!" seufzte Ralph. "Ihre einzige Absicht scheint zu sein, ihn loszuwerden", fuhr Henrietta fort. "Armer Mr. Goodwood!" wiederholte Ralph. Das Ausrufezeichen muss eingestanden werden, dass es automatisch war; es drückte nicht genau seine Gedanken aus, die in eine andere Richtung gingen. "Du sagst das nicht, als ob du es fühlst. Ich glaube nicht, dass es dir etwas ausmacht." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "du musst bedenken, dass ich diesen interessanten jungen Mann nicht kenne - dass ich ihn noch nie gesehen habe." "Nun, ich werde ihn sehen, und ich werde ihm sagen, er solle nicht aufgeben. Wenn ich nicht glauben würde, dass Isabel auf ihn zurückkommen wird", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu, "nun ja, dann würde ich mich aufgeben. Ich meine, ich würde SIE aufgeben!" Es kam Ralph in den Sinn, dass Isabels Abschied von ihrer Freundin unter den gegebenen Umständen etwas peinlich sein könnte, und er ging vor seiner Cousine zur Tür des Hotels, die ihm, nach einer kurzen Verzögerung, mit den Anzeichen eines zurückgewiesenen Vorwurfs in den Augen folgte. Die beiden machten die Reise nach Gardencourt fast schweigend, und der Diener, der sie am Bahnhof empfing, hatte keine besseren Nachrichten über Mr. Touchett zu geben – eine Tatsache, die Ralph erneut dazu brachte, sich selbst zu gratulieren, dass Sir Matthew Hope versprochen hatte, mit dem Zug um fünf Uhr herunterzukommen und dort zu übernachten. Frau Touchett, so erfuhr er bei ihrer Ankunft zu Hause, hatte sich ständig bei dem alten Herrn aufgehalten und war in diesem Moment bei ihm; und diese Tatsache ließ Ralph zu dem Schluss kommen, dass es Isabels Mutter eigentlich nur um eine unverkrampfte Gelegenheit ging. Die feineren Naturen waren solche, die bei größeren Ereignissen glänzten. Isabel ging in ihr eigenes Zimmer und bemerkte im ganzen Haus diese spürbare Stille, die einer Krise vorausgeht. Nach einer Stunde ging sie jedoch auf der Suche nach ihrer Tante nach unten, um sie nach Mr. Touchett zu fragen. Sie ging ins Bibliothekszimmer, aber Frau Touchett war nicht dort, und da das Wetter, das zuvor feucht und kalt gewesen war, nun völlig verdorben war, war es unwahrscheinlich, dass sie wie üblich in den Gärten spazieren gegangen war. Isabel stand kurz davor, zu klingeln, um eine Frage an ihr Zimmer zu schicken, als dieser Zweck schnell einem unerwarteten Geräusch wich – dem Klang leiser Musik, die anscheinend aus dem Salon kam. Sie wusste, dass ihre Tante das Klavier nie berührte, und der Musiker war daher wahrscheinlich Ralph, der zum eigenen Vergnügen spielte. Dass er sich zu dieser Zeit dieser Freizeitbeschäftigung hingegeben hatte, deutete anscheinend darauf hin, dass seine Sorge um seinen Vater nachgelassen hatte; daher machte sich das Mädchen mit fast wiederhergestellter Fröhlichkeit auf den Weg zur Musikquelle. Das Wohnzimmer in Gardencourt war ein Raum von großer Ausdehnung, und da das Klavier am entferntesten Ende stand, das von der Tür, durch die sie hereinkam, entfernt war, wurde ihre Ankunft von der Person, die sich vor dem Instrument befand, nicht bemerkt. Diese Person war weder Ralph noch seine Mutter; es war eine Dame, die Isabel sofort als Fremde erkannte, obwohl sie ihr den Rücken zuwendete. Isabel betrachtete diesen Rücken – einen üppigen, gut gekleideten Rücken – einige Zeit lang überrascht. Die Dame war natürlich eine Besucherin, die während ihrer Abwesenheit angekommen war und von keinem der Diener erwähnt worden war – einer von ihnen war das Stubenmädchen ihrer Tante –, mit denen sie seit ihrer Rückkehr gesprochen hatte. Isabel hatte jedoch bereits gelernt, mit welcher Zurückhaltung die Funktion des Befehlempfangs einhergehen kann, und sie war sich besonders bewusst, vom Stubenmädchen ihrer Tante mit Trockenheit behandelt worden zu sein, durch dessen Hände sie sich vielleicht etwas zu misstrauisch und mit einem Effekt von Federn, die umso glänzender waren, hindurchgeschlüpft war. Die Ankunft eines Gastes war an sich nicht entmutigend; sie hatte sich noch nicht von dem jugendlichen Glauben befreit, dass jede neue Bekanntschaft einen bedeutenden Einfluss auf ihr Leben haben würde. Als sie diese Überlegungen angestellt hatte, wurde ihr klar, dass die Dame am Klavier bemerkenswert gut spielte. Sie spielte etwas von Schubert – Isabel wusste nicht was, aber sie erkannte Schubert – und sie berührte das Klavier mit einer eigenen Zurückhaltung. Es zeigte Geschick, es zeigte Gefühl; Isabel setzte sich lautlos auf den nächstgelegenen Stuhl und wartete, bis das Stück zu Ende war. Als es zu Ende war, verspürte sie einen starken Wunsch, der Spielerin zu danken, und erhob sich von ihrem Platz, um dies zu tun, während die Fremde gleichzeitig schnell herumdrehte, als ob sie gerade erst von ihrer Anwesenheit erfahren hätte. "Das ist sehr schön, und Ihr Spiel macht es noch schöner", sagte Isabel mit all dem jungen Strahlen, mit dem sie normalerweise eine wahrheitsgetreue Begeisterung äußerte. "Sie denken also nicht, dass ich Mr. Touchett gestört habe?", antwortete die Musikerin genauso süß, wie dieses Kompliment es verdiente. "Das Haus ist so groß und sein Zimmer so weit weg, dass ich dachte, ich könnte mich wagen, besonders da ich nur... nur mit den Fingerspitzen gespielt habe." "Sie ist Französin", sagte Isabel zu sich selbst, "sie sagt das, als ob sie Französin wäre." Und diese Vermutung machte den Besucher für unsere spekulative Heldin interessanter. "Ich hoffe, es geht meinem Onkel gut", fügte Isabel hinzu, "ich denke, dass es ihm wirklich besser gehen würde, wenn er solch schöne Musik hören würde." Die Dame lächelte und unterschied fein. "Ich fürchte, dass es Momente im Leben gibt, in denen uns selbst Schubert nichts sagen kann. Wir müssen jedoch zugeben, dass das unsere schlimmsten sind." "Ich befinde mich nicht in diesem Zustand", sagte Isabel. "Im Gegenteil, ich wäre so froh, wenn Sie noch etwas spielen würden." "Wenn es Ihnen Vergnügen bereitet, sehr gerne." Und diese zuvorkommende Person nahm wieder Platz und schlug einige Akkorde an, während Isabel näher ans Instrument rückte. Plötzlich hielt die Neue inne, mit den Händen auf den Tasten, halb umgedreht und über die Schulter blickend. Sie war vierzig Jahre alt und nicht hübsch, obwohl ihr Ausdruck bezauberte. "Entschuldigen Sie", sagte sie, "sind Sie die Nichte – die junge Amerikanerin?" "Ich bin die Nichte meiner Tante", antwortete Isabel einfach. Die Dame am Klavier saß noch einen Moment still und warf ihren interessierten Blick über die Schulter. "Das ist sehr gut; wir sind Landsleute." Dann begann sie wieder zu spielen. "Also ist sie doch keine Französin", murmelte Isabel, und da die entgegengesetzte Vermutung sie romantisch gemacht hatte, könnte man denken, dass diese Enthüllung einen Abfall markiert hätte. Aber das war nicht der Fall; noch seltener als Französin schien Amerikanerin unter solch interessanten Bedingungen zu sein. Die Dame spielte in derselben Art wie zuvor, sanft und feierlich, und während sie spielte, vertieften sich die Schatten im Raum. Die Herbstdämmerung legte sich über das Zimmer, und von ihrem Platz aus konnte Isabel den nun kräftig einsetzenden Regen auf dem kalt aussehenden Rasen sehen und den Wind die großen Bäume schütteln. Schließlich, als die Musik aufgehört hatte, stand ihre Begleiterin auf, kam mit einem Lächeln näher und sagte, noch bevor Isabel Zeit hatte, ihr erneut zu danken: "Ich bin sehr froh, dass Sie zurückgekommen sind; ich habe viel über Sie gehört." Isabel fand sie eine sehr attraktive Person, sprach jedoch trotzdem mit einer gewissen Anspannung in Bezug auf diese Aussage. "Von wem haben Sie von mir gehört?" Die Fremde zögerte einen kurzen Moment und antwortete dann: "Von Ihrem Onkel. Ich bin schon seit drei Tagen hier und am ersten Tag hat er mich zu ihm in sein Zimmer kommen lassen. Seitdem hat er ständig von Ihnen gesprochen." "Da Sie mich nicht kannten, muss Sie das ziemlich gelangweilt haben." "Es hat mich neugierig auf Sie gemacht. Umso mehr, als ich seitdem "Sie ist zu sehr begeistert von Geheimnissen", sagte Mrs. Touchett, "das ist ihr große Schwäche." "Ach", rief Madame Merle aus, "ich habe große Schwächen, aber ich glaube nicht, dass das eine davon ist; es ist sicher nicht die größte. Ich wurde in der Brooklyn Navy Yard geboren. Mein Vater war ein hoher Offizier in der United States Navy und hatte zu der Zeit eine verantwortungsvolle Position in dieser Einrichtung inne. Ich vermute, ich sollte das Meer lieben, aber ich hasse es. Deshalb kehre ich nicht nach Amerika zurück. Ich liebe das Land; das Wichtige ist, etwas zu lieben." Isabel, als eine objektive Beobachterin, wurde nicht von der Behauptung von Mrs. Touchett über ihren Gast beeindruckt, der ein ausdrucksstolles, kommunikatives und responsives Gesicht hatte, das keineswegs auf eine geheime Veranlagung schließen ließ, zumindest nicht nach Isabels Vorstellung. Es war ein Gesicht, das von einer Fülle von Natur und schnellen, freien Bewegungen erzählte und obwohl es keine regelmäßige Schönheit besaß, äußerst einnehmend und anziehend war. Madame Merle war eine große, blonde und glatte Frau; alles an ihr war rund und füllig, aber ohne jene Ansammlungen, die auf Schwere hindeuten. Ihre Gesichtszüge waren dick, aber in perfekter Proportion und Harmonie, und ihr Teint hatte eine gesunde Klarheit. Ihre grauen Augen waren klein, aber voller Licht und unfähig zur Dummheit - unfähig, laut einigen, sogar zu Tränen; sie hatte einen großzügigen, vollen Mund, der sich, wenn sie lächelte, auf der linken Seite auf eine Art und Weise nach oben zog, die die meisten Leute sehr seltsam, einige sehr gekünstelt und wenige sehr anmutig fanden. Isabel neigte dazu, sich in die letzte Kategorie einzureihen. Madame Merle hatte dickes, blondes Haar, das "klassisch" angeordnet war und laut Isabel wie ein Standbild aussah - eine Juno oder eine Niobe; und große, weiße Hände von perfekter Form, einer so perfekten Form, dass ihre Besitzerin sie ungeschmückt trug und keinen Schmuckring trug. Isabel hatte sie anfangs, wie wir gesehen haben, für eine Französin gehalten; aber bei genauerer Beobachtung hätte man sie als Deutsche - als Deutsche von hohem Stand, vielleicht als Österreicherin, als Baronin, Gräfin oder Prinzessin - einstufen können. Es wäre nie vermutet worden, dass sie in Brooklyn auf die Welt gekommen war - obwohl man zweifellos nicht behaupten konnte, dass die Ausstrahlung von Unterscheidung, die sie in so hohem Maße geprägt hatte, mit einer solchen Geburt unvereinbar gewesen wäre. Es war wahr, dass das Nationalbanner unmittelbar über ihrer Wiege geweht hatte, und die luftige Freiheit der Sterne und Streifen könnte einen Einfluss auf die Haltung gehabt haben, die sie dem Leben gegenüber einnahm. Und doch hatte sie offensichtlich nichts von der aufgeregten, flatternden Qualität eines Stückes Bunting im Wind; ihre Art drückte die Ruhe und das Vertrauen aus, die aus reichhaltiger Erfahrung kommen. Erfahrung hatte jedoch ihre Jugend nicht erstickt; sie hatte sie einfach sympathisch und geschmeidig gemacht. Sie war mit einem Wort eine Frau starker Impulse, die in bewundernswerter Ordnung gehalten wurden. Dies empfahl sich Isabel als ideale Kombination. Das Mädchen dachte darüber nach, während die drei Damen beim Tee saßen, aber diese Zeremonie wurde bald unterbrochen durch die Ankunft des großen Arztes aus London, der sofort in das Wohnzimmer geführt wurde. Mrs. Touchett nahm ihn mit in die Bibliothek für ein privates Gespräch; und dann trennten sich Madame Merle und Isabel, um sich beim Abendessen wieder zu treffen. Die Vorstellung, mehr von dieser interessanten Frau zu sehen, milderte Isabels Gefühl der Traurigkeit, das sich nun in Gardencourt ausbreitete. Als sie vor dem Abendessen ins Wohnzimmer kam, fand sie den Raum leer; aber nach kurzer Zeit kam Ralph an. Seine Besorgnis um seinen Vater hatte sich verringert; Der Zustand von Sir Matthew Hope war weniger deprimierend als sein eigener. Der Arzt empfahl, dass in den nächsten drei oder vier Stunden nur die Pflegerin bei dem alten Mann bleiben sollte, so dass Ralph, seine Mutter und der große Arzt selbst frei waren, um am Tisch zu speisen. Mrs. Touchett und Sir Matthew erschienen; Madame Merle war die Letzte. Bevor sie kam, sprach Isabel mit Ralph, der vor dem Kamin stand. "Wer ist diese Madame Merle bitte?" "Die klügste Frau, die ich kenne, und das schließt dich nicht aus", sagte Ralph. "Ich fand sie sehr angenehm." "Das dachte ich mir, dass du sie sehr angenehm finden würdest." "Meinst du deshalb hast du sie eingeladen?" "Ich habe sie nicht eingeladen, und als wir von London zurückkamen, wusste ich nicht, dass sie hier war. Niemand hat sie eingeladen. Sie ist eine Freundin meiner Mutter, und kurz nachdem du und ich in die Stadt gefahren sind, hat meine Mutter einen Brief von ihr bekommen. Sie war in England angekommen (sie lebt normalerweise im Ausland, obwohl sie hier eine beträchtliche Zeit verbracht hat) und hatte um Erlaubnis gebeten, ein paar Tage lang herzukommen. Sie ist eine Frau, die solche Vorschläge mit voller Zuversicht machen kann; überall wo sie hingeht, ist sie willkommen. Und meiner Mutter käme nicht in den Sinn, zu zögern. Sie ist die einzige Person auf der Welt, die meine Mutter wirklich bewundert. Falls sie nicht sie selbst wäre (was sie letztendlich bevorzugt), würde sie gerne Madame Merle sein. Es wäre wirklich ein großer Wechsel." "Nun ja, sie ist sehr charmant", sagte Isabel. "Und sie spielt wunderschön." "Sie macht alles wunderschön. Sie ist vollkommen." Isabel betrachtete ihren Cousin einen Moment. "Du magst sie nicht." "Ganz im Gegenteil, ich war einmal in sie verliebt." "Und sie hat dich nicht geliebt, und deshalb magst du sie nicht." "Wie kannst du diese Dinge diskutieren? Monsieur Merle war damals noch am Leben." "Ist er jetzt tot?" "Das sagt sie." "Glaubst du ihr nicht?" "Ja, weil die Aussage mit der Wahrscheinlichkeit übereinstimmt. Der Mann von Madame Merle würde wahrscheinlich verstorben sein." Isabel starrte ihren Cousin erneut an. "Ich verstehe nicht, was du meinst. Du meinst etwas - aber du meinst es nicht. Wer war Monsieur Merle?" "Der Ehemann von Madame." "Du bist sehr fies. Hat sie Kinder?" "Nicht das allerkleinste Kind - zum Glück." "Zum Glück?" "Ich meine zum Glück für das Kind. Sie würde es sicherlich verziehen." Isabel wollte ihrem Cousin scheinbar zum dritten Mal versichern, dass er fies war; aber die Diskussion wurde durch die Ankunft der Dame unterbrochen, die das Thema war. Sie kam schnell raschelnd herein, entschuldigte sich für ihre Verspätung, schloss ein Armband, und war in dunkelblauem Satin gekleidet, das ein weißes Dekolleté aufwies, das nutzlos von einer merkwürdigen silbernen Halskette bedeckt war. Ralph bot ihr den Arm mit einer übertriebenen Bereitwilligkeit an, wie es ein Mann tut, der kein Liebhaber mehr ist. Aber selbst wenn dies noch seine Situation gewesen wäre, hatte Ralph andere Dinge im Kopf. Der große Arzt verbrachte die Nacht in Gardencourt und kehrte am nächsten Tag nach London zurück, nach einer weiteren Konsultation mit dem privaten Arzt von Mr. Touchett, dem erneut zu Ralphs Wunsch zustimmte, den Patienten am folgenden Tag wieder zu sehen. Am folgenden Tag erschien Sir Matthew Hope erneut in Gardencourt und nahm nun eine weniger ermutigende Sicht auf den alten Mann ein, der sich in den vierundzwanzig Stunden verschlechtert hatte. Seine Schwäche war extrem, und für Es wird nicht nötig sein, es abzustreiten, wenn du es nicht aussprichst", antwortete der alte Mann. "Warum sollten wir uns jetzt noch hinhalten? Wir haben uns nie vorher hinhalten müssen. Irgendwann muss ich sterben, und es ist besser, zu sterben, wenn man krank ist, als wenn man gesund ist. Ich bin sehr krank - so krank, wie ich es je sein werde. Ich hoffe, du möchtest nicht beweisen, dass es noch schlimmer wird als das? Das wäre zu schade. Du möchtest das nicht? Nun gut dann." Nachdem er diesen ausgezeichneten Punkt gemacht hatte, wurde er ruhig; aber das nächste Mal, als Ralph bei ihm war, sprach er wieder das Gespräch an. Die Krankenschwester war zum Essen gegangen und Ralph war allein in der Verantwortung, nachdem er gerade Mrs. Touchett abgelöst hatte, die seit dem Abendessen Wache gehalten hatte. Der Raum wurde nur vom flackernden Feuer beleuchtet, das in letzter Zeit notwendig geworden war, und Ralphs großer Schatten wurde an Wand und Decke projiziert, mit einer ständig wechselnden, aber immer grotesken Silhouette. "Wer ist da bei mir - ist es mein Sohn?" fragte der alte Mann. "Ja, es ist dein Sohn, Papa." "Und ist da niemand anders?" "Niemand sonst." Mr. Touchett schwieg eine Weile; dann sagte er: "Ich möchte ein wenig reden." "Wird dich das nicht ermüden?" wandte Ralph ein. "Es ist egal, wenn es das tut. Ich werde eine lange Ruhepause haben. Ich möchte über dich reden." Ralph war näher ans Bett herangerückt; er saß vorgebeugt da und hatte die Hand auf seinem Vater. "Du solltest ein fröhlicheres Thema wählen." "Du warst immer fröhlich; ich war stolz auf deine Fröhlichkeit. Ich würde mir so sehr wünschen, dass du etwas erreichen würdest." "Wenn du uns verlässt", sagte Ralph, "werde ich nichts anderes tun als dich vermissen." "Das möchte ich nicht; das ist es, worüber ich sprechen möchte. Du musst ein neues Interesse finden." "Ich möchte kein neues Interesse, Papa. Ich habe mehr alte Interessen, als ich weiß, was ich damit anfangen soll." Der alte Mann lag da und sah seinen Sohn an; sein Gesicht trug das Gesicht des Sterbenden, aber seine Augen waren die Augen von Daniel Touchett. Er schien Ralphs Interessen abzuwägen. "Natürlich hast du deine Mutter", sagte er schließlich. "Du wirst dich um sie kümmern." "Meine Mutter wird immer gut auf sich aufpassen", erwiderte Ralph. "Nun gut", sagte sein Vater, "vielleicht wird sie, wenn sie älter wird, ein wenig Hilfe brauchen." "Ich werde das nicht sehen. Sie wird mich überleben." "Sehr wahrscheinlich wird sie das; aber das ist kein Grund - !" Mr. Touchett ließ seinen Satz in einem hilflosen, aber nicht ganz jammervollen Seufzer ausklingen und schwieg wieder. "Mach dir keine Sorgen um uns", sagte sein Sohn. "Meine Mutter und ich kommen sehr gut miteinander aus, weißt du." "Ihr kommt miteinander aus, indem ihr immer auseinander seid; das ist nicht natürlich." "Wenn du uns verlässt, werden wir uns wahrscheinlich öfter sehen." "Nun gut", bemerkte der alte Mann mit wandelnder Unzusammenhängendheit, "es kann nicht gesagt werden, dass mein Tod viel Unterschied in Mutter Touchetts Leben machen wird." "Es wird wahrscheinlich mehr machen, als du denkst." "Nun, sie wird mehr Geld haben", sagte Mr. Touchett. "Ich habe ihr einen guten Betrag hinterlassen, so als ob sie eine gute Ehefrau gewesen wäre." "Das ist sie, Papa, nach ihrer eigenen Theorie. Sie hat dich nie gestört." "Ah, manche Probleme sind angenehm", murmelte Mr. Touchett. "Die, die du mir bereitet hast, zum Beispiel. Aber deine Mutter ist weniger - weniger - wie soll ich es nennen? Weniger abseitig gewesen, seitdem ich krank bin. Ich nehme an, sie weiß, dass ich es bemerkt habe." "Ich werde ihr das sicherlich sagen; ich bin so froh, dass du es erwähnst." "Für sie wird es keinen Unterschied machen; sie tut es nicht, um mir einen Gefallen zu tun. Sie tut es, um zu gefallen - zu gefallen -" Und er lag eine Weile da und versuchte herauszufinden, warum sie es tat. "Sie tut es, weil es ihr passt. Aber darum geht es mir nicht", fügte er hinzu. "Es geht um dich. Du wirst es sehr gut haben." "Ja", sagte Ralph, "das weiß ich. Aber ich hoffe, du hast das Gespräch vergessen, das wir vor einem Jahr hatten - als ich dir genau gesagt habe, wie viel Geld ich brauchen würde und dich gebeten habe, den Rest sinnvoll zu verwenden." "Ja, ja, ich erinnere mich. In ein paar Tagen habe ich ein neues Testament gemacht. Es war wohl das erste Mal, dass so etwas passiert ist - ein junger Mann, der versucht, ein Testament gegen sich selbst zu machen." "Es ist nicht gegen mich", sagte Ralph. "Es wäre gegen mich, ein großes Vermögen zu betreuen. Für einen Mann in meinem Gesundheitszustand ist es unmöglich, viel Geld auszugeben. Genug ist so gut wie ein Festmahl." "Nun, du wirst genug haben - und noch etwas übrig. Es wird mehr als genug für einen sein - es wird genug für zwei geben." Das ist zu viel", sagte Ralph. "Ach, sag das nicht. Das Beste, was du tun kannst; wenn ich weg bin, wird sein zu heiraten." Ralph hatte vorausgesehen, worauf sein Vater hinauswollte, und dieser Vorschlag war keineswegs neu. Es war lange Zeit Mr. Touchetts genialste Art gewesen, die optimistische Sicht auf die mögliche Dauer seines Sohnes zu nehmen. Ralph hatte es in der Regel sarkastisch behandelt; aber die gegenwärtigen Umstände schlossen den Sarkasmus aus. Er fiel einfach in seinen Stuhl zurück und erwiderte den flehenden Blick seines Vaters. "Wenn ich mit einer Frau, die nicht sehr angetan von mir war, ein sehr glückliches Leben geführt habe", sagte der alte Mann und trieb seine Raffinesse noch weiter, "was für ein Leben könntest du dann nicht führen, wenn du eine Person heiraten würdest, die anders ist als Mrs. Touchett. Es gibt mehrere, die anders sind als sie." Ralph sagte immer noch nichts; und nach einer Pause fuhr sein Vater leise fort: "Was hältst du von deiner Cousine?" Daraufhin fuhr Ralph zusammen und begegnete der Frage mit einem gequälten Lächeln. "Verstehe ich es richtig, dass du vorschlägst, dass ich Isabel heiraten soll?" "Nun, darauf läuft es am Ende hinaus. Magst du Isabel nicht?" "Ja, sehr." Und Ralph stand von seinem Stuhl auf und ging zum Feuer. Er stand einen Augenblick davor und dann beugte er sich nieder und rührte mechanisch darin. "Ich mag Isabel sehr", wiederholte er. "Nun gut", sagte sein Vater, "ich weiß, dass sie dich mag. Sie hat mir erzählt, wie sehr sie dich mag." "Hat sie erwähnt, dass sie mich heiraten möchte?" "Nein, aber sie kann nichts gegen dich haben. Und sie ist die bezauberndste junge Dame, die ich je gesehen habe. Und sie würde gut zu dir sein. Ich habe viel darüber nachgedacht." "Ich habe auch darüber nachgedacht", sagte Ralph und kehrte wieder zum Bett zurück. "Ich habe keine Bedenken, dir das zu sagen." "Du bist also in sie verliebt? Das würde ich denken. Es ist, als wäre sie extra gekommen." "Nein, ich bin nicht in sie verliebt; aber ich wäre es, wenn - wenn bestimmte Dinge anders wären." "Ah, Dinge sind immer anders als sie sein könnten", sagte der alte Mann. "Wenn du darauf wartest, dass sie sich ändern, wirst du nie "Es wird dich nur ermüden, lieber Vater", sagte Ralph, der von der Hartnäckigkeit seines Vaters und seiner Stärke, darauf zu bestehen, beeindruckt war. "Wo werden wir dann alle sein?" "Wo werdet ihr sein, wenn ich nicht für euch sorge? Du wirst nichts mit der Bank zu tun haben und du wirst mich nicht haben, um für dich zu sorgen. Du sagst, du hast so viele Interessen; aber ich kann sie nicht nachvollziehen." Ralph lehnte sich mit verschränkten Armen in seinem Stuhl zurück; seine Augen verharrten für einige Zeit in Gedanken. Schließlich, mit der Luft eines Mannes, der sich genug Mut zusammengenommen hat, sagte er: "Ich habe großes Interesse an meiner Cousine", sagte er, "aber nicht das gewünschte Interesse. Ich werde nicht mehr viele Jahre leben, aber ich hoffe, lange genug zu leben, um zu sehen, was sie mit sich selbst anfängt. Sie ist vollkommen unabhängig von mir; ich kann ihr Leben nur sehr wenig beeinflussen. Aber ich würde gerne etwas für sie tun." "Was möchtest du tun?" "Ich würde gerne ein wenig Wind in ihre Segel bringen." "Was meinst du damit?" "Ich würde ihr die Möglichkeit geben wollen, einige der Dinge zu tun, die sie möchte. Sie möchte zum Beispiel die Welt sehen. Ich würde ihr gerne Geld in ihre Tasche stecken." "Ah, ich bin froh, dass du daran gedacht hast", sagte der alte Mann. "Aber ich habe auch daran gedacht. Ich habe ihr ein Vermächtnis hinterlassen - fünftausend Pfund." "Das ist großartig; das ist sehr nett von dir. Aber ich würde gerne noch etwas mehr tun." Etwas von der verschleierten Schärfe, mit der es Daniel Touchett zur Gewohnheit geworden war, einem finanziellen Vorschlag zuzuhören, verharrte noch in dem Gesicht, in dem der Kranke den Geschäftsmann noch nicht ausgelöscht hatte. "Ich werde gerne darüber nachdenken", sagte er leise. "Isabel ist arm. Meine Mutter hat mir erzählt, dass sie nur ein paar Hundert Dollar im Jahr hat. Ich würde sie gerne reich machen." "Was meinst du mit reich?" "Ich nenne Menschen reich, wenn sie in der Lage sind, die Anforderungen ihrer Vorstellungskraft zu erfüllen. Isabel hat sehr viel Vorstellungskraft." "Du auch, mein Sohn", sagte Mr. Touchett und hörte sehr aufmerksam, aber ein wenig verwirrt zu. "Du sagst mir, dass ich genug Geld für uns beide haben werde. Was ich möchte, ist, dass du so freundlich bist und mich von meinem Überfluss befreist und ihres verfügbar machst. Teile mein Erbe in zwei gleiche Teile und gib ihr den zweiten." "Macht sie damit, was sie möchte?" "Absolut, was sie möchte." "Und ohne Gegenleistung?" "Welche Gegenleistung könnte es geben?" "Die, die ich schon erwähnt habe." "Dass sie heiratet - irgendeinen. Es ist genau das, wovor ich dich bewahren möchte. Wenn sie ein leichtes Einkommen hat, wird sie nie aus finanziellen Gründen heiraten müssen. Das möchte ich geschickt verhindern. Sie möchte frei sein und dein Vermächtnis wird sie befreien." "Nun, du scheinst es gut durchdacht zu haben", sagte Mr. Touchett. "Aber ich sehe nicht, warum du dich an mich wendest. Das Geld wird dir gehören und du kannst es ihr leicht selbst geben." Ralph starrte offen. "Ach, lieber Vater, ich kann Isabel kein Geld anbieten!" Der alte Mann stöhnte. "Sag mir nicht, dass du nicht in sie verliebt bist! Willst du, dass ich den Ruhm dafür bekomme?" "Ganz genau. Es sollte einfach eine Klausel in deinem Testament sein, ohne die geringste Erwähnung von mir." "Willst du also, dass ich ein neues Testament mache?" "Ein paar Worte genügen; du kannst dich darum kümmern, wenn du dich ein wenig lebendiger fühlst." "Dann musst du Mr. Hilary telegrafieren. Ich werde nichts tun, ohne meinen Anwalt." "Du wirst Mr. Hilary morgen sehen." "Er wird denken, dass wir uns gestritten haben, du und ich", sagte der alte Mann. "Sehr wahrscheinlich; ich würde gerne wollen, dass er das glaubt", sagte Ralph lachend. "Und um die Idee weiterzuführen, gebe ich dir Bescheid, dass ich sehr scharf sein werde, ziemlich scheußlich und fremdartig dir gegenüber." Der Humor daran schien seinen Vater zu berühren, der eine Weile nur da lag und darüber nachdachte. "Ich werde alles tun, was du möchtest", sagte Mr. Touchett schließlich, "aber ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob es richtig ist. Du sagst, du möchtest Wind in ihre Segel bringen, aber hast du keine Angst, dass du zu viel Wind hineinbläst?" "Ich möchte sie gerne vor dem Wind sehen!" antwortete Ralph. "Du sprichst, als ob es nur zum Amüsement wäre." "Zum Teil ist es das durchaus." "Nun, ich glaube nicht, dass ich es verstehe", sagte Mr. Touchett seufzend. "Junge Männer unterscheiden sich sehr von dem, was ich war. Als ich mich für ein Mädchen interessierte - als ich jung war - wollte ich mehr tun, als sie nur anzusehen." "Du hast Skrupel, die ich nicht gehabt hätte, und du hast Ideen, die ich auch nicht gehabt hätte. Du sagst, Isabel will frei sein und dass sie durch ihren Reichtum davon abgehalten wird, aus finanziellen Gründen zu heiraten. Glaubst du, dass sie eine Frau ist, die das tun würde?" "Keineswegs. Aber sie hat weniger Geld als je zuvor. Ihr Vater hat ihr damals alles gegeben, weil er sein Kapital ausgegeben hat. Sie hat nichts als die Krümel von dem Fest, von dem sie leben kann, und sie weiß nicht wirklich, wie dürftig sie sind - das muss sie noch lernen. Meine Mutter hat mir alles darüber erzählt. Isabel wird es lernen, wenn sie wirklich auf sich allein gestellt ist, und es wäre sehr schmerzhaft für mich zu denken, dass sie zu dem Bewusstsein von vielen Bedürfnissen kommt, die sie nicht befriedigen kann." "Ich habe ihr fünftausend Pfund hinterlassen. Damit kann sie viele Bedürfnisse befriedigen." "Ja, das kann sie. Aber sie würde es wahrscheinlich in zwei oder drei Jahren ausgeben." "Du denkst, sie wäre verschwenderisch?" "Ganz bestimmt", sagte Ralph und lächelte gelassen. Die Wachsamkeit des armen Mr. Touchett wich schnell der Verwirrung. "Es wäre dann nur eine Frage der Zeit, bis sie den größeren Betrag ausgibt?" "Nein - obwohl ich denke, dass sie zuerst ziemlich großzügig damit umgehen würde: sie würde wahrscheinlich einen Teil davon an ihre Schwestern weitergeben. Aber danach würde sie zur Vernunft kommen, sich daran erinnern, dass sie noch ihr ganzes Leben vor sich hat, und innerhalb ihrer Möglichkeiten leben." "Nun, du hast es ausgearbeitet", sagte der alte Mann hilflos. "Du interessierst dich wirklich für sie." "Du kannst nicht konsequent sagen, dass ich zu weit gehe. Du hast gewollt, dass ich weiter gehe." "Nun, ich weiß nicht", antwortete Mr. Touchett. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich deinen Geist verstehe. Es scheint mir unmoralisch zu sein." "Unmoralisch, lieber Vater?" "Nun, ich weiß nicht, ob es richtig ist, alles so einfach für eine Person zu machen." "Das hängt sicher von der Person ab. Wenn die Person gut ist, ist es ein Verdienst der Tugend, ihr die Dinge leicht zu machen. Was gibt es Edleres, als die Ausführung guter Impulse zu erleichtern?" Das war etwas schwierig zu verstehen und Mr. Touchett überlegte eine Weile. Schließlich sagte er: "Isabel ist ein süßes Mädchen; aber glaubst du, dass sie so gut ist?" "Sie ist so gut wie ihre besten Möglichkeiten", entgegnete Ralph. "Nun", erklärte Mr. Touchett, "für sechzigtausend Pfund sollte sie viele Möglichkeiten bekommen." "Da bin ich mir sicher." "Natürlich werde ich tun, was du Wie von Mrs. Touchett vorhergesagt, wurden Isabel und Madame Merle während der Krankheit ihres Gastgebers oft zusammengebracht, so dass es beinahe unhöflich gewesen wäre, wenn sie keine engeren Bekanntschaft geschlossen hätten. Ihre Manieren waren tadellos, aber zusätzlich gefielen sie einander zufälligerweise. Es ist vielleicht zu viel gesagt, dass sie eine ewige Freundschaft schworen, aber zumindest riefen sie stillschweigend die Zukunft als Zeugen an. Isabel tat dies mit einem vollkommen guten Gewissen, obwohl sie gezögert hätte zuzugeben, dass sie mit ihrer neuen Freundin im hohen Sinne, den sie dieser Bezeichnung heimlich zuschrieb, vertraut war. Sie fragte sich oft, ob sie jemals mit jemandem intim gewesen war oder jemals sein könnte. Sie hatte eine Vorstellung von Freundschaft sowie von mehreren anderen Gefühlen, die es ihr in diesem Fall, und auch in anderen Fällen, nicht zu sein schienen - das eigentliche komplett zu erfüllen. Aber sie erinnerte sich oft daran, dass es wesentliche Gründe gab, warum das Ideal nie konkret werden könnte. Es war etwas, an das man glauben konnte, nicht etwas, das man sah - eine Frage des Glaubens, nicht der Erfahrung. Erfahrung könnte uns jedoch sehr annehmbare Imitationen von ihr liefern, und es war klug, das Beste aus diesen zu machen. Sicherlich hatte Isabel insgesamt noch nie eine angenehmere und interessantere Persönlichkeit getroffen als Madame Merle; sie hatte nie eine Person getroffen, die weniger von dem Fehler besaß, der das Haupthindernis für Freundschaft ist - die Neigung, die mühsameren, abgestandenen, allzu vertrauten Teile des eigenen Charakters nachzubilden. Das Tor zu Isabels Vertrauen öffnete sich weiter als jemals zuvor; sie sagte dieser freundlichen Zuhörerin Dinge, die sie bisher noch niemandem gesagt hatte. Manchmal erschrak sie über ihre Offenheit: Es war, als hätte sie einer vergleichsweise Fremden den Schlüssel zu ihrem Schmuckkästchen gegeben. Diese spirituellen Juwelen waren die einzigen von beträchtlicher Größe, die Isabel besaß, aber umso mehr Grund gab es, sie sorgfältig zu hüten. Später jedoch erinnerte sie sich immer daran, dass man nie ein großzügigen Fehler bereuen sollte und dass es Madame Merle nur umso schlechter ergehen würde, wenn sie nicht die Vorzüge besäße, die ihr zugeschrieben wurden. Es bestand kein Zweifel daran, dass sie große Vorzüge hatte - sie war charmant, sympathisch, intelligent, gebildet. Noch mehr (denn es war Isabels Missgeschick nicht gewesen, ohne in ihrem eigenen Geschlecht mehrere Personen getroffen zu haben, für die in fairer Weise nicht weniger gelten konnte), sie war selten, überlegen und hervorragend. Es gibt viele liebenswürdige Menschen auf der Welt, und Madame Merle war alles andere als vulgär-gutmütig und ruhelos witzig. Sie wusste, wie man denkt - eine bei Frauen seltene Fähigkeit, und sie hatte zu sehr guten Zwecken gedacht. Natürlich wusste sie auch, was es heißt, zu fühlen; Isabel hätte keine Woche mit ihr verbringen können, ohne sich dessen sicher zu sein. Das war in der Tat Madame Merles großes Talent, ihre vollkommenste Gabe. Das Leben hatte sie geprägt; sie hatte es stark gefühlt, und es gehörte zu der Zufriedenheit, die man in ihrer Gesellschaft empfand, dass diese Dame sie so leicht und schnell verstand, wenn das Mädchen von dem sprach, was sie gern als ernsthafte Angelegenheiten bezeichnete. Emotionen waren bei ihr zwar eher historisch geworden; sie machte kein Geheimnis daraus, dass die Quelle der Leidenschaft, dank einer ziemlich heftigen Ausschöpfung zuvor, nicht mehr so frei floss wie einst. Sie schlug auch vor und erwartete, aufzuhören zu fühlen; sie gestand freimütig ein, dass sie früher ein wenig verrückt gewesen sei und nun vorgab, vollkommen gesund zu sein. "Ich urteile mehr als früher", sagte sie zu Isabel, "aber es scheint mir, dass ich mir das Recht verdient habe. Man kann erst ab vierzig urteilen; davor sind wir zu begierig, zu hart, zu grausam und außerdem viel zu unwissend. Es tut mir leid für dich; es wird lange dauern, bis du vierzig bist. Aber jeder Gewinn ist ein Verlust irgendwelcher Art; ich denke oft, dass man nach vierzig nicht mehr wirklich fühlen kann. Die Frische, die Schnelligkeit sind sicherlich verschwunden. Du wirst sie länger behalten als die meisten Menschen; es wird mir eine große Genugtuung sein, dich in einigen Jahren zu sehen. Ich möchte sehen, was das Leben aus dir macht. Eines ist sicher - es kann dich nicht verderben. Es kann dich furchtbar durcheinander bringen, aber ich fordere dich heraus, dass es dich nicht zerstört." Isabel nahm diese Zusicherung wie ein junger Soldat entgegen, der noch außer Atem von einem leichten Gefecht ist, in dem er mit Ehre davongekommen ist, und der eine Schulterklopfen von seinem Oberst erhält. Wie bei einer solchen Anerkennung von Verdienst schien es mit Autorität zu kommen. Wie könnte das leichteste Wort auf Seiten einer Person, die bereit war, über beinahe alles, was Isabel ihr erzählte, zu sagen: "Oh, mein Kind, das habe ich durchgemacht; es vergeht, wie alles andere", weniger bewirken? Bei vielen ihrer Gesprächspartnerinnen könnte Madame Merle irritierend gewirkt haben; es war desorientierend schwierig, sie zu überraschen. Aber Isabel, obwohl keineswegs unfähig, wirksam sein zu wollen, hatte gegenwärtig nicht diese Impulse. Sie war zu aufrichtig, zu sehr an ihrer besonnenen Begleiterin interessiert. Und dann sagte Madame Merle solche Dinge auch nie im Ton des Triumphs oder der Prahlerei; sie fielen von ihr ab wie kalte Geständnisse. Eine Phase schlechten Wetters hatte sich über Gardencourt niedergelassen; die Tage wurden kürzer und es gab ein Ende der hübschen Tee-Partys auf dem Rasen. Aber unsere junge Frau führte lange Gespräche drinnen mit ihrer Mitbesucherin und trotz des Regens machten die beiden Damen oft einen Spaziergang, ausgerüstet mit der defensiven Ausrüstung, die das englische Klima und das englische Genie zusammen perfektioniert haben. Madame Merle mochte fast alles, auch den englischen Regen. "Es gibt immer ein bisschen davon und nie zu viel auf einmal", sagte sie; "und es macht nie nass und es riecht immer gut." Sie erklärte, dass in England die Freuden des Geruchs groß waren - dass auf dieser unnachahmlichen Insel eine bestimmte Mischung aus Nebel, Bier und Ruß herrschte, die, so seltsam es auch klingen mag, das Nationalaroma war und sehr angenehm für die Nase war; und sie pflegte den Ärmel ihres britischen Mantels hochzuheben und ihre Nase darin zu vergraben und den klaren, feinen Duft der Wolle einzuatmen. Der arme Ralph Touchett wurde, sobald der Herbst begonnen hatte, fast zum Gefangenen; bei schlechtem Wetter konnte er das Haus nicht verlassen und er stand manchmal mit den Händen in den Taschen an einem der Fenster und beobachtete Isabel und Madame Merle, wie sie mit Regenschirmen den Allee entlang gingen, mit einem Gesichtsausdruck, der halb reuevoll, halb kritisch war. Die Straßen um Gardencourt waren selbst bei schlechtestem Wetter so fest, dass die beiden Damen immer mit einem gesunden Glühen in ihren Wangen zurückkehrten und auf die Sohlen ihrer ordentlichen, robusten Stiefel schauten und erklärten, dass der Spaziergang ihnen unsagbar gut getan hatte. Vor dem Mittagessen war Madame Merle immer beschäftigt; Isabel bewunderte und beneidete ihren strengen Besitz des Morgens. Unsere Heldin hatte immer als jemand mit Ressourcen gegolten und hatte einen gewissen Stolz darauf, eine zu sein; aber sie wanderte, wie auf der falschen Seite der Mauer eines Privatgartens, um die eingesperrten Talente, Fähigkeiten, Begabungen von Madame Merle herum. Sie fand sich wünschend, ihnen nacheifern zu können, und in zwanzig verschiedenen Wegen präsentierte sich diese Dame als Vorbild. "Ich würde mich furchtbar gerne so verhalten!" Isabel rief heimlich mehr als einmal aus, als einer nach dem anderen der edlen Aspekte ihrer Freundin ins Auge fiel, und bald wusste sie, dass sie eine Lektion von einer hohen Autorität gelernt hatte. Es dauerte tatsächlich nicht lange, bis sie sich selbst als unter dem Einfluss fühlte. "Was ist dabei" wunderte sie sich, "solange es ein guter Einfluss ist? Je mehr man von einem guten Einfluss beeinflusst ist, desto besser. Das Einzige ist, unsere Schritte zu sehen, während wir sie unternehmen - sie zu verstehen, während wir gehen. Das werde ich sicherlich immer tun. Ich brauche keine Angst haben, zu biegsam zu werden; ist es nicht mein Fehler, dass ich nicht biegsam genug bin?" Es wird gesagt, dass Nachahmung die aufrichtigste Form der Schmeichelei ist; und wenn Isabel manchmal dazu bewegt wurde, ihre Freundin bewundernd und verzweifelt anzustarren, dann weniger, weil sie selbst glänzen wollte, als vielmehr, weil sie die Lampe für Madame Merle hochhalten wollte. Sie mochte sie sehr, war aber noch mehr geblendet als angezogen. Sie fragte sich manchmal, was Henrietta Stackpole zu ihrer so starken Bewunderung dieses verdrehten Produkts ihres gemeinsamen Bodens sagen würde, und war überzeugt, dass es streng beurteilt werden würde. Henrietta würde Madame Merle überhaupt nicht zustimmen; aus Gründen, die sie nicht hätte erklären können, kam diese Wahrheit bei dem Mädchen an. Auf der anderen Seite war sie sich jedoch ebenso sicher, dass ihre neue Freundin, sollte sich die Gelegenheit bieten, eine glückliche Ansicht von ihrer alten Freundin entwickeln würde: Madame Merle war zu humorvoll, zu aufmerksam, um Henrietta nicht gerecht zu werden, und sie würde wahrscheinlich das Maß an Geschicklichkeit geben, das Miss Stackpole nicht hoffen konnte nachzuahmen. Sie schien für alles einen Maßstab zu haben und irgendwo in der geräumigen Tasche ihrer freundlichen Erinnerungen würde sie den Schlüssel zum Wert von Henrietta finden. "Das ist das Großartige", dachte Isabel feierlich, "das ist das höchste Glück: in einer besseren Position zu sein, um Menschen zu schätzen als sie selbst, um dich zu schätzen." Und sie fügte hinzu, dass dies, wenn man darüber nachdachte, einfach die Essenz der aristokratischen Situation war. In diesem Licht sollte man nach der aristokratischen Situation streben, wenn auch in keiner anderen. Ich kann nicht alle Verbindungen in der Kette zählen, die Isabel dazu brachten, Madame Merles Situation als aristokratisch zu betrachten - eine Ansicht, die von der Dame selbst nie in irgendeiner Aussage zum Ausdruck gebracht wurde. Sie kannte große Dinge und große Menschen, aber sie hatte nie eine große Rolle gespielt. Sie war eine der kleinen Erdenbewohner; sie war nicht in Ehren geboren worden; sie kannte die Welt zu gut, um sich auf törichte Illusionen über ihren eigenen Platz darin einzubilden. Sie hatte viele der glücklichen Wenigen getroffen und war sich vollkommen bewusst, an welchen Punkten sich ihr Glück von deren unterschied. Aber wenn sie nach ihrem informierten Maßstab keine Figur für eine hohe Szene war, hatte sie dennoch in Isabels Vorstellungskraft eine Art Größe. So kultiviert und zivilisiert, so klug und gelassen zu sein und doch so wenig davon zu machen - das war wirklich eine große Dame zu sein, besonders wenn man sich so präsentierte, wie sie es tat. Es war, als hätte sie irgendwie die ganze Gesellschaft in ihren Dienst gestellt und all die Künste und Anmut, die sie ausübte - oder war der Effekt eher der, dass bezaubernde Verwendungen für sie gefunden wurden, selbst aus der Ferne, subtiler Dienst, den sie einer lauten Welt anbot, wo auch immer sie sein mochte? Nach dem Frühstück schrieb sie eine Reihe von Briefen, da ihre Korrespondenz für sie unzählig zu sein schien: Ihr Schriftverkehr war für Isabel eine Quelle des Erstaunens, wenn sie zusammen ins Dorfpostamt gingen, um Madame Merles Postsendungen abzugeben. Sie kannte mehr Menschen, wie sie Isabel sagte, als sie wusste, was sie damit anfangen sollte, und es gab immer etwas zu schreiben. Sie liebte die Malerei und machte keine große Sache daraus, eine Skizze anzufertigen, genauso wenig wie das Ausziehen ihrer Handschuhe. In Gardencourt nutzte sie unermüdlich eine Stunde Sonnenschein, um mit einem Campingstuhl und einer Schachtel Aquarellfarben nach draußen zu gehen. Dass sie eine mutige Musikerin war, hatten wir bereits festgestellt, und es war ein Zeichen dafür, dass sich ihre Zuhörer ohne Murren dem Verlust der Anmut ihres Gesprächs hingaben, wenn sie sich abends ans Klavier setzte. Isabel, seitdem sie sie kannte, schämte sich für ihre eigene Leichtigkeit, die sie nun als schändlich minderwertig betrachtete; und obwohl sie zu Hause als eine Art Wunderkind angesehen worden war, galt der Verlust für die Gesellschaft, wenn sie ihren Platz auf dem Klavierhocker einnahm und ihren Rücken dem Raum zuwandte, in der Regel als größer als der Gewinn. Wenn Madame Merle weder schrieb, malte noch das Klavier berührte, war sie meistens mit wunderbaren Arbeiten reicher Stickerei, Kissen, Vorhängen und Dekorationen für den Kamin beschäftigt; eine Kunst, in der ihre kühne, freie Erfindungsgabe ebenso bekannt war wie die Geschicklichkeit ihrer Nadel. Sie war nie untätig, denn wenn sie mit keiner der von mir genannten Aktivitäten beschäftigt war, las sie entweder (sie schien für Isabel "alles Wichtige" zu lesen), ging spazieren, spielte Geduld mit Karten oder sprach mit ihren Mitbewohnern. Und obwohl sie all das tat, hatte sie immer noch die soziale Veranlagung, war nie unhöflich abwesend und doch nie zu sehr festgelegt. Sie gab ihre Beschäftigungen so leicht auf, wie sie sich ihnen hingab; sie arbeitete und sprach gleichzeitig und schien wenig Wert auf das zu legen, was sie tat. Sie verschenkte ihre Skizzen und Wandteppiche; sie stand auf oder blieb sitzen, je nachdem, was ihren Zuhörern am besten passte, was sie immer mit untrüglichem Gespür erspürte. Kurz gesagt, sie war die angenehmste, profitabelste, spontanste Person, mit der man zusammenleben konnte. Wenn sie für Isabel einen Fehler hatte, dann war es, dass sie nicht natürlich war; damit meinte das Mädchen nicht, dass sie weder gekünstelt noch prätentiös war, da keine Frau von diesen vulgären Lastern freier sein konnte, sondern dass ihre Natur zu sehr von Gewohnheiten überlagert wurde und ihre Ecken zu sehr abgeschliffen waren. Sie war zu flexibel, zu nützlich, zu reif und zu endgültig geworden. Sie war mit einem Wort das vollkommene soziale Wesen, für das Mann und Frau angeblich bestimmt waren; und sie hatte sich jeglichen Restes jenes tonischen Wildseins entledigt, das man selbst bei den liebenswertesten Personen annehmen kann, bevor das Landleben in Mode kam. Isabel fand es schwierig, von ihr in irgendeiner Distanz oder Privatsphäre zu denken, sie existierte nur in ihrer direkten oder indirekten Beziehung zu ihren Mitmenschen. Man könnte sich fragen, welche Kommunikation sie mit ihrem eigenen Geist haben könnte. Man endete jedoch immer damit zu spüren, dass eine charmante Oberfläche nicht unbedingt oberflächlich ist; dies war eine Illusion, von der man in seiner Jugend nur knapp verschont geblieben war. Madame Merle war nicht oberflächlich - das war sie nicht. Sie war tiefgründig, und ihre Natur sprach nicht weniger in ihrem Verhalten, nur weil sie eine konventionelle Sprache sprach. "Was ist Sprache überhaupt anderes als eine Konvention?", sagte Isabel. "Sie hat den guten Geschmack, im Gegensatz zu einigen Leuten, die ich kennengelernt habe, nicht vorzugeben, sich durch originelle Zeichen auszudrücken." "Euer Leiden ist wohl groß gewesen", fand sie einmal Anlass, auf eine Anspielung ihrer Freundin, die ihr weitreichend erschien, zu antworten. "Warum denkst du das?", fragte Madame Merle mit dem amüsierten Lächeln einer Person, die bei einem Ratespiel sitzt. "Ich hoffe, ich habe nicht zu sehr den Anschein des Missverstandenen." "Nein, aber du sagst manchmal Dinge, die meiner Meinung nach Menschen, die immer glücklich waren, nicht herausgefunden hätten." "Ich war nicht immer glücklich", sagte Madame Merle und lächelte immer noch, aber mit einer gespielten Ernsthaftigkeit, als ob sie einem Kind ein Geheimnis verraten würde. "So etwas Wunderbares!" Aber Isabel erkannte die Ironie. "Viele Menschen vermitteln mir den Eindruck, nie auch nur einen Moment etwas gefühlt zu haben." "Das stimmt sehr, es gibt sicherlich viele Eisenpfannen, Porzellan gibt es höchstens noch im Verhältnis weniger. Aber du kannst darauf wetten, dass jeder irgendwo eine Narbe hat; selbst die schwersten Eisenpfannen haben irgendwo eine kleine Beule, ein kleines Loch. Ich bilde mir ein, dass ich ziemlich robust bin, aber wenn ich dir die Wahrheit sagen muss, dann war ich schrecklich verkratzt und beschädigt. Ich mache meine Dienste noch immer gut, weil ich geschickt geflickt wurde; und ich versuche, im Schrank - dem ruhigen, dunklen Schrank, in dem der Geruch von abgestandenen Gewürzen liegt - so viel wie möglich zu bleiben. Aber wenn ich herauskommen und ins grelle Licht treten muss - dann, meine Liebe, bin ich schrecklich!" Ich weiß nicht, ob es bei dieser Gelegenheit oder zu einem anderen Zeitpunkt war, dass das Gespräch die von mir gerade angedeutete Wendung nahm und sie zu Isabel sagte, sie würde eines Tages eine Geschichte erzählen. Isabel versicherte ihr, dass sie sich freuen würde, zuzuhören, und erinnerte sie mehr als einmal an diese Verabredung. Madame Merle bat jedoch wiederholt um Aufschub und sagte ihrer jungen Begleiterin schließlich offen, dass sie warten müssten, bis sie sich besser kennen würden. Das würde mit Sicherheit geschehen, eine lange Freundschaft lag so deutlich vor ihnen. Isabel stimmte zu, erkundigte sich jedoch gleichzeitig, ob man ihr vertrauen könne - ob sie fähig schien, ein Vertrauen zu verraten. "Ich habe keine Angst, dass du das, was ich sage, wiederholst", antwortete ihre Mitbesucherin; "ich habe im Gegenteil Angst, dass du es zu sehr persönlich "Du darfst nicht denken, es sei seltsam, dass sie zu solch einer Zeit hier bleibt, wenn Mr. Touchett gestorben ist", bemerkte die Ehefrau jenes Herrn zu ihrer Nichte. "Sie ist unfähig, einen Fehler zu machen; sie ist die taktvollste Frau, die ich kenne. Es ist eine Gefälligkeit für mich, dass sie bleibt; sie sagt eine Menge Besuche in großen Häusern ab", sagte Mrs. Touchett, die nie vergaß, dass ihr sozialer Wert in England um zwei oder drei Grade sank, als sie selbst dort war. "Sie hat die Auswahl an Orten; sie braucht kein Versteck. Aber ich habe sie gebeten, diese Zeit hier zu verbringen, weil ich möchte, dass du sie kennenlernst. Ich denke, es wird gut für dich sein. Serena Merle hat keinen Fehler." "Wenn ich sie nicht schon sehr gerne mögen würde, würde mich diese Beschreibung beunruhigen", erwiderte Isabel. "Sie ist nicht im Geringsten 'abfallend'. Ich habe dich hierher gebracht und möchte das Beste für dich tun. Deine Schwester Lily hat mir gesagt, sie hoffe, dass ich dir viele Möglichkeiten geben würde. Indem ich dich in Beziehung zu Madame Merle setze, gebe ich dir eine solche Möglichkeit. Sie ist eine der brillantesten Frauen in Europa." "Ich mag sie lieber als deine Beschreibung von ihr", beharrte Isabel. "Denkst du, dass du jemals Kritik an ihr üben wirst? Ich hoffe, du sagst mir Bescheid, wenn das der Fall ist." "Das wäre grausam - dir gegenüber", sagte Isabel. "Du musst dich nicht um mich sorgen. Du wirst keinen Fehler an ihr entdecken." "Möglicherweise nicht. Aber ich werde ihn wahrscheinlich nicht verpassen." "Sie weiß absolut alles auf der Welt, was es zu wissen gibt", sagte Mrs. Touchett. Danach bemerkte Isabel gegenüber ihrer Begleiterin, dass sie hoffte, Mrs. Touchett halte sie für makellos. Darauf antwortete Madame Merle: "Ich danke Ihnen, aber ich fürchte, Ihre Tante stellt sich keine Abweichungen vor, die der Uhrenzeiger nicht registriert." "Also meinen Sie, dass Sie eine wilde Seite haben, die ihr unbekannt ist?" "Oh nein, ich fürchte, meine düstersten Seiten sind am zahmsten. Ich meine, keine Fehler zu haben, für Ihre Tante bedeutet, niemals zu spät zum Abendessen zu kommen - zumindest nicht zu ihrem Abendessen. Übrigens war ich nicht zu spät, als Sie neulich aus London zurückkamen; es war genau acht Uhr, als ich in das Wohnzimmer kam: Sie anderen waren zu früh dran. Es bedeutet, einen Brief am Tag des Erhalts zu beantworten und wenn man zu ihr kommt, nicht zu viel Gepäck mitzubringen und darauf zu achten, nicht krank zu werden. Diese Dinge stellen für Mrs. Touchett Tugend dar; es ist ein Segen, es auf seine Elemente reduzieren zu können." Es wird deutlich, dass Madame Merles eigene Unterhaltung mit mutigen, freien kritischen Zügen angereichert war, die selbst bei einschränkender Wirkung Isabel nie als böswillig erschienen. Es kam dem Mädchen zum Beispiel nicht in den Sinn, dass die anspruchsvolle Gastgeberin von Mrs. Touchett sie beleidigte; und dies aus sehr guten Gründen. Erstens erfasste Isabel eifrig die Nuancen ihrer Aussagen; zweitens deutete Madame Merle an, dass es noch viel mehr zu sagen gab; und drittens war offensichtlich, dass es ein angenehmes Zeichen der Vertrautheit mit einer Person war, wenn sie ohne Umschweife über nahe Verwandte sprach. Diese Zeichen tiefer Verbundenheit vermehrten sich im Laufe der Tage, und keines war, von dem Isabel sich mehr bewusst war, als die Vorliebe ihrer Begleiterin, über Miss Archer selbst zu sprechen. Obwohl sie oft auf Ereignisse ihrer eigenen Karriere Bezug nahm, blieb sie nicht dabei hängen; sie war genauso wenig ein großer Egoist wie eine flache Klatschbase. "Ich bin alt und verstaubt und verblasst", sagte sie mehr als einmal; "Ich bin nicht interessanter als die Zeitung der letzten Woche. Du bist jung und frisch und von heute; du hast etwas Großartiges - du hast Aktualität. Ich hatte es auch einmal - wir alle hatten es für eine Stunde. Du wirst es jedoch länger haben. Lass uns also über dich reden; du kannst nichts sagen, was mich nicht interessiert. Es ist ein Zeichen, dass ich alt werde - dass ich gerne mit jüngeren Menschen rede. Ich finde das eine sehr schöne Entschädigung. Wenn wir kein Jugendliches in uns haben, dann können wir es von außen haben, und ich denke wirklich, dass wir es auf diese Weise besser sehen und fühlen können. Natürlich müssen wir mit ihm im Einklang sein - das werde ich immer sein. Ich weiß nicht, ob ich jemals schlecht gelaunt gegenüber älteren Menschen sein werde - ich hoffe nicht; es gibt sicherlich einige ältere Menschen, die ich verehre. Aber gegenüber den Jungen werde ich immer nur unterwürfig sein; sie berühren mich und sprechen mich zu sehr an. Du hast freie Hand; du kannst sogar unverschämt sein, wenn du möchtest; ich werde es durchgehen lassen und dich schrecklich verwöhnen. Ich spreche, als ob ich hundert Jahre alt wäre, sagst du? Nun, das bin ich, wenn es dir recht ist; Ich wurde vor der französischen Revolution geboren. Ah, mein Lieber, ich komme von weit her; ich gehöre zur alten, alten Welt. Aber darum möchte ich nicht reden; ich möchte über das Neue sprechen. Du musst mir mehr über Amerika erzählen; du erzählst mir nie genug. Hier bin ich seitdem ich als hilfloses Kind hierher gebracht wurde, und es ist lächerlich, oder vielmehr skandalös, wie wenig ich über dieses großartige, schreckliche, lustige Land weiß - sicherlich das größte und lustigste von allen. Es gibt viele von uns in diesen Teilen, und ich muss sagen, dass wir eine elende Gruppe von Menschen sind. Du solltest in deinem eigenen Land leben; egal was es ist, du hast dort deinen natürlichen Platz. Wenn wir keine guten Amerikaner sind, sind wir sicherlich arme Europäer; wir haben hier keinen natürlichen Platz. Wir sind bloße Parasiten, die über die Oberfläche krabbeln; wir haben keine Wurzeln im Boden. Zumindest können wir es wissen und keine Illusionen haben. Eine Frau kann vielleicht zurechtkommen; eine Frau hat, so scheint es mir, keinen natürlichen Platz irgendwo; wo immer sie sich befindet, muss sie auf der Oberfläche bleiben und mehr oder weniger krabbeln. Du protestierst, mein Lieber? du bist entsetzt? du erklärst, dass du niemals krabbeln wirst? Es ist sehr wahr, dass ich dich nicht krabbeln sehe; du stehst aufrechter als viele arme Geschöpfe. Gut; im Großen und Ganzen glaube ich nicht, dass du krabbeln wirst. Aber die Männer, die Amerikaner; je vous demande un peu, wie machen sie das hier? Ich beneide sie nicht, wenn sie versuchen müssen, sich zurechtzufinden. Schau dir den armen Ralph Touchett an: was für einen Eindruck macht er? Glücklicherweise hat er eine Krankheit; ich sage glücklicherweise, weil er damit beschäftigt ist. Seine Krankheit ist seine Karriere, sie ist eine Art Position. Man kann sagen: 'Oh, Mr. Touchett, er kümmert sich um seine Lungen, er kennt sich gut mit Klimata aus.' Aber ohne das, wer wäre er, was würde er darstellen? 'Mr. Ralph Touchett: ein Amerikaner, der in Europa lebt.' Das bedeutet absolut nichts - es ist unmöglich, dass irgendetwas noch weniger bedeutet. 'Er ist sehr gebildet', sagen sie: 'er hat eine sehr hübsche Sammlung alter Schnupftabaksdosen.' Die Sammlung reicht aus, um es erbärmlich zu machen. Ich bin müde vom Klang dieses Wortes; ich finde es grotesk. Mit dem armen alten Vater ist es anders; er hat seine Identität, und sie ist ziemlich massiv. Er repräsentiert ein großes Finanzunternehmen, und das ist heutzutage so gut wie alles. Zumindest für einen Amerikaner wird das sehr gut funktionieren. Aber ich denke immer noch, dass dein Cousin sehr glücklich ist, eine chronische Krankheit zu haben, solange er nicht daran stirbt. Es ist viel besser als die Schnupftabaksdosen. Wenn er nicht krank wäre, sagst du, würde er etwas tun? - er würde den Platz seines Vaters im Unternehmen einnehmen. Mein armes Kind, das bezweifle ich; ich glaube nicht, dass er das Unternehmen besonders mag. Aber du kennst ihn besser als ich, obwohl ich ihn früher ziemlich gut kannte, und er verdient den Nutzen des Zweifels. Der schlimmste Fall, denke ich, ist ein Freund von mir, ein Landsmann von uns, der in Italien lebt (wohin er auch gebracht wurde, bevor er es besser wusste) und einer der charmantesten Männer ist, die ich kenne. Irgendwann musst du ihn kennenlernen. Ich werde dich zusammenbringen und dann wirst du verstehen, was ich meine. Er ist Gilbert Osmond - er lebt in Italien; das ist alles, was man über ihn sagen kann oder aus ihm machen kann. Er ist überaus klug, ein Mann, der Beachtung finden sollte. Aber wie ich dir sage, erschöpfst du die Beschreibung, wenn du sagst, er ist Mr. Osmond, der in Italien lebt. Keine Karriere, kein Name, keine Position, kein Vermögen, keine Vergangenheit, keine Zukunft, nichts. Oh ja, er malt, wenn du bitte - malt mit Aquarellfarben; wie ich, nur besser als ich. Seine Malerei ist ziemlich schlecht; im Großen und Ganzen bin ich darüber eher froh. Glücklicherweise ist er sehr träge, so träge, dass es einer Art Position entspricht. Er kann sagen: 'Oh, ich mache nichts; ich bin zu tödlich faul. Man kann heute nichts erreichen, außer man steht um fünf Uhr morgens auf.' Auf diese Weise wird er eine Art Ausnahme; man hat das Gefühl, er könnte etwas tun, wenn er nur früher aufstehen würde. Gegenüber der breiten Öffentlichkeit spricht er nie von seiner Malerei; er ist zu klug dafür. Aber er hat ein kleines Mädchen - ein liebenswertes kleines Mädchen; darüber spricht er. Er ist ihr sehr gewidmet, und wenn es eine Karriere wäre, ein ausgezeichneter Vater zu sein, wäre er sehr bemerkenswert. Aber ich fürchte, das ist nicht besser als die Schnupftabaksdosen; vielleicht sogar noch schlechter. Sag mir, was sie in Amerika tun", fuhr Madame Merle fort, die, wie nebenbei bemerkt werden muss, diese Überlegungen nicht auf einmal äußerte, sondern hier werden sie für die Bequemlichkeit des Lesers als Cluster präsentiert. Sie sprach von Florenz, wo Mr. Osmond lebte und wo Mrs. Touchett einen mittelalterlichen Palast bewohnte; sie sprach von Rom, wo sie selbst eine kleine Wohnung mit einigen ziemlich guten alten Damast hatte. Sie sprach von Orten, von Menschen und sogar, wie man sagt, von 'Themen'; und ab und zu sprach sie von ihrem freundlichen alten Gastgeber und von der Aussicht auf seine Genesung. Von Anfang an hatte sie diese Aussicht als gering eingeschätzt, und Isabel war von der positiven, unterscheidungsfähigen und kompetenten Art und Weise beeindruckt, in der sie das restliche Leben des Gastgebers einschätzte. Eines Abends verkündete sie definitiv, dass er nicht überleben würde. "Sir Matthew Hope hat es mir so deutlich gesagt, wie es angemessen war", sagte sie; "Er hat sich in der Nähe des Feuers, vor dem Abendessen, aufgestellt. Der große Arzt ist sehr angenehm. Ich meine damit nicht, dass seine Aussage damit etwas zu tun hat. Aber er sagt solche Dinge mit großer Taktgefühl. Ich hatte ihm gesagt, dass ich mich hier unwohl fühle, zu solch einer Zeit hier zu sein; es schien mir so unpassend - ich konnte doch nicht pflegen. 'Sie müssen bleiben, Sie müssen bleiben', antwortete er; 'I "Ich hoffe nicht; denn wenn du das tust, wirst du niemals fertig werden. So ist es mit deinem Cousin; er kommt nicht darüber hinweg. Es ist eine Abneigung der Natur - wenn ich es so nennen kann, wenn alles auf seiner Seite liegt. Ich habe überhaupt nichts gegen ihn und hege keinerlei Groll darüber, dass er mich nicht gerecht behandelt hat. Gerechtigkeit ist alles, was ich will. Trotzdem spürt man, dass er ein Gentleman ist und niemals etwas Hinterhältiges über jemanden sagen würde. Cartes sur table", fügte Madame Merle in einem Moment hinzu, "ich habe keine Angst vor ihm." "Ich hoffe wirklich nicht", sagte Isabel, die etwas über seine Güte zu sagen hatte. Sie erinnerte sich jedoch daran, dass er ihr beim ersten Mal, als sie ihn nach Madame Merle fragte, in einer Weise geantwortet hatte, die diese Dame für beleidigend halten könnte, ohne explizit zu sein. Es gab etwas zwischen ihnen, sagte sich Isabel, aber sie sagte nicht mehr als das. Wenn es etwas Wichtiges war, sollte es Respekt inspirieren; wenn nicht, war es ihre Neugierde nicht wert. Trotz ihrer Liebe zur Bildung hatte sie eine natürliche Abneigung, Vorhänge zu lüften und in unbeleuchtete Ecken zu schauen. Die Liebe zur Bildung existierte in ihrem Geist neben der besten Fähigkeit zur Ignoranz. Aber Madame Merle sagte manchmal Dinge, die sie erschütterten, ihre klaren Augenbrauen in die Höhe zogen und sie später über die Worte nachdenken ließen. "Ich würde viel dafür geben, wieder in deinem Alter zu sein", platzte sie einmal mit einer Bitterkeit heraus, die, obwohl sie in ihrer gewohnten Großzügigkeit gemildert wurde, unvollkommen verdeckt war. "Wenn ich nur von vorne anfangen könnte - wenn ich mein Leben vor mir hätte!" "Dein Leben liegt immer noch vor dir", antwortete Isabel sanft, denn sie war vage ehrfürchtig. "Nein, der beste Teil ist vorbei und umsonst vergangen." "Sicherlich nicht umsonst", sagte Isabel. "Warum nicht - was habe ich bekommen? Weder Ehemann, noch Kind, noch Vermögen, noch Position, noch die Spuren einer Schönheit, die ich nie hatte." "Du hast viele Freunde, liebe Dame." "Da bin ich mir nicht so sicher!", rief Madame Merle. "Ah, du liegst falsch. Du hast Erinnerungen, Anmut, Talente..." Aber Madame Merle unterbrach sie. "Was haben mir meine Talente gebracht? Nichts als die Notwendigkeit, sie immer noch zu nutzen, um die Stunden, die Jahre zu überstehen, um mich selbst mit irgendeinem Vorwand von Bewegung, Unbewusstheit zu betrügen. Was meine Anmut und Erinnerungen betrifft, umso weniger darüber gesagt wird, desto besser. Du wirst meine Freundin sein, bis du eine bessere Verwendung für deine Freundschaft findest." "Es liegt an dir, zu sehen, dass ich es nicht tue", sagte Isabel. "Ja, ich würde mich anstrengen, dich zu behalten." Und ihre Begleiterin sah sie ernst an. "Wenn ich sage, dass ich gerne in deinem Alter wäre, meine ich mit deinen Qualitäten - offen, großzügig, aufrichtig wie du. In diesem Fall hätte ich etwas Besseres aus meinem Leben gemacht." "Was hättest du gerne getan, was du nicht getan hast?" Madame Merle nahm ein Notenblatt - sie saß am Klavier und hatte sich abrupt auf dem Hocker umgedreht, als sie zuerst sprach - und blätterte mechanisch umher. "Ich bin sehr ehrgeizig!" antwortete sie schließlich. "Und deine Ambitionen wurden nicht erfüllt? Sie mussten groß gewesen sein." "Sie WAREN groß. Ich würde mich lächerlich machen, wenn ich von ihnen spreche." Isabel fragte sich, was sie gewesen sein könnten - ob Madame Merle darauf gehofft hatte, eine Krone zu tragen. "Ich weiß nicht, wie du Erfolg definierst, aber du scheinst mir erfolgreich gewesen zu sein. Für mich bist du tatsächlich ein lebhaftes Bild des Erfolgs." Madame Merle warf die Noten mit einem Lächeln weg. "Was ist deine Vorstellung von Erfolg?" "Du denkst offenbar, dass es eine sehr langweilige sein muss. Es ist, einen Traum der Jugend Wirklichkeit werden zu sehen." "Ah", rief Madame Merle aus, "das habe ich nie gesehen! Aber meine Träume waren so groß - so absurd. Der Himmel verzeihe mir, ich träume jetzt!" Und sie drehte sich zurück zum Klavier und begann grandios zu spielen. Am nächsten Tag sagte sie zu Isabel, dass ihre Definition von Erfolg sehr schön, aber furchtbar traurig gewesen sei. Wenn man es so messe, wer habe jemals Erfolg gehabt? Die Träume der Jugend - wie bezaubernd, wie göttlich waren sie! Wer habe jemals solche Dinge verwirklicht gesehen? "Ich selbst - ein paar von ihnen", wagte Isabel zu antworten. "Schon? Das müssen Träume von gestern gewesen sein." "Ich habe sehr früh angefangen zu träumen", lächelte Isabel. "Ah, wenn du damit die Bestrebungen deiner Kindheit meinst - die, einen rosa Gürtel zu haben und eine Puppe, die ihre Augen schließen konnte." "Nein, das meine ich nicht." "Oder einen jungen Mann mit einem schönen Schnurrbart, der vor dir auf die Knie geht." "Nein, auch das nicht", erklärte Isabel mit noch mehr Nachdruck. Madame Merle schien dieses Eifer zu bemerken. "Ich vermute, das ist es, was du meinst. Wir alle hatten den jungen Mann mit dem Schnurrbart. Er ist der unvermeidliche junge Mann; er zählt nicht." Isabel schwieg eine Weile, sprach dann aber mit äußerster und charakteristischer Widersprüchlichkeit. "Warum sollte er nicht zählen? Es gibt junge Männer und junge Männer." "Und deiner war ein Paradiesvogel - ist das es, was du meinst?" fragte ihre Freundin lachend. "Wenn du den identischen jungen Mann hattest, von dem du geträumt hast, dann war das Erfolg, und ich beglückwünsche dich von ganzem Herzen. Nur in diesem Fall, warum bist du dann nicht mit ihm in sein Schloss in den Apenninen geflohen?" "Er hat kein Schloss in den Apenninen." "Was hat er dann? Ein hässliches Backsteinhaus in der 40. Straße? Sag mir das nicht; Ich weigere mich, das als Ideal anzuerkennen." "Ich interessiere mich nicht für sein Haus", sagte Isabel. "Das ist sehr plump von dir. Wenn du so alt wirst wie ich, wirst du sehen, dass jeder Mensch seine Hülle hat und dass man die Hülle berücksichtigen muss. Mit Hülle meine ich das gesamte Umfeld. Es gibt keinen isolierten Mann oder Frau; wir bestehen alle aus einer Ansammlung von Umständen. Wie sollen wir unser 'Selbst' nennen? Wo fängt es an? Wo hört es auf? Es fließt in alles über, was uns gehört - und dann fließt es zurück. Ich weiß, dass ein großer Teil meines Selbst in den Kleidern steckt, die ich wähle, um zu tragen. Ich habe großen Respekt vor DINGEN! Das 'Selbst' eines Menschen - für andere Menschen - ist der Ausdruck seines 'Selbst', und sein Haus, seine Möbel, seine Kleidung, die Bücher, die er liest, die Gesellschaft, in der er sich aufhält - all diese Dinge sind Ausdruck." Dies war sehr metaphysisch; nicht mehr als einige Beobachtungen, die Madame Merle bereits gemacht hatte. Isabel mochte die Metaphysik, konnte ihre Freundin jedoch nicht bei dieser kühnen Analyse der menschlichen Persönlichkeit begleiten. "Ich stimme dir nicht zu. Ich sehe es genau andersherum. Ich weiß nicht, ob es mir gelingt, mich auszudrücken, aber ich weiß "Du hast viel Zeit", sagte sie zu Isabel als Antwort auf die verstümmelten Vertraulichkeiten, die unsere junge Frau ihr anvertraute und die nicht vorgaben perfekt zu sein, obwohl wir gesehen haben, dass das Mädchen manchmal Gewissensbisse hatte, so viel gesagt zu haben. "Ich bin froh, dass du noch nichts getan hast - dass du es noch zu tun hast. Es ist sehr gut für ein Mädchen, ein paar gute Angebote abzulehnen - solange es natürlich nicht die Besten sind, die sie wahrscheinlich haben wird. Bitte verzeih, wenn mein Ton schrecklich korrupt erscheint; man muss manchmal den weltlichen Blickwinkel einnehmen. Aber sie lehnen nicht weiterhin ab, nur um abzulehnen. Es ist eine angenehme Machtausübung; aber das Annehmen ist letztendlich ebenfalls eine Machtausübung. Es besteht immer die Gefahr, einmal zu oft abzulehnen. Das war nicht die Gefahr, in die ich geriet - ich habe nicht oft genug abgelehnt. Du bist eine exquisite Kreatur und ich würde dich gerne mit einem Premierminister verheiratet sehen. Aber streng genommen bist du kein Parti, wie man es technisch nennt. Du bist äußerst gutaussehend und äußerst clever; du bist in dir selbst vollkommen außergewöhnlich. Du scheinst die vagesten Vorstellungen über deinen Besitz zu haben; aber soweit ich sehen kann, bist du nicht finanziell eingeschränkt. Ich wünschte, du hättest ein wenig Geld." "Ich wünschte, ich hätte!" sagte Isabel einfach und vergaß anscheinend für einen Moment, dass ihre Armut für zwei tapfere Gentlemen ein Vergehen gewesen war. Trotz Sir Matthew Hopes wohlwollender Empfehlung blieb Madame Merle nicht bis zum Ende, wie die Angelegenheit von Herrn Touchetts Krankheit jetzt offen bezeichnet wurde. Sie war Verpflichtungen gegenüber anderen Menschen eingegangen, die sie schließlich einlösen musste, und sie verließ Gardencourt in dem Wissen, dass sie Frau Touchett auf jeden Fall dort oder in der Stadt sehen würde, bevor sie England verließ. Ihr Abschied von Isabel war sogar mehr wie ein Beginn einer Freundschaft als ihr Treffen. "Ich werde nacheinander sechs Orte besuchen, aber niemanden so sehr mögen wie dich. Es werden alles alte Freunde sein; in meinem Alter schließt man keine neuen Freundschaften mehr. Für dich habe ich aber eine große Ausnahme gemacht. Du musst dich daran erinnern und so gut wie möglich von mir denken. Du musst mich belohnen, indem du an mich glaubst." Als Antwort darauf küsste Isabel sie, und obwohl einige Frauen mit Leichtigkeit küssen, gibt es Küsse und Küsse, und diese Umarmung war zufriedenstellend für Madame Merle. Unsere junge Dame war danach viel allein; sie sah ihre Tante und Cousine nur zu den Mahlzeiten und stellte fest, dass von den Stunden, in denen Frau Touchett nicht zu sehen war, nur ein geringer Teil der Pflege ihres Mannes gewidmet war. Den Rest verbrachte sie in ihren eigenen Zimmern, zu denen nicht einmal ihre Nichte Zugang hatte, offenbar dort mit geheimnisvollen und unergründlichen Übungen beschäftigt. Am Tisch war sie ernst und schweigsam; aber ihre Feierlichkeit war keine Haltung - Isabel konnte sehen, dass es eine Überzeugung war. Sie fragte sich, ob ihre Tante es bereute, so oft ihren eigenen Weg gegangen zu sein; es gab jedoch keine sichtbaren Beweise dafür - keine Tränen, keine Seufzer, keine Übertreibung des eigenen in jeder Hinsicht ausreichenden Eifers. Frau Touchett schien einfach das Bedürfnis zu haben, über die Dinge nachzudenken und sie zusammenzufassen; sie hatte ein kleines moralisches Konto-Buch - mit sicher gerichteten Spalten und einer scharfen Stahlklammer - das sie vorbildlich sauber führte. Ausgesprochene Überlegungen hatten bei ihr jedenfalls immer einen praktischen Klang. "Wenn ich das vorausgesehen hätte, hätte ich dir vorgeschlagen, erst nächstes Jahr ins Ausland zu kommen", sagte sie zu Isabel, nachdem Madame Merle das Haus verlassen hatte. "Ich hätte gewartet und dich dann gerufen." "Damit ich meinen Onkel vielleicht nie kennengelernt hätte? Es macht mich sehr glücklich, jetzt gekommen zu sein." "Das ist schön und gut. Aber ich habe dich nicht deshalb nach Europa gebracht, damit du deinen Onkel kennenlernst." Eine völlig wahrheitsgemäße Aussage, aber - wie Isabel meinte - nicht zur rechten Zeit gemacht. Sie hatte Zeit, darüber und über andere Dinge nachzudenken. Sie machte jeden Tag einen einsamen Spaziergang und verbrachte vage Stunden damit, Bücher in der Bibliothek durchzublättern. Zu den Themen, die ihre Aufmerksamkeit beanspruchten, gehörten die Abenteuer ihrer Freundin Miss Stackpole, mit der sie regelmäßig korrespondierte. Isabel mochte den privaten Briefstil ihrer Freundin lieber als den öffentlichen; das heißt, sie fand, dass ihre öffentlichen Briefe ausgezeichnet gewesen wären, wenn sie nicht gedruckt worden wären. Henriettas Karriere war jedoch nicht so erfolgreich, wie es im Interesse ihres privaten Glücks gewünscht worden wäre; diese Sichtweise des inneren Lebens Großbritanniens, die sie so eifrig übernehmen wollte, schien vor ihr herumzutanzen wie ein Irrlicht. Aus mysteriösen Gründen war die Einladung von Lady Pensil nie eingetroffen, und armer Mr. Bantling selbst konnte trotz all seiner freundlichen Einfallsreichtum keine Erklärung für diesen schweren Fehler abgeben, der von einer Mitteilung offenbar verursacht worden war. Offenbar hatte er sich sehr für Henriettas Angelegenheiten eingesetzt und glaubte, dass er ihr eine Art Ausgleich für diesen illusorischen Besuch in Bedfordshire schuldete. "Er sagt, er würde denken, dass ich auf den Kontinent gehen würde", schrieb Henrietta. "Und da er selbst daran denkt, dorthin zu gehen, nehme ich an, sein Rat ist aufrichtig. Er will wissen, warum ich mir keine Meinung über das französische Leben bilde; und es ist eine Tatsache, dass ich sehr gerne die neue Republik sehen möchte. Mr. Bantling interessiert sich nicht sehr für die Republik, aber er denkt sowieso daran, nach Paris zu gehen. Ich muss sagen, dass er genauso aufmerksam ist, wie ich es mir wünschen könnte, und zumindest werde ich einen höflichen Engländer gesehen haben. Ich sage Mr. Bantling immer wieder, dass er Amerikaner hätte sein sollen, und du solltest sehen, wie sehr er das mag. Immer wenn ich das sage, bricht er mit demselben Ausruf aus: "Ach, aber wirklich, jetzt mal!" Ein paar Tage später schrieb sie, dass sie beschlossen habe, am Ende der Woche nach Paris zu fahren und dass Mr. Bantling versprochen habe, sie zu verabschieden - vielleicht sogar mit ihr bis Dover fahren würde. Henrietta fügte hinzu, dass sie in Paris warten würde, bis Isabel ankam, und sprach dabei ganz so, als ob Isabel alleine zu ihrer Kontinentalreise aufbrechen würde und machte keine Anspielungen auf Frau Touchett. In Erinnerung an sein Interesse an ihrer gemeinsamen Bekannten übermittelte unsere Heldin mehrere Passagen aus dieser Korrespondenz an Ralph, der der Karriere der Vertreterin des Interviewers mit einer kaum zu überbietenden Spannung folgte. "Es scheint mir, als würde sie sich ziemlich gut machen", sagte er. "Mit einem Ex-Lancer nach Paris zu fahren! Wenn sie etwas zum Schreiben braucht, braucht sie nur diese Episode zu beschreiben." "Es ist sicherlich nicht konventionell", antwortete Isabel, "aber wenn du meinst, dass es - zumindest was Henrietta betrifft - nicht vollkommen unschuldig ist, dann liegst du sehr falsch. Du wirst Henrietta nie verstehen." "Verzeihung, ich verstehe sie perfekt. Am Anfang habe ich sie überhaupt nicht verstanden, aber jetzt habe ich die Perspektive. Ich fürchte jedoch, dass Bantling das nicht versteht; er könnte einige Überraschungen erleben. Oh, ich verstehe Henrietta genauso gut, als hätte ich sie gemacht Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Isabels Entscheidung, Ralph zu verbieten, sie ins Hotel zu begleiten, beruhte nicht auf dem Wunsch, ihn zu demütigen, sondern vielmehr auf der Erkenntnis, dass sie seine Kraft beansprucht hat, indem sie seit ihrer Abreise nach London so viel Zeit von ihm in Anspruch genommen hat. Sie erkennt auch, dass sie sehr wenig Zeit für sich selbst hatte und sich auf einen Abend allein freut. Kurz nachdem sie ihr Zimmer erreicht, informiert sie ein Diener, dass Caspar Goodwood unten auf sie wartet. Isabel ist überrascht und verärgert darüber, dass Henrietta sie allein mit Caspar zusammengebracht hat. Im Salon sagt Caspar, dass er trotz Isabels Bitte, ein Jahr getrennt voneinander zu sein, zu unglücklich ohne sie ist, um sich fernzuhalten. Wie immer beeindruckt Isabel seine einschüchternde körperliche Präsenz und seine aggressive Haltung. Sie sagt ihm entschlossen, dass sie ihn jetzt nicht heiraten kann, dass sie keinen Platz für ihn in ihrem Leben hat und dass sie mindestens zwei Jahre reisen muss, bevor sie auch nur eine Heirat in Betracht ziehen könnte. Sie besteht darauf, ihre Unabhängigkeit zu wahren, und obwohl Caspar sagt, dass er ihre Unabhängigkeit nicht bedrohen wird - er sagt sogar, dass eine verheiratete Frau unabhängiger ist als ein behütetes Mädchen - kann sie ihm nicht ganz glauben. Caspar ist sichtlich verletzt und fürchtet, dass Isabel sich in einen anderen Mann verlieben wird. Aber er stimmt widerwillig zu, ihr zwei Jahre zu geben, obwohl sie sagt, dass sie ihm nicht verspricht, selbst dann zu heiraten. Caspar geht wütend weg; Isabel geht nach oben und bricht neben ihrem Bett zusammen und vergräbt ihr Gesicht in ihren Händen. Isabel ist von einer seltsamen Emotion überwältigt: Sie ist fast ekstatisch vor Aufregung, weil sie ihre Unabhängigkeit bewiesen hat, indem sie Caspar abgewehrt hat. Sie glaubt, dass es ein sichtbares Zeichen für ihr Engagement für ihre Unabhängigkeit ist. Als Henrietta zurückkehrt, konfrontiert Isabel sie und sagt, dass es falsch war, das Treffen mit Caspar zu arrangieren. Henrietta ignoriert Isabels Ärger und sagt, dass Isabel lächerlich handele, indem sie durch ihre romantischen Vorstellungen von Europa ihre praktischen amerikanischen Werte vergesse - sie sagt, dass wenn Isabel einen ihrer europäischen Bekannten heiratet, Henrietta keine Freundin von ihr mehr sein wird. Aber Henrietta sagt, dass sie sich dazu veranlasst fühlte, das Treffen mit Caspar zu arrangieren, weil sie Isabel liebt. Am nächsten Morgen sagt Henrietta, dass sie in London bleiben und auf ihre Einladung zum Haus von Lady Pensil warten will - sie hofft, dort ihre Erfahrungen zu nutzen, um mehr Einblick in den englischen Adel zu gewinnen, damit ihre Artikel in Amerika ein großer Erfolg werden. Ralph kommt an und erzählt Isabel, dass Mr. Touchetts Gesundheit im Abstieg ist. Er und Isabel vereinbaren, an diesem Nachmittag einen bekannten Arzt namens Sir Matthew Hope zu besuchen. Während er auf Isabel vor ihrem Besuch wartet, spricht Ralph mit Henrietta, die ihm gesteht, dass sie für Caspar arrangiert hat, ohne Isabels Wissen im Hotel aufzutauchen. Sie sagt, dass sie, wenn sie wirklich glaubte, dass Isabel nie Caspar heiraten würde, ihre Freundschaft beenden würde. Isabel und Ralph arrangieren, dass Matthew Hope nach Gardencourt kommt und kehren dann hastig dorthin zurück. Im Salon findet Isabel eine mittelalte Frau, die wunderbar Klavier spielt. Das ist Madame Merle, eine Bekannte von Mrs. Touchett; sie scheint sehr charmant und charismatisch zu sein. Isabel hat Tee mit Madame Merle und Mrs. Touchett und erfährt, dass Madame Merle eine Amerikanerin ist, deren Vater ein Marineoffizier in Europa war. Matthew Hope trifft ein, und Mrs. Touchett entschuldigt sich, um mit ihm zu sprechen. Die Nachrichten über Mr. Touchetts Gesundheit sind gut, und Ralph ist wieder guter Laune genug, um mit Isabel über Madame Merle zu sprechen, die er als sehr kluge, begabte und beliebte Frau beschreibt. Er enthüllt auch, dass Madame Merles Mann seit vielen Jahren tot ist und dass sie keine Kinder hat. Trotz der vielversprechenden Nachrichten über seine Gesundheit verschlechtert sich Mr. Touchett rapide und befürchtet, dass er bald sterben wird. Er bittet Ralph, mehr Orientierung in seinem Leben zu finden, und drängt ihn, Isabel zu heiraten. Ralph erkennt an, dass er, wenn er nicht krank wäre, sich in Isabel verlieben würde, sagt aber, dass er sie unter den gegebenen Umständen niemals heiraten könnte. Stattdessen drängt er seinen Vater dazu, sein Erbe gleichmäßig mit Isabel zu teilen und sie mit dem gewaltigen Vermögen von sechzigtausend Pfund zurückzulassen. Diese Vorstellung verwirrt Mr. Touchett, der nicht begreifen kann, warum Ralph die Hälfte seines Vermögens aufgeben möchte. Ralph erklärt, dass Isabel nicht versteht, dass sie nicht sehr viel Geld hat, und er will sie schützen und ihr ermöglichen, ihr eigenes Leben zu führen, ohne jemals wegen Geld heiraten zu müssen. Mr. Touchett stimmt zu. In den kommenden Tagen wird Isabel Madame Merle sehr nahe, die ihr fast perfekt erscheint - sie ist anmutig, talentiert und interessant, und ihre einzige Schwäche scheint zu sein, dass sie so sehr ein soziales Wesen ist, dass sie keine innere Seele zu haben scheint. Madame Merle sagt Isabel, dass Amerikaner, die in Europa leben, vertrieben sind - sie vergleicht Ralph, dessen Krankheit im Grunde genommen als Karriere und Lebensstil funktioniert, mit einem Mann, den sie in Florenz kennt, Gilbert Osmond. Osmond, sagt sie, widmet sein Leben der Malerei und der Erziehung seiner Tochter. Isabel fragt, warum Madame Merle Ralph zu missfallen scheint, aber Madame Merle antwortet, dass Ralph derjenige ist, der sie nicht mag - sie selbst fühlt nichts für Ralph. Madame Merle vertraut Isabel an, dass sie das Gefühl hat, dass ihr Leben ein Misserfolg war, weil sie keine Familie und kein Vermögen hat. Sie sagt, dass eine Person definiert wird durch das, was sie besitzt. Isabel widerspricht, aber als Madame Merle Gardencourt verlässt, verabschieden sie und Isabel sich als enge Freundinnen. Isabel korrespondiert weiterhin mit Henrietta, deren versprochene Einladung zum Herrenhaus von Lady Pensil nie Realität wird. Henrietta hofft nun, mit Mr. Bantling nach Paris zu reisen. Kurz nach dem Weggang von Madame Merle liest Isabel in der Bibliothek, als Ralph mit einer unglücklichen Nachricht hereinkommt: Mr. Touchett ist gestorben.

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: Sie steckte den Brief in ihre Tasche und bot ihrem Besucher ein Lächeln des Willkommens an, ohne Anzeichen von Verstörung zu zeigen und halb überrascht über ihre Gelassenheit. "Sie sagten mir, Sie seien hier draußen", sagte Lord Warburton, "und da niemand im Salon war und es wirklich Sie ist, die ich sehen möchte, bin ich einfach so herausgekommen." Isabel war aufgestanden; für den Moment wünschte sie, dass er sich nicht neben sie setzt. "Ich wollte gerade ins Haus gehen." "Bitte mach das nicht; es ist viel schöner hier; ich bin von Lockleigh geritten; es ist ein herrlicher Tag." Sein Lächeln war besonders freundlich und angenehm, und seine ganze Person schien diese Ausstrahlung von Wohlwollen und gutem Essen zu vermitteln, die den Charme des Mädchens bei ihrem ersten Eindruck von ihm ausgemacht hatte. Es umgab ihn wie eine Zone herrlichen Juniwetters. "Dann machen wir einen kleinen Spaziergang", sagte Isabel, die sich nicht von dem Gefühl einer Absicht ihres Besuchers lösen konnte und sowohl der Absicht ausweichen als auch ihre Neugier befriedigen wollte. Es hatte bereits einmal in ihrem Blickfeld aufgeblitzt und ihr damals, wie wir wissen, gewisse Sorgen bereitet. Diese Sorge bestand aus mehreren Elementen, von denen nicht alle unangenehm waren; sie hatte in der Tat einige Tage damit zugebracht, sie zu analysieren und den angenehmen Teil der Vorstellung von Lord Warburtons "Avancen" von dem schmerzhaften Teil zu trennen. Es könnte einigen Lesern erscheinen, dass die junge Dame sowohl voreilig als auch unnötig anspruchsvoll war; aber letztere Tatsache kann sie, wenn die Anklage zutrifft, von dem Vorwurf der voreiligen Handlung befreien. Sie war nicht begierig, sich selbst davon zu überzeugen, dass ein Landbesitzer, wie sie gehört hatte, von ihrem Charme begeistert war; die Tatsache einer Erklärung aus solch einer Quelle hinterließ wirklich mehr Fragen als Antworten. Sie hatte einen starken Eindruck davon, dass er eine "persönliche Bedeutung" hatte, und sie hatte sich damit beschäftigt, das übermittelte Bild zu untersuchen. Auf Kosten der Bestätigung ihrer Selbstgenügsamkeit muss gesagt werden, dass es Momente gab, in denen die Möglichkeit, von einer Persönlichkeit bewundert zu werden, bei ihr fast als Angriff, beinahe als Unannehmlichkeit empfunden wurde. Sie hatte noch nie eine Persönlichkeit gekannt; es hatte in ihrem Leben keine Persönlichkeiten im herkömmlichen Sinne gegeben; vermutlich gab es in ihrer Heimat überhaupt keine solchen. Wenn sie an individuelle Bedeutung dachte, stellte sie sich diese auf der Grundlage von Charakter und Witz vor - von dem, was man in einem Geist und in einem Gespräch eines Gentleman mögen könnte. Sie selbst war eine Persönlichkeit - sie konnte sich dessen nicht entziehen; und bisher hatten sich ihre Vorstellungen von einem vollständigen Bewusstsein weitgehend mit moralischen Bildern beschäftigt - Dingen, bei denen die Frage wäre, ob sie ihrer erhabenen Seele gefielen. Lord Warburton tauchte vor ihr auf, groß und strahlend, als eine Sammlung von Attributen und Kräften, die sich nicht nach dieser einfachen Regel bemessen ließen, sondern eine andere Art von Anerkennung verlangten - eine Anerkennung, die das Mädchen, mit ihrer Gewohnheit, schnell und frei zu urteilen, das Geduld aufbringen zu scheinen, die erforderlich ist. Es schien von ihr zu verlangen, etwas zu tun, was sich kein anderer, sozusagen, getraut hatte. Was sie fühlte, war, dass ein territorialer, politischer, sozialer Großgrundbesitzer beabsichtigt hatte, sie in das System zu ziehen, in dem er eher unfreundlich lebte und sich bewegte. Ein gewisses Gefühl, nicht imperativ, aber überzeugend, sagte ihr, dass sie widerstehen sollte - flüsterte ihr zu, dass sie praktisch ein eigenes System und eine eigene Bahn hatte. Es sagte ihr auch andere Dinge - Dinge, die sich sowohl widersprachen als auch bestätigten; dass ein Mädchen Schlimmeres tun könnte, als sich einem solchen Mann anzuvertrauen, und dass es sehr interessant wäre, sein System aus seiner eigenen Perspektive zu sehen; dass andererseits offensichtlich ein großer Teil davon nur als eine Komplikation jeder Stunde betrachtet werden sollte und dass selbst im Ganzen etwas Steifes und Dummes war, das es zu einer Last machte. Darüber hinaus gab es einen kürzlich aus Amerika gekommenen jungen Mann, der überhaupt kein System hatte, aber einen Charakter besaß, von dem sie sich vergeblich einreden konnte, dass der Eindruck auf ihrem Geist leicht war. Das in ihrer Tasche getragene Schreiben erinnerte sie ausreichend daran. Doch lächle ich, in der Tat, wiederhole ich, nicht über diese einfache junge Frau aus Albany, die darüber nachdachte, ob sie einen englischen Peer akzeptieren sollte, bevor er sich ihr angeboten hatte und die geneigt war zu glauben, dass sie im Großen und Ganzen besser abschneiden könnte. Sie war eine aufrichtige Person, und wenn in ihrer Weisheit viel Torheit steckte, mögen jene, die sie streng beurteilen, sich darüber freuen, dass sie später konsequent nur zu einem hohen Preis der Torheit weise geworden ist, was fast einen unmittelbaren Aufruf an die Barmherzigkeit darstellt. Lord Warburton schien bereit zu sein, zu gehen, zu sitzen oder alles zu tun, was Isabel vorschlug, und er versicherte ihr dies mit seiner üblichen Freude daran, eine gesellschaftliche Tugend auszuüben. Aber er hatte dennoch keine Kontrolle über seine Gefühle, und während er einen Moment lang schweigend neben ihr spazieren ging und sie ansah, ohne es sie wissen zu lassen, lag etwas Verlegenes in seinem Blick und seinem fehlgeleiteten Lachen. Ja, zweifellos - nachdem wir auf den Punkt eingegangen sind, können wir für einen Moment darauf zurückkommen - die Engländer sind das romantischste Volk der Welt, und Lord Warburton sollte ein Beispiel dafür geben. Er war im Begriff, einen Schritt zu tun, der all seine Freunde erstaunen und viele von ihnen verärgern würde und der oberflächlich nichts zu empfehlen hatte. Die junge Dame, die neben ihm auf dem Rasen ging, kam aus einem merkwürdigen Land jenseits des Meeres, von dem er eine Menge wusste; ihre Vorgeschichte, ihre Verbindungen waren seinem Geist sehr vage, abgesehen davon, dass sie generisch waren, und in diesem Sinne präsentierten sie sich als deutlich und unwichtig. Miss Archer hatte weder ein Vermögen noch die Art von Schönheit, die einen Mann vor der Masse rechtfertigt, und er schätzte, dass er etwa sechsundzwanzig Stunden in ihrer Gesellschaft verbracht hatte. Er hatte all das zusammengefasst - die Eigensinnigkeit des Impulses, der es abgelehnt hatte, die großzügigsten Gelegenheiten zu nutzen, um sich zu beruhigen, und das Urteil der Menschheit, wie es sich besonders in der schnell urteilenden Hälfte davon zeigte: er hatte all diese Dinge ins Auge gefasst und dann hatte er sie aus seinen Gedanken verbannt. Sie bedeuteten ihm nicht mehr als die Rose in seinem Knopfloch. Es ist das Glück eines Mannes, der den größten Teil seines Lebens ohne Anstrengung darauf verzichtet hat, seinen Freunden unangenehm zu sein, dass es, wenn der Bedarf für einen solchen Kurs kommt, nicht von ärgerlichen Verknüpfungen in Misskredit gebracht wird. "Ich hoffe, Sie hatten einen angenehmen Ritt", sagte Isabel, die die Zögern ihres Begleiters bemerkte. "Es wäre angenehm gewesen, wenn schon aus dem Grund, dass es mich hierher gebracht hat." "Hängen Sie so an Gardencourt?" fragte das Mädchen, immer sicherer, dass er irgendeinen Appell an sie richten wollte; sie wollte ihn nicht herausfordern, wenn er zögerte, und dennoch die Ruhe ihres Verstandes bewahren, wenn er fortfuhr. Es fiel ihr plötzlich ein, dass ihre Situation eine war, die sie vor ein paar Wochen noch für tief romantisch gehalten hätte: der Park eines al Das Recht einer Person in solch einer Angelegenheit wird nicht durch die Zeit gemessen, Miss Archer; es wird durch das Gefühl selbst gemessen. Wenn ich drei Monate warten würde, würde es keinen Unterschied machen; ich werde nicht sicherer sein von dem, was ich meine, als ich es heute bin. Natürlich habe ich dich nur sehr wenig gesehen, aber mein Eindruck stammt von der allerersten Stunde, als wir uns trafen. Ich habe keine Zeit verloren, ich habe mich sofort in dich verliebt. Es war Liebe auf den ersten Blick, wie die Romane sagen; ich weiß jetzt, dass das keine leere Phrase ist, und ich werde stets besser von Romanen denken. Diese beiden Tage, die ich hier verbracht habe, haben es entschieden; ich weiß nicht, ob du vermutet hast, dass ich das tat, aber ich habe- geistig gesprochen meine ich - größtmögliche Aufmerksamkeit auf dich gelegt. Nichts, was du gesagt hast, nichts, was du getan hast, ist an mir vorbeigegangen. Als du neulich nach Lockleigh kamst - oder besser gesagt, als du weggegangen bist - war ich mir absolut sicher. Trotzdem habe ich mich entschlossen, es zu überdenken und mich genau zu befragen. Das habe ich getan; all diese Tage habe ich nichts anderes getan. Ich mache keine Fehler bei solchen Dingen; ich bin ein sehr vernünftiges Wesen. Ich verliebe mich nicht leicht, aber wenn ich berührt werde, dann für immer. Für immer, Miss Archer, für immer", wiederholte Lord Warburton mit der freundlichsten, zärtlichsten, angenehmsten Stimme, die Isabel je gehört hatte, und sah sie mit Augen an, die von der Leidenschaft, die sich von den niederen Teilen der Emotion - der Hitze, der Gewalt, dem Unvernünftigen - gereinigt hatte, erfüllt waren und so hell brannten wie eine Lampe an einem windstillen Ort. Stillschweigend hatten sie, während er sprach, immer langsamer gegangen und schließlich angehalten und er nahm ihre Hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, wie wenig du mich kennst!" sagte Isabel sehr sanft. Sanft zog sie ihre Hand zurück. "Spottest du mich damit? Dass ich dich nicht besser kenne, macht mich schon genug unglücklich; das ist mein Verlust. Aber das ist es, was ich will, und es scheint mir, ich gehe den besten Weg dabei. Wenn du meine Frau wirst, dann werde ich dich kennen, und wenn ich dir all das Gute sage, das ich von dir denke, wirst du nicht behaupten können, dass es aus Unwissenheit stammt." "Wenn du mich wenig kennst, kenne ich dich noch weniger", sagte Isabel. "Du meinst, im Gegensatz zu dir, könnte ich mich bei näherem Kennenlernen nicht verbessern? Ah, das ist natürlich sehr möglich. Aber bedenke, um mit dir so zu sprechen, wie ich es tue, wie entschlossen ich sein muss, darum zu kämpfen und Zufriedenheit zu geben! Du magst mich doch einigermaßen, nicht wahr?" "Ich mag dich sehr, Lord Warburton", antwortete sie, und in diesem Moment mochte sie ihn immens. "Ich danke dir, dass du das sagst; es zeigt, dass du mich nicht als Fremden betrachtest. Ich glaube wirklich, dass ich alle anderen Beziehungen im Leben sehr gut erfüllt habe, und ich sehe nicht ein, warum ich diese nicht erfüllen sollte - in der ich mich dir anbiete - wo es doch viel wichtiger für mich ist. Frag die Leute, die mich gut kennen; ich habe Freunde, die für mich sprechen werden." "Ich brauche keine Empfehlung von deinen Freunden", sagte Isabel. "Ah, das ist herrlich von dir. Du glaubst selbst an mich." "Ganz und gar", erklärte Isabel. Innerlich strahlte sie vor Freude darüber, dass sie das tat. Das Licht in den Augen ihres Begleiters verwandelte sich in ein Lächeln, und er seufzte vor Freude. "Wenn du dich irrst, Miss Archer, dann soll ich alles verlieren, was ich besitze!" Sie fragte sich, ob er damit daran erinnern wollte, dass er reich war, und im selben Moment war sie sich sicher, dass er das nicht tat. Er dachte das, wie er selbst gesagt hätte; und tatsächlich könnte er es der Erinnerung eines jeden Gesprächspartners überlassen, besonders einer Person, der er seine Hand anbot. Isabel hatte gebetet, dass sie nicht aufgeregt sein sollte, und ihr Geist war ruhig genug, auch während sie zuhörte und sich fragte, was sie am besten sagen sollte, um sich dieser beiläufigen Kritik hinzugeben. Was sie fragen sollte, hatte sie sich gefragt? Ihr größter Wunsch war es, etwas zu sagen, das möglichst nicht weniger freundlich war als das, was er zu ihr gesagt hatte. Seine Worte hatten vollkommene Überzeugungskraft in sich, sie fühlte, dass sie ihm mysteriöserweise viel bedeutete. "Ich danke Ihnen vielmals für Ihr Angebot", erwiderte sie schließlich. "Es ehrt mich sehr." "Ach, sag das nicht!" rief er aus. "Ich fürchtete, du würdest so etwas sagen. Ich sehe nicht, was du damit zu tun hast. Ich sehe nicht, warum du mir danken solltest - ich müsste dir danken, dass du mir zuhörst: ein Mann, den du so wenig kennst, kommt mit so einem Vorschlag auf dich zu! Natürlich ist es eine große Frage; ich muss dir sagen, dass ich lieber frage als selbst antworten müsste. Aber die Art, wie du zugehört hast - oder zumindest dass du überhaupt zugehört hast - gibt mir etwas Hoffnung." "Hoffe nicht zu viel", sagte Isabel. "Oh, Miss Archer!" flüsterte ihr Begleiter, wieder lächelnd in seiner Ernsthaftigkeit, als ob eine solche Warnung vielleicht nur als Ausdruck überschäumender Fröhlichkeit, als Begeisterung angesehen werden könnte. "Würdest du sehr überrascht sein, wenn ich dich bitten würde, überhaupt nicht zu hoffen?" fragte Isabel. "Überrascht? Ich weiß nicht, was du mit Überraschung meinst. Es wäre das nicht; es wäre ein viel schlimmeres Gefühl." Isabel ging wieder weiter; sie schwieg einige Minuten lang. "Ich bin mir sehr sicher, dass meine Meinung von dir, hoch wie ich jetzt schon von dir denke, nur steigen würde, wenn ich dich gut kennenlernen würde. Aber ich bin keineswegs sicher, dass du nicht enttäuscht wärst. Und das sage ich nicht im Geringsten aus konventioneller Bescheidenheit; es ist vollkommen aufrichtig." "Ich bin bereit, das zu riskieren, Miss Archer", antwortete ihr Begleiter. "Es ist eine große Frage, wie du sagst. Es ist eine sehr schwierige Frage." "Ich erwarte natürlich nicht, dass du sie sofort beantwortest. Denk so lange darüber nach, wie nötig ist. Wenn ich durch das Warten etwas gewinnen kann, warte ich gerne lange. Denk nur daran, dass letztendlich meine allergrößte Glückseligkeit von deiner Antwort abhängt." "Es würde mir sehr Leid tun, dich in Ungewissheit zu lassen", sagte Isabel. "Oh, mach dir keine Sorgen. Ich hätte viel lieber eine gute Antwort in sechs Monaten als eine schlechte heute." "Aber es ist sehr wahrscheinlich, dass auch in sechs Monaten ich dir keine geben könnte, die du für gut halten würdest." "Warum nicht, wo du mich doch wirklich magst?" "Ah, daran darfst du niemals zweifeln", sagte Isabel. "Nun, dann sehe ich nicht, was du noch mehr verlangst!" "Es ist nicht, was ich verlange; es ist, was ich geben kann. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich zu dir passen würde; das glaube ich wirklich nicht." "Darüber brauchst du dir keine Gedanken zu machen. Das ist meine Sache. Du musst nicht royalistischer sein als der König." "Es ist nicht nur das", sagte Isabel; "aber ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob ich überhaupt jemanden heiraten möchte." "Sehr wahrscheinlich willst du das nicht. Ich Diese Worte wurden mit einer Offenheit ausgesprochen, die war wie die Umarmung starker Arme - wie der Duft, der direkt in ihr Gesicht wehte, und von seinen sauberen, atmenden Lippen, von sie wusste nicht welchen seltsamen Gärten, was für aufgeladene Luft. In diesem Moment hätte sie dafür ihren kleinen Finger gegeben, um den starken und einfachen Impuls zu verspüren, zu antworten: "Lord Warburton, es ist für mich unmöglich, es in dieser wunderbaren Welt besser zu machen, denke ich, als mich Ihrem Wohlwollen sehr dankbar anzuvertrauen." Aber obwohl sie in Bewunderung ihrer Chance verloren war, schaffte sie es, sich in den tiefsten Schatten zurückzuziehen, genau wie ein wildes, gefangenes Wesen in einem großen Käfig. Die "prächtige" Sicherheit, die ihr angeboten wurde, war nicht die größte, die sie sich vorstellen konnte. Was sie schließlich zu sagen dachte, war etwas ganz anderes - etwas, das die Notwendigkeit, ihre Krise wirklich zu bewältigen, aufschob. "Wenn ich dich bitte, heute nicht weiter darüber zu sprechen, denke nicht, dass ich gemein bin." "Sicher, sicher!" rief ihr Begleiter. "Ich würde dich nicht für die Welt langweilen." "Du hast mir viel zum Nachdenken gegeben, und ich verspreche dir, es gerecht zu werden." Das ist alles, was ich von dir verlange, natürlich - und dass du dich daran erinnerst, wie sehr mein Glück in deinen Händen liegt." Isabel hörte dieser Mahnung mit äußerstem Respekt zu, aber sie sagte nach einer Minute: "Ich muss dir sagen, dass ich darüber nachdenken werde, dir auf eine Art und Weise mitzuteilen, dass deine Bitte unmöglich ist - ohne dich unglücklich zu machen." "Es gibt keine Möglichkeit, das zu tun, Miss Archer. Ich sage nicht, dass du mich töten wirst, wenn du mich ablehnst; ich werde nicht daran sterben. Aber es wird noch schlimmer für mich sein; ich werde umsonst leben." "Eines Tages wirst du eine bessere Frau als ich heiraten." "Bitte sag das nicht", sagte Lord Warburton sehr ernst. "Das wäre weder dir noch mir gegenüber fair." "Eine schlechtere Frau dann." "Wenn es bessere Frauen als dich gibt, bevorzuge ich die schlechten. Das ist alles, was ich sagen kann", fuhr er mit derselben Ernsthaftigkeit fort. "Es gibt keine Erklärung für Geschmäcker." Seine Ernsthaftigkeit ließ sie genauso ernsthaft fühlen, und sie zeigte es, indem sie ihn noch einmal bat, das Thema vorerst fallen zu lassen. "Ich werde mich selbst mit dir unterhalten - sehr bald. Vielleicht schreibe ich dir." "Nach Belieben, ja", antwortete er. "Wie viel Zeit du auch immer brauchst, es wird mir lang erscheinen, und ich nehme an, ich werde das Beste daraus machen müssen." "Ich werde dich nicht in Ungewissheit lassen; ich möchte nur noch etwas Zeit haben, um meine Gedanken zu sammeln." Er seufzte melancholisch und stand einen Moment da, sah auf sie herab und schüttelte kurz nervös mit seiner Jagdgerte. "Weißt du, ich fürchte mich sehr - vor diesem bemerkenswerten Verstand von dir?" Der Biograf unserer Heldin kann kaum erklären, warum, aber die Frage ließ sie aufschrecken und brachte ihr eine bewusste Röte ins Gesicht. Sie sah ihn einen Moment lang an und sagte dann mit einem Ton in ihrer Stimme, der fast sein Mitleid hätte erwecken können: "Das tue ich auch, mein Herr!" rief sie eigenartigerweise aus. Sein Mitgefühl wurde jedoch nicht erregt; alles, was er von der Fähigkeit des Mitleids besaß, brauchte er zu Hause. "Ah, sei gnädig, sei gnädig", murmelte er. "Ich denke, du solltest gehen", sagte Isabel. "Ich werde dir schreiben." "Sehr gut; aber was auch immer du schreibst, ich werde zu dir kommen, weißt du." Und dann stand er nachdenklich da, seine Augen auf dem beobachtenden Gesicht von Bunchie, der den Anschein hatte, alles verstanden zu haben, was gesagt worden war, und vorgab, die Indiskretion durch ein gespieltes Interesse an den Wurzeln einer alten Eiche zu überdecken. "Es gibt noch etwas", fuhr er fort. "Du musst wissen, wenn du Lockleigh nicht magst - wenn du denkst, es ist feucht oder so etwas - dann musst du nie näher als fünfzig Meilen daran denken. Es ist nicht feucht, übrigens; ich habe das Haus gründlich untersucht; es ist völlig sicher und in Ordnung. Aber wenn du es nicht mögen solltest, musst du nicht daran denken, darin zu leben. Darin gibt es überhaupt keine Schwierigkeiten; es gibt genügend Häuser. Ich dachte, ich würde es nur erwähnen; manche Leute mögen keinen Wassergraben, weißt du. Auf Wiedersehen." "Ich verehre einen Wassergraben", sagte Isabel. "Auf Wiedersehen." Er streckte die Hand aus, und sie gab ihm ihre Hand für einen Moment - einen Moment, der lang genug war, um seinen hübschen entblößten Kopf zu beugen und sie zu küssen. Dann, immer noch von seiner beherrschten Emotion bewegt, ging er schnell davon. Offensichtlich war er sehr aufgewühlt. Auch Isabel selbst war aufgewühlt, aber sie war nicht so betroffen, wie sie es sich vorgestellt hätte. Was sie fühlte, war keine große Verantwortung, keine große Schwierigkeit der Wahl; es schien ihr, es habe bei der Frage keine Wahl gegeben. Sie konnte Lord Warburton nicht heiraten; die Idee unterstützte kein aufgeklärtes Vorurteil zugunsten der freien Erkundung des Lebens, das sie bisher unterhalten hatte oder jetzt fähig war, zu unterhalten. Sie musste ihm das schreiben, sie musste ihn überzeugen, und diese Pflicht war vergleichsweise einfach. Aber was sie beunruhigte, in dem Sinne, dass es sie mit Staunen erfüllte, war diese Tatsache selbst, dass es sie so wenig kostete, eine großartige "Chance" abzulehnen. Mit welchen Vorbehalten auch immer, Lord Warburton hatte ihr eine große Gelegenheit geboten; die Situation mochte Unannehmlichkeiten mit sich bringen, möglicherweise erdrückende, möglicherweise einschränkende Elemente enthalten, möglicherweise wirklich nur ein betäubendes Schmerzmittel sein; aber sie tat ihrem Geschlecht kein Unrecht, wenn sie glaubte, dass neunzehn von zwanzig Frauen sich ohne einen Stich damit arrangiert hätten. Warum also sollte es sich auch ihr nicht unwiderstehlich aufzwingen? Wer war sie, was war sie, dass sie sich für überlegen hielt? Welche Ansicht vom Leben, welches Schicksalsdesign, welches Glückskonzept hatte sie, das vorgab, größer zu sein als diese großen, diese sagenhaften Gelegenheiten? Wenn sie so etwas nicht tun würde, dann müsste sie Großes tun, sie müsste etwas Größeres tun. Die arme Isabel fand immer wieder Gründe, sich selbst zu ermahnen, nicht zu stolz zu sein, und nichts konnte ehrlicher sein als ihr Gebet, von einer solchen Gefahr befreit zu werden: Die Isolation und Einsamkeit des Stolzes hatten in ihrem Geist den Schrecken eines Wüstenplatzes. Wenn Stolz es war, der sie daran hinderte, Lord Warburton anzunehmen, dann war eine solche Betise seltsam fehl am Platz; und sie war sich ihrer Zuneigung zu ihm so bewusst, dass sie sich wagte, sich selbst zu versichern, dass es die Sanftheit und die feine Intelligenz der Sympathie waren. Sie mochte ihn zu sehr, um ihn zu heiraten, das war die Wahrheit; etwas versicherte ihr, dass es irgendwo einen Fehler in der leuchtenden Logik der Proposition gab - so, wie er es sah - auch wenn sie ihren allerfeinsten Finger darauf legte; und einem Mann, der so viel anbot, eine Frau mit einer Tendenz zur Kritik aufzuerlegen, wäre eine besonders verachtenswerte Tat. Sie hatte ihm versprochen, seine Frage zu erwägen, und als sie nachdem er sie verlassen hatte, zurück zur Bank ging, wo er sie gefunden hatte und sich in Gedanken verlor, hätte es scheinen können, als würde sie ihr Gelübde halten. Aber das war nicht der Fall; sie fragte sich, ob sie nicht eine kalte, harte, prüde Person sei, und als sie schließlich aufstand und recht schnell zum Haus zurückging, fühlte sie sich, wie sie ihrem Freund gesagt hatte, wirklich vor sich selbst erschrocken. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Isabel ist sich bewusst, dass Lord Warburton mit einer gewissen Absicht gekommen ist, und sie ist neugierig auf diese Absicht, gleichzeitig aber möchte sie dieser Absicht entgehen. Obwohl der Erzähler uns das nicht mitteilt, ist offensichtlich, dass Lord Warburton kurz davor steht, ihr einen Heiratsantrag zu machen. Sie empfindet Lord Warburton als "vor ihr aufragend" und er scheint etwas von ihr zu verlangen, als würde er sie in den Orbit des Systems ziehen, in dem er lebt. Ihr Instinkt sagt ihr jedoch, dass sie widerstehen sollte, vor allem, weil sie ein eigenes System hat. Sie bemerkt auch, dass Caspar Goodwood ein Mann ohne jedes System ist, obwohl er bestimmte konkrete Absichten mit ihr hat. Lord Warburton scheint derweil etwas verlegen zu sein. Er stand kurz davor, etwas zu tun, das all seine Landsleute schockieren würde, obwohl er erst seit 26 Stunden in Isabels Gesellschaft ist. Lord Warburton sagt ihr, dass er sie liebt und dass das für immer so bleiben wird. Isabel behauptet, dass er sie überhaupt nicht kennt. Er sagt ihr, dass er sie, wenn sie seine Frau ist, kennenlernen wird. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie an ihn glaubt und nicht die Empfehlung seiner Freunde braucht, um dies zu tun. Aber dann bedankt sie sich für sein Angebot. Er sagt ihr, dass ihn dies hoffen lässt, dass sie ihn irgendwann akzeptieren wird. Sie sagt ihm, nicht zu hoffen. Sie ist sich sicher, dass ihre Meinung von ihm nur steigen kann, aber dass seine Meinung von ihr mit der Zeit nur sinken wird. Isabel sagt ihm, dass sie ihn ablehnt, nicht weil sie ihn nicht mag, sondern wegen dem, was sie selbst in die Ehe einbringen kann. Außerdem ist sie sich nicht sicher, ob sie überhaupt jemanden heiraten möchte. Isabel hat das Gefühl, dass sie ihren kleinen Finger geben würde, um den Impuls zu haben, Lord Warburtons Antrag anzunehmen; sie wünscht sich, glauben zu können, dass es die beste Möglichkeit ist, die sie haben könnte. Allerdings fühlt sie sich wie ein "wildes, gefangenes Wesen in einem riesigen Käfig", wenn ihr diese Gelegenheit geboten wird. Diese Gelegenheit war nicht die größte, die sie sich hätte vorstellen können. Isabel sagt ihm schließlich, dass er heute nicht mehr darüber sprechen sollte und dass sie nur Zeit braucht, um ihm mitzuteilen, dass das, was er verlangt, unmöglich ist. Lord Warburton sagt ihr, dass er ohne Ziel leben wird, wenn sie ihn ablehnt, und sie protestiert, dass er eine bessere Frau als sie heiraten wird. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie nur einen klaren Kopf bekommen möchte, und er antwortet, dass er Angst vor ihrem "bemerkenswerten" Verstand hat. Sie erwidert: "Das geht mir genauso, mein Herr." Als er geht, fühlt Isabel, dass es keine große schwierige Wahl gab, weil sie ihn einfach nicht hätte heiraten können. Die Idee unterstützte keinerlei aufgeklärte Vorurteile zugunsten der freien Erforschung des Lebens, die sie bisher gehegt hatte oder nun in der Lage war, zu hegen.

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: The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow's hand, and his master said, "Well done!" which, from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him, he had only been struck with a "queer" idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah! As for the young Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing, and now, wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the howdahs. The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain. They made a halt at seven o'clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete prostration. The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off. Sir Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account. But he was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered throughout the county, and would, despite the English police, recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would only be safe by quitting India for ever. Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter. The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o'clock, and, the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg would thus be able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong. The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station, whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God, one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract pilgrims from every part of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma's agency, it descends to the earth. Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly, crusty Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then returned triumphantly to the station. The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression. When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus: "Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor." It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda, that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up. The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master owed to the guide's devotion. He had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also, must be disposed of. What should be done with the elephant, which had been so dearly purchased? Phileas Fogg had already determined this question. "Parsee," said he to the guide, "you have been serviceable and devoted. I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like to have this elephant? He is yours." The guide's eyes glistened. "Your honour is giving me a fortune!" cried he. "Take him, guide," returned Mr. Fogg, "and I shall still be your debtor." "Good!" exclaimed Passepartout. "Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave and faithful beast." And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several lumps of sugar, saying, "Here, Kiouni, here, here." The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which replaced him gently on the ground. Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles, and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and with travellers who were quite strangers to her! Her companions first set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartout's rash idea. Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout, abashed, kept repeating that "it wasn't worth telling." Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips. Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with terror. Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda's mind, and offered, in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might remain safely until the affair was hushed up--an offer which she eagerly and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation, who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast. At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which, like Mahomet's tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth; though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of desolation to the place, as the train entered it. Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty's destination, the troops he was rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city. He bade adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope that he would come that way again in a less original but more profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand. The parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis, betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty shake of the hand from the gallant general. The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage the travellers had glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still thickly-leaved forests. Elephants were bathing in the waters of the sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators. What would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and the faithful dwelling upon its borders? The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers could scarcely discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares, the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries, edgetool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke heavenward. Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour, Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his country's flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness. Calcutta was reached at seven in the morning, and the packet left for Hong Kong at noon; so that Phileas Fogg had five hours before him. According to his journal, he was due at Calcutta on the 25th of October, and that was the exact date of his actual arrival. He was therefore neither behind-hand nor ahead of time. The two days gained between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, in the journey across India. But it is not to be supposed that Phileas Fogg regretted them. Kannst du eine passende 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.

In dem Phileas Fogg absteigt die gesamte Länge des wunderschönen Tals des Ganges, ohne jemals daran zu denken, es zu sehen, ist Passepartout über seinen Erfolg erfreut und sein Herr ist glücklich mit ihm. Er ist der Held der Stunde. Die indische Frau ist immer noch unter Drogen gesetzt und bewusstlos. Sie wird stundenlang durch den Dschungel getragen, bevor sie geweckt werden kann. Sir Francis sagt, sie sei in Gefahr, wenn sie in Indien bleibt. In Allahabad nehmen sie den Zug nach Kalkutta wieder auf. Sie werden in der Lage sein, das Schiff, das am 25. Oktober in Kalkutta nach Hongkong abfährt, zu erreichen. Passepartout geht raus, um der Prinzessin europäische Kleidung zu kaufen. Als Aouda das Bewusstsein wiedererlangt, wird sie vom Erzähler als schön und von sanfter, süßer Natur gelobt. Sie spricht perfektes Englisch. Fogg gibt den Elefanten Kiouni dem Führer. Kiouni nimmt Passepartout in seinem Rüssel auf, als Abschiedsgruß. Sir Francis begleitet sie bis Benares und erklärt der Prinzessin, wie sie gerettet wurde. Sie bedankt sich bei allen mit großer Emotion und Angst, und Fogg, der versteht, wie sich die Prinzessin fühlt, bietet an, sie mit nach Hongkong zu nehmen, einer englischen Stadt. In Benares verlässt sie der Brigadegeneral und wünscht ihnen viel Erfolg auf ihrer Reise. Der Zug fährt durch das Tal des Ganges, mit sichtbaren Dschungeln und Bergen, Elefanten im heiligen Fluss und Indern, die ihre Riten im Wasser ausführen. Als Fogg Kalkutta erreicht, ist er genau nach Fahrplan, weder vor noch zurück.

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: Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her in this wise. Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and 'fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her 'scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo. She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her 'vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent. She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx. They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women's Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper. It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it? That's a first-rate story." Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall. "Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion. "I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash. "I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, they say." and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale. "Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest. "No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed." "Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page. "Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it." Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded on paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder. She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when 'genius took to burning'. Jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild romances for _The Spread Eagle_. Her experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth. Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story. A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way... "You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money." "I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye. "Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo promptly. To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her 'rubbish' turned into comforts for them all. The Duke's Daughter paid the butcher's bill, A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns. Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny. Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly admired. "Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council. "Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow. "It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money." "Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it. I've been fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it." "I wouldn't leave a word out of it. You'll spoil it if you do, for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written. "But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story'," interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher's note. "Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject. "Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?" "I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture 'soon'. So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody. Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate. Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover. "You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. "This man says, 'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.' 'All is sweet, pure, and healthy.'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.' (I know better than that), and the next asserts that 'Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged." Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's best education, and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received. "Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly, "and I've got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'll comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another." Kannst du eine passende 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.

Jo ging zu einem Vortrag, um einen Redner zu hören, und während sie dort war, gab ihr ein Junge eine Geschichte zum Lesen. Jo findet die Handlung nicht besonders gut, aber der Junge erzählt ihr, dass die Geschichten sehr beliebt sind. Jo sieht einen Wettbewerb in der Zeitung und reicht ihre eigene Geschichte dafür ein. Sie behält den Eintrag geheim und sechs Wochen später erhält sie einen Scheck über hundert Dollar. Mit dem Geld bezahlt sie Marmee und der immer noch kränkelnden Beth, um für ein paar Monate ans Meer zu ziehen. Jo schreibt weiter und verdient mehr Geld und trägt so zur Unterstützung ihrer Familie bei. Während dieser Zeit arbeitet sie auch mit großer Begeisterung an ihrem Roman, den sie schließlich fertigstellt. Sie reicht ihn bei Verlagen ein und erhält viele Kommentare dazu. Nachdem sie es mit ihrer Familie besprochen hat, entscheidet sie sich, ihren Roman zu überarbeiten, um ihn veröffentlichen zu können. Sie erhält dreihundert Dollar und gemischte Kritiken. Sie lernt viel daraus und beschließt, dass sie sofort mit einem neuen Roman beginnen wird, sobald sie bereit ist.

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: Chapter X. Crown and Tiara. Aramis was the first to descend from the carriage; he held the door open for the young man. He saw him place his foot on the mossy ground with a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the carriage with an unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor prisoner was unaccustomed to walk on God's earth. It was the 15th of August, about eleven o'clock at night; thick clouds, portending a tempest, overspread the heavens, and shrouded every light and prospect underneath their heavy folds. The extremities of the avenues were imperceptibly detached from the copse, by a lighter shadow of opaque gray, which, upon closer examination, became visible in the midst of the obscurity. But the fragrance which ascended from the grass, fresher and more penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around him; the warm and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time for many years past; the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country, spoke to the prince in so seductive a language, that notwithstanding the preternatural caution, we would almost say dissimulation of his character, of which we have tried to give an idea, he could not restrain his emotion, and breathed a sigh of ecstasy. Then, by degrees, he raised his aching head and inhaled the softly scented air, as it was wafted in gentle gusts to his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest, as if to control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious draughts of that mysterious air which interpenetrates at night the loftiest forests. The sky he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the universal freshness--was not all this reality? Was not Aramis a madman to suppose that he had aught else to dream of in this world? Those exciting pictures of country life, so free from fears and troubles, the ocean of happy days that glitters incessantly before all young imaginations, are real allurements wherewith to fascinate a poor, unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison cares, emaciated by the stifling air of the Bastile. It was the picture, it will be remembered, drawn by Aramis, when he offered the thousand pistoles he had with him in the carriage to the prince, and the enchanted Eden which the deserts of Bas-Poitou hid from the eyes of the world. Such were the reflections of Aramis as he watched, with an anxiety impossible to describe, the silent progress of the emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually becoming more and more absorbed in his meditations. The young prince was offering up an inward prayer to Heaven, to be divinely guided in this trying moment, upon which his life or death depended. It was an anxious time for the bishop of Vannes, who had never before been so perplexed. His iron will, accustomed to overcome all obstacles, never finding itself inferior or vanquished on any occasion, to be foiled in so vast a project from not having foreseen the influence which a view of nature in all its luxuriance would have on the human mind! Aramis, overwhelmed by anxiety, contemplated with emotion the painful struggle that was taking place in Philippe's mind. This suspense lasted the whole ten minutes which the young man had requested. During this space of time, which appeared an eternity, Philippe continued gazing with an imploring and sorrowful look towards the heavens; Aramis did not remove the piercing glance he had fixed on Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his head. His thought returned to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his brow contracted, his mouth assuming an expression of undaunted courage; again his looks became fixed, but this time they wore a worldly expression, hardened by covetousness, pride, and strong desire. Aramis's look immediately became as soft as it had before been gloomy. Philippe, seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed: "Lead me to where the crown of France is to be found." "Is this your decision, monseigneur?" asked Aramis. "It is." "Irrevocably so?" Philippe did not even deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the bishop, as if to ask him if it were possible for a man to waver after having once made up his mind. "Such looks are flashes of the hidden fire that betrays men's character," said Aramis, bowing over Philippe's hand; "you will be great, monseigneur, I will answer for that." "Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with you; in the first place the dangers, or the obstacles we may meet with. That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend imposing on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d'Herblay." "The conditions, monseigneur?" "Doubtless. You will not allow so mere a trifle to stop me, and you will not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no interest in this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the truth--" "I will do so, monseigneur. Once a king--" "When will that be?" "To-morrow evening--I mean in the night." "Explain yourself." "When I shall have asked your highness a question." "Do so." "I sent to your highness a man in my confidence with instructions to deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will thoroughly acquaint your highness with the different persons who compose and will compose your court." "I perused those notes." "Attentively?" "I know them by heart." "And understand them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastile? In a week's time it will not be requisite to further question a mind like yours. You will then be in full possession of liberty and power." "Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar representing his lesson to his master." "We will begin with your family, monseigneur." "My mother, Anne of Austria! all her sorrows, her painful malady. Oh! I know her--I know her." "Your second brother?" asked Aramis, bowing. "To these notes," replied the prince, "you have added portraits so faithfully painted, that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., loved a little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in disgrace." "You will have to be careful with regard to the watchfulness of the latter," said Aramis; "she is sincerely attached to the actual king. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived." "She is fair, has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze reveals her identity. She halts slightly in her gait; she writes a letter every day, to which I have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan." "Do you know the latter?" "As if I saw him, and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as those I composed in answer to his." "Very good. Do you know your ministers?" "Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent enough, his hair covering his forehead, a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet." "As for the latter, we need not disturb ourselves about him." "No; because necessarily you will not require me to exile him, I suppose?" Aramis, struck with admiration at the remark, said, "You will become very great, monseigneur." "You see," added the prince, "that I know my lesson by heart, and with Heaven's assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong." "You have still an awkward pair of eyes to deal with, monseigneur." "Yes, the captain of the musketeers, M. d'Artagnan, your friend." "Yes; I can well say 'my friend.'" "He who escorted La Valliere to Le Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk, cooped in an iron box, to Charles II.; he who so faithfully served my mother; he to whom the crown of France owes so much that it owes everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?" "Never, sire. D'Artagnan is a man to whom, at a certain given time, I will undertake to reveal everything; but be on your guard with him, for if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will certainly be killed or taken. He is a bold and enterprising man." "I will think it over. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish to be done with regard to him?" "One moment more, I entreat you, monseigneur; and forgive me, if I seem to fail in respect to questioning you further." "It is your duty to do so, nay, more than that, your right." "Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting another friend of mine." "M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is concerned, his interests are more than safe." "No; it is not he whom I intended to refer to." "The Comte de la Fere, then?" "And his son, the son of all four of us." "That poor boy who is dying of love for La Valliere, whom my brother so disloyally bereft him of? Be easy on that score. I shall know how to rehabilitate his happiness. Tell me only one thing, Monsieur d'Herblay; do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom, or is it one of the laws of the human heart?" "A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere, finishes by forgetting the fault or crime of the woman he loves; but I do not yet know whether Raoul will be able to forget." "I will see after that. Have you anything further to say about your friend?" "No; that is all." "Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?" "To keep him on as surintendant, in the capacity in which he has hitherto acted, I entreat you." "Be it so; but he is the first minister at present." "Not quite so." "A king, ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of course, require a first minister of state." "Your majesty will require a friend." "I have only one, and that is yourself." "You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so zealous for your glory." "You shall be my first minister of state." "Not immediately, monseigneur, for that would give rise to too much suspicion and astonishment." "M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de Medici, was simply bishop of Lucon, as you are bishop of Vannes." "I perceive that your royal highness has studied my notes to great advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight." "I am perfectly aware that M. de Richelieu, by means of the queen's protection, soon became cardinal." "It would be better," said Aramis, bowing, "that I should not be appointed first minister until your royal highness has procured my nomination as cardinal." "You shall be nominated before two months are past, Monsieur d'Herblay. But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if you were to limit yourself to that." "In that case, I have something still further to hope for, monseigneur." "Speak! speak!" "M. Fouquet will not keep long at the head of affairs, he will soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, consistently, I mean, with all his labors, thanks to the youthfulness he still retains; but this protracted youth will disappear at the approach of the first serious annoyance, or at the first illness he may experience. We will spare him the annoyance, because he is an agreeable and noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid all M. Fouquet's debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M. Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of poets and painters,--we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and I have become your royal highness's prime minister, I shall be able to think of my own interests and yours." The young man looked at his interrogator. "M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now, was very much to blame in the fixed idea he had of governing France alone, unaided. He allowed two kings, King Louis XIII. and himself, to be seated on the self-same throne, whilst he might have installed them more conveniently upon two separate and distinct thrones." "Upon two thrones?" said the young man, thoughtfully. "In fact," pursued Aramis, quietly, "a cardinal, prime minister of France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most Christian Majesty the King of France, a cardinal to whom the king his master lends the treasures of the state, his army, his counsel, such a man would be acting with twofold injustice in applying these mighty resources to France alone. Besides," added Aramis, "you will not be a king such as your father was, delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all things wearied; you will be a king governing by your brain and by your sword; you will have in the government of the state no more than you will be able to manage unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides, our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but in any degree affected, by a secret thought. I shall have given you the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter. Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand should joined in ties of intimate association the hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V., who owned two-thirds of the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will be able to reach to half your stature. I have no alliances, I have no predilections; I will not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The whole universe is our own; for me the minds of men, for you their bodies. And as I shall be the first to die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of my plan, monseigneur?" "I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. Monsieur d'Herblay, you shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you please." "It is useless. Never shall I act except in such a manner that you will be the gainer; I shall never ascend the ladder of fortune, fame, or position, until I have first seen you placed upon the round of the ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts in the world are easily violated because the interests included in them incline more to one side than to another. With us, however, this will never be the case; I have no need of any guarantees." "And so--my dear brother--will disappear?" "Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest a crowned sovereign, he will awake a captive. Alone you will rule from that moment, and you will have no interest dearer and better than that of keeping me near you." "I believe it. There is my hand on it, Monsieur d'Herblay." "Allow me to kneel before you, sire, most respectfully. We will embrace each other on the day we shall have upon our temples, you the crown, I the tiara." "Still embrace me this very day also, and be, for and towards me, more than great, more than skillful, more than sublime in genius; be kind and indulgent--be my father!" Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to his voice; he fancied he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto unknown; but this impression was speedily removed. "His father!" he thought; "yes, his Holy Father." And they resumed their places in the carriage, which sped rapidly along the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Aramis ist voller Spannung, während er den Prinzen bei seiner Entscheidung ringen sieht. Schließlich stimmt der Prinz zu und fragt Aramis, was er im Gegenzug erwartet, um ihn auf den Thron von Frankreich zu bringen. Aramis entscheidet sich, dieses Gespräch auf später zu verschieben. Stattdessen möchte Aramis Philippe darauf vorbereiten, Louis im Hofleben zu verkörpern. Philippe beweist, dass er alle Notizen, die Aramis ihm geschickt hatte, auswendig gelernt hat. Als König hat Philippe Pläne für jeden: Er verspricht, La Vallière in die Arme von Raoul zurückzubringen. In zwei Monaten wird Philippe versprechen, dass Aramis zum Kardinal ernannt wird. Er erkundigt sich nach Aramis' anderen Ambitionen. Aramis argumentiert, dass der größte Fehler von Kardinal Richelieu darin bestand, dass er zwei Könige von Frankreich - Richelieu und Louis - versuchte, als eine Einheit regieren zu lassen. Es ist viel besser, zwei getrennte Throne zu haben. Aramis sagt zu Philippe: "Ich werde dir den Thron von Frankreich gegeben haben, du wirst mir den Thron von St. Peter verleihen." Mit anderen Worten, Aramis möchte Papst werden. Er ist überzeugt, dass Philippe über die Körper der Menschen herrschen kann, während Aramis ihre Seelen übernimmt. Philippe stimmt diesem Plan zu. Aramis erzählt Philippe, dass Louis aus seinem Bett entfernt wird, während er schläft, und dass Philippe seinen Platz einnehmen wird. Aramis bittet darum, vor Philippe auf die Knie zu fallen, sagt aber, dass sie sich umarmen sollten. Er nennt Aramis seinen heiligen Vater. Die Kutsche setzt sich in Bewegung und fährt nach Vaux.

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: The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand. 'What's the matter now?' said the man carelessly. 'A young fogle-hunter,' replied the man who had Oliver in charge. 'Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?' inquired the man with the keys. 'Yes, I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I--I would rather not press the case.' 'Must go before the magistrate now, sir,' replied the man. 'His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!' This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges--the word is worth noting--in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two. The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance. 'There is something in that boy's face,' said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; 'something that touches and interests me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like--Bye the bye,' exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, 'Bless my soul!--where have I seen something like that look before?' After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. 'No,' said the old gentleman, shaking his head; 'it must be imagination.' He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven. But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book. He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang. The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, 'That is my name and address, sir.' He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. 'Who are you?' said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card. 'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. 'Who is this fellow?' 'My name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, 'my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench.' Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. 'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, 'what's this fellow charged with?' 'He's not charged at all, your worship,' replied the officer. 'He appears against this boy, your worship.' His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. 'Appears against the boy, does he?' said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. 'Swear him!' 'Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed--' 'Hold your tongue, sir!' said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. 'I will not, sir!' replied the old gentleman. 'Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!' said Mr. Fang. 'You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!' 'What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. 'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'll not hear another word. Swear him.' Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. 'Now,' said Fang, 'what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?' 'I was standing at a bookstall--' Mr. Brownlow began. 'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang. 'Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?' The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. 'Are there any witnesses?' inquired Mr. Fang. 'None, your worship,' replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion. 'Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by--' By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard--accidently, of course. With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow. 'He has been hurt already,' said the old gentleman in conclusion. 'And I fear,' he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, 'I really fear that he is ill.' 'Oh! yes, I dare say!' said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. 'Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?' Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round. 'What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?' demanded Mr. Fang. 'Officer, what's his name?' This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess. 'He says his name's Tom White, your worship,' said the kind-hearted thief-taker. 'Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang. 'Very well, very well. Where does he live?' 'Where he can, your worship,' replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver's answer. 'Has he any parents?' inquired Mr. Fang. 'He says they died in his infancy, your worship,' replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply. At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water. 'Stuff and nonsense!' said Mr. Fang: 'don't try to make a fool of me.' 'I think he really is ill, your worship,' remonstrated the officer. 'I know better,' said Mr. Fang. 'Take care of him, officer,' said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; 'he'll fall down.' 'Stand away, officer,' cried Fang; 'let him, if he likes.' Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir. 'I knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. 'Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that.' 'How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?' inquired the clerk in a low voice. 'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang. 'He stands committed for three months--hard labour of course. Clear the office.' The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench. 'Stop, stop! don't take him away! For Heaven's sake stop a moment!' cried the new comer, breathless with haste. Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty's subjects, expecially of the poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press.[Footnote: Or were virtually, then.] Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder. 'What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!' cried Mr. Fang. 'I _will_ speak,' cried the man; 'I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.' The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up. 'Swear the man,' growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. 'Now, man, what have you got to say?' 'This,' said the man: 'I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.' Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery. 'Why didn't you come here before?' said Fang, after a pause. 'I hadn't a soul to mind the shop,' replied the man. 'Everybody who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I've run here all the way.' 'The prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquired Fang, after another pause. 'Yes,' replied the man. 'The very book he has in his hand.' 'Oh, that book, eh?' said Fang. 'Is it paid for?' 'No, it is not,' replied the man, with a smile. 'Dear me, I forgot all about it!' exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently. 'A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!' said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. 'I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!' 'D--n me!' cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, 'd--n me! I'll--' 'Clear the office!' said the magistrate. 'Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!' The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame. 'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. 'Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!' A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other. 'May I accompany you?' said the book-stall keeper, looking in. 'Bless me, yes, my dear sir,' said Mr. Brownlow quickly. 'I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There's no time to lose.' The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Offizier sperrt Oliver in eine Gefängniszelle, bis er vor Mr. Fang, dem Bezirksrichter, erscheinen kann. Mr. Brownlow, der Herr, protestiert, dass er keine Anzeige erstatten möchte. Er glaubt, etwas in Olivers Gesicht zu erkennen, kann aber nicht genau sagen, was es ist. Oliver verliert im Gerichtssaal das Bewusstsein und Mr. Fang verurteilt ihn zu drei Monaten Zwangsarbeit. Der Besitzer des Bücherstandes stürzt herein und erzählt Mr. Fang, dass zwei andere Jungen das Verbrechen begangen haben. Oliver wird von allen Anklagen freigesprochen. Brownlow, der den schwächlichen jungen Oliver bemitleidet, nimmt ihn in eine Kutsche und fährt davon.

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: HETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon--more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an ill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided jerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at all comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle--secretly bought at Treddleston--and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the candles; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin--such as I feel sure heroines must generally wear--but of a dark greenish cotton texture. Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope--prettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase--indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly--and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round her, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings she had in her ears--oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored!--and put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass and gilding, but if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow--they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work that ladies never did. Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much--no one else had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape the thought--yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr. James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he had been young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would be! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby; only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one--she didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage--or rather, they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her ears. How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a sweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her great dark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them. Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he likes--that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and movements are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round things will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic and the women all lovely and loving. It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only because she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman--if you ever COULD, without hard head-breaking demonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it. Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and if he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly fond of him. God made these dear women so--and it is a convenient arrangement in case of sickness. After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but we don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now--what can be more exquisite? I find it impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while she walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of every picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne is very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is admiring and envying her--especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the future--any loving thought of her second parents--of the children she had helped to tend--of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life behind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers--perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her--she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her life--as bad as buzzing insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again; they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambs WERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word "hatching," if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston Fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the "dear deceit" of beauty, so it is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband. "She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was dying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear cherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an' crying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the child ever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble." "Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young gells are like the unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by, but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's got a good husband and children of her own." "I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi' the butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive to do my part by a niece o' yours--an' THAT I've done, for I've taught her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often enough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin' pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having roast meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one, another's burnin'." Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in her scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her mother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's. Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peaceful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a long time to come; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms. She thought of all the dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away from them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed on her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least ten minutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on Hetty--that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before her--the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother--and her mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in his brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper pity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page: "And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck and kissed him." That was enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened immediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me come in, Hetty?" and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider and let her in. What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were nearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead. "I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and I longed to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?" "Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her ear-rings. Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details. "Dear Hetty," she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you may some day be in trouble--trouble is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?" "Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. "But why should you think I shall be in trouble? Do you know of anything?" Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered, "Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies; we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you in the evil day." Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's anxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to cry. It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn the art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why can't you let me be?" Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night." She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled her heart. As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again--her waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Die beiden Schlafzimmer Hetty und Dinah haben nebeneinander auf der zweiten Etage des Hauses Zimmer. Hetty hat sich in ihrem Zimmer eingeschlossen und zwei Kerzen herausgenommen, um sich in einem alten fleckigen Spiegel betrachten zu können. Sie bewundert sich jetzt mehr, da Captain Donnithorne in sie verliebt ist. Sie nimmt etwas Schmuck heraus, den sie vor ihrer Tante versteckt hat, und probiert billige Ohrringe und ein Stück zerrissene Spitze an. Sie kämmt ihr Haar und stylt es wie das Bild einer Dame, das sie gesehen hat. Sie ist sicher, dass Arthur nicht möchte, dass sie arbeitet, sondern sie heiraten und eine Dame aus ihr machen will. Sie stellt sich vor, wie sie in einer Kutsche sitzt und was Mary Burge denken wird. Immer wieder vor dem Spiegel auf und ab gehend, lässt sie ihren Handspiegel mit einem Knall fallen. Der Erzähler wechselt geschickt von Hettys Fantasien zu Adams Gedanken. Adam weiß, dass Hetty eine liebende Ehefrau und Mutter wäre. Kein Mann glaubt, dass eine hübsche Frau etwas anderes als gut sein könnte. Auch Arthur hält Hetty für eine liebevolle Person. Sicherlich verbirgt sich in ihren tiefgrauen Augen eine tiefe Seele. Hetty ist jedoch wie eine Pflanze mit seichten Wurzeln. Sie mag weder ihren Onkel noch ihre Cousinen. Sie mag keine Kinder. Nur eine andere Frau hätte Hettys kaltes Herz erkennen können - ihre Tante Poyser warnt ihren Mann davor, dass Hetty ein Pfau ist. Herr Poyser sagt, sie sei nur unreifes Korn. Dinah jedoch hat Bedenken. Während sie in einem Gebet göttlicher Liebe versunken ist, hört sie Hettys Spiegel auf den Boden fallen, und ihre Vorstellungskraft sagt ihr, dass Hetty in Schwierigkeiten und Kummer geraten wird. Sie öffnet ihre Bibel zur Orientierung und beschließt dann, mit Hetty zu sprechen. Hetty ist genervt, dass sie bei ihren Eitelkeiten unterbrochen wird; sie hat immer noch die Ohrringe in den Ohren. Dinah versucht Hetty zu warnen, dass sie Leid in ihrem Leben haben könnte, und sagt ihr, dass sie immer ihre Freundin sein werde. Hetty ist von Dinahs Warnung verängstigt, lehnt sie jedoch ab. Dinah geht in ihr Zimmer und betet für Hetty.

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: HETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon--more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an ill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided jerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at all comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle--secretly bought at Treddleston--and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the candles; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin--such as I feel sure heroines must generally wear--but of a dark greenish cotton texture. Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope--prettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase--indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly--and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round her, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings she had in her ears--oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored!--and put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass and gilding, but if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow--they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work that ladies never did. Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much--no one else had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape the thought--yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr. James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he had been young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would be! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby; only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one--she didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage--or rather, they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her ears. How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a sweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her great dark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them. Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he likes--that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and movements are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round things will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic and the women all lovely and loving. It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only because she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman--if you ever COULD, without hard head-breaking demonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it. Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and if he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly fond of him. God made these dear women so--and it is a convenient arrangement in case of sickness. After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but we don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now--what can be more exquisite? I find it impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while she walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of every picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne is very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is admiring and envying her--especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the future--any loving thought of her second parents--of the children she had helped to tend--of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life behind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers--perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her--she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her life--as bad as buzzing insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again; they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambs WERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word "hatching," if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston Fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the "dear deceit" of beauty, so it is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband. "She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was dying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear cherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an' crying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the child ever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble." "Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young gells are like the unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by, but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's got a good husband and children of her own." "I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi' the butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive to do my part by a niece o' yours--an' THAT I've done, for I've taught her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often enough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin' pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having roast meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one, another's burnin'." Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in her scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her mother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's. Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peaceful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a long time to come; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms. She thought of all the dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away from them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed on her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least ten minutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on Hetty--that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before her--the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother--and her mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in his brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper pity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page: "And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck and kissed him." That was enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened immediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me come in, Hetty?" and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider and let her in. What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were nearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead. "I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and I longed to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?" "Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her ear-rings. Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details. "Dear Hetty," she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you may some day be in trouble--trouble is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?" "Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. "But why should you think I shall be in trouble? Do you know of anything?" Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered, "Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies; we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you in the evil day." Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's anxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to cry. It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn the art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why can't you let me be?" Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night." She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled her heart. As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again--her waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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In ihrem Zimmer holt Hetty heimlich einige Kerzen hervor, die sie auf dem Jahrmarkt gekauft hat, und zündet sie an, damit sie sich im Spiegel sehen kann. Sie legt große, gläserne Ohrringe an und einen schwarzen Schal, um sich wie eine vornehme Dame aussehen zu lassen. Sie stolziert im Zimmer herum und träumt davon, wie ihr Leben als Frau des Kapitäns Donnithorne sein könnte. Der Erzähler reflektiert, dass Hetty's körperliche Schönheit, obwohl sie die meisten Männer, einschließlich Adam, täuscht, nicht unbedingt darauf hinweist, dass sie einen sanften Charakter hat. In der Zwischenzeit sitzt Dinah im Zimmer nebenan, schaut aus dem Fenster auf die friedlichen, von Mondlicht beleuchteten Hügel. Sie betet für Hetty und macht sich so große Sorgen um sie, dass sie beschließt, zu ihr zu gehen und ihr etwas Weisheit mitzuteilen. Dinah geht zu Hetty und klopft an ihre Tür, was Hetty erschreckt. Die beiden Mädchen unterhalten sich eine kurze Zeit. Dinah versucht, Hetty darauf hinzuweisen, dass das Leben nicht immer einfach sein wird und dass sie Gott auch in guten Zeiten suchen sollte, damit sie sich in schlechten Zeiten auf ihn stützen kann. Hetty ist jedoch zu aufgewühlt, um den Rat sanft anzunehmen, und gerät in Hysterie und schnauzt Dinah an, dass sie verschwinden solle.

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: THE International Organization of Boosters' Clubs has become a world-force for optimism, manly pleasantry, and good business. Chapters are to be found now in thirty countries. Nine hundred and twenty of the thousand chapters, however, are in the United States. None of these is more ardent than the Zenith Boosters' Club. The second March lunch of the Zenith Boosters was the most important of the year, as it was to be followed by the annual election of officers. There was agitation abroad. The lunch was held in the ballroom of the O'Hearn House. As each of the four hundred Boosters entered he took from a wall-board a huge celluloid button announcing his name, his nick name, and his business. There was a fine of ten cents for calling a Fellow Booster by anything but his nickname at a lunch, and as Babbitt jovially checked his hat the air was radiant with shouts of "Hello, Chet!" and "How're you, Shorty!" and "Top o' the mornin', Mac!" They sat at friendly tables for eight, choosing places by lot. Babbitt was with Albert Boos the merchant tailor, Hector Seybolt of the Little Sweetheart Condensed Milk Company, Emil Wengert the jeweler, Professor Pumphrey of the Riteway Business College, Dr. Walter Gorbutt, Roy Teegarten the photographer, and Ben Berkey the photo-engraver. One of the merits of the Boosters' Club was that only two persons from each department of business were permitted to join, so that you at once encountered the Ideals of other occupations, and realized the metaphysical oneness of all occupations--plumbing and portrait-painting, medicine and the manufacture of chewing-gum. Babbitt's table was particularly happy to-day, because Professor Pumphrey had just had a birthday, and was therefore open to teasing. "Let's pump Pump about how old he is!" said Emil Wengert. "No, let's paddle him with a dancing-pump!" said Ben Berkey. But it was Babbitt who had the applause, with "Don't talk about pumps to that guy! The only pump he knows is a bottle! Honest, they tell me he's starting a class in home-brewing at the ole college!" At each place was the Boosters' Club booklet, listing the members. Though the object of the club was good-fellowship, yet they never lost sight of the importance of doing a little more business. After each name was the member's occupation. There were scores of advertisements in the booklet, and on one page the admonition: "There's no rule that you have to trade with your Fellow Boosters, but get wise, boy--what's the use of letting all this good money get outside of our happy fambly?" And at each place, to-day, there was a present; a card printed in artistic red and black: SERVICE AND BOOSTERISM Service finds its finest opportunity and development only in its broadest and deepest application and the consideration of its perpetual action upon reaction. I believe the highest type of Service, like the most progressive tenets of ethics, senses unceasingly and is motived by active adherence and loyalty to that which is the essential principle of Boosterism--Good Citizenship in all its factors and aspects. DAD PETERSEN. Compliments of Dadbury Petersen Advertising Corp. "Ads, not Fads, at Dad's" The Boosters all read Mr. Peterson's aphorism and said they understood it perfectly. The meeting opened with the regular weekly "stunts." Retiring President Vergil Gunch was in the chair, his stiff hair like a hedge, his voice like a brazen gong of festival. Members who had brought guests introduced them publicly. "This tall red-headed piece of misinformation is the sporting editor of the Press," said Willis Ijams; and H. H. Hazen, the druggist, chanted, "Boys, when you're on a long motor tour and finally get to a romantic spot or scene and draw up and remark to the wife, 'This is certainly a romantic place,' it sends a glow right up and down your vertebrae. Well, my guest to-day is from such a place, Harper's Ferry, Virginia, in the beautiful Southland, with memories of good old General Robert E. Lee and of that brave soul, John Brown who, like every good Booster, goes marching on--" There were two especially distinguished guests: the leading man of the "Bird of Paradise" company, playing this week at the Dodsworth Theater, and the mayor of Zenith, the Hon. Lucas Prout. Vergil Gunch thundered, "When we manage to grab this celebrated Thespian off his lovely aggregation of beautiful actresses--and I got to admit I butted right into his dressing-room and told him how the Boosters appreciated the high-class artistic performance he's giving us--and don't forget that the treasurer of the Dodsworth is a Booster and will appreciate our patronage--and when on top of that we yank Hizzonor out of his multifarious duties at City Hall, then I feel we've done ourselves proud, and Mr. Prout will now say a few words about the problems and duties--" By rising vote the Boosters decided which was the handsomest and which the ugliest guest, and to each of them was given a bunch of carnations, donated, President Gunch noted, by Brother Booster H. G. Yeager, the Jennifer Avenue florist. Each week, in rotation, four Boosters were privileged to obtain the pleasures of generosity and of publicity by donating goods or services to four fellow-members, chosen by lot. There was laughter, this week, when it was announced that one of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the undertaker. Everybody whispered, "I can think of a coupla good guys to be buried if his donation is a free funeral!" Through all these diversions the Boosters were lunching on chicken croquettes, peas, fried potatoes, coffee, apple pie, and American cheese. Gunch did not lump the speeches. Presently he called on the visiting secretary of the Zenith Rotary Club, a rival organization. The secretary had the distinction of possessing State Motor Car License Number 5. The Rotary secretary laughingly admitted that wherever he drove in the state so low a number created a sensation, and "though it was pretty nice to have the honor, yet traffic cops remembered it only too darn well, and sometimes he didn't know but what he'd almost as soon have just plain B56,876 or something like that. Only let any doggone Booster try to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian next year, and watch the fur fly! And if they'd permit him, he'd wind up by calling for a cheer for the Boosters and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!" Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, "Be pretty nice to have as low a number as that! Everybody 'd say, 'He must be an important guy!' Wonder how he got it? I'll bet he wined and dined the superintendent of the Motor License Bureau to a fare-you-well!" Then Chum Frink addressed them: "Some of you may feel that it's out of place here to talk on a strictly highbrow and artistic subject, but I want to come out flatfooted and ask you boys to O.K. the proposition of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith. Now, where a lot of you make your mistake is in assuming that if you don't like classical music and all that junk, you ought to oppose it. Now, I want to confess that, though I'm a literary guy by profession, I don't care a rap for all this long-haired music. I'd rather listen to a good jazz band any time than to some piece by Beethoven that hasn't any more tune to it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldn't whistle it to save your life! But that isn't the point. Culture has become as necessary an adornment and advertisement for a city to-day as pavements or bank-clearances. It's Culture, in theaters and art-galleries and so on, that brings thousands of visitors to New York every year and, to be frank, for all our splendid attainments we haven't yet got the Culture of a New York or Chicago or Boston--or at least we don't get the credit for it. The thing to do then, as a live bunch of go-getters, is to CAPITALIZE CULTURE; to go right out and grab it. "Pictures and books are fine for those that have the time to study 'em, but they don't shoot out on the road and holler 'This is what little old Zenith can put up in the way of Culture.' That's precisely what a Symphony Orchestra does do. Look at the credit Minneapolis and Cincinnati get. An orchestra with first-class musickers and a swell conductor--and I believe we ought to do the thing up brown and get one of the highest-paid conductors on the market, providing he ain't a Hun--it goes right into Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays at the best theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it gives such class-advertising as a town can get in no other way; and the guy who is so short-sighted as to crab this orchestra proposition is passing up the chance to impress the glorious name of Zenith on some big New York millionaire that might-that might establish a branch factory here! "I could also go into the fact that for our daughters who show an interest in highbrow music and may want to teach it, having an A1 local organization is of great benefit, but let's keep this on a practical basis, and I call on you good brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a World-beating Symphony Orchestra!" They applauded. To a rustle of excitement President Gunch proclaimed, "Gentlemen, we will now proceed to the annual election of officers." For each of the six offices, three candidates had been chosen by a committee. The second name among the candidates for vice-president was Babbitt's. He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart pounded. He was still more agitated when the ballots were counted and Gunch said, "It's a pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant gavel-wielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for common sense and enterprise than good old George. Come on, let's give him our best long yell!" As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap his back. He had never known a higher moment. He drove away in a blur of wonder. He lunged into his office, chuckling to Miss McGoun, "Well, I guess you better congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the Boosters!" He was disappointed. She answered only, "Yes--Oh, Mrs. Babbitt's been trying to get you on the 'phone." But the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger, said, "By golly, chief, say, that's great, that's perfectly great! I'm tickled to death! Congratulations!" Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, "Heard you were trying to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to little Georgie, this time! Better talk careful! You are now addressing the vice-president of the Boosters' Club!" "Oh, Georgie--" "Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but when he's away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and whoops 'em up and introduces the speakers--no matter if they're the governor himself--and--" "George! Listen!" "--It puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling and--" "George! Paul Riesling--" "Yes, sure, I'll 'phone Paul and let him know about it right away." "Georgie! LISTEN! Paul's in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live." 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.

Wir sind zurück im Zenith Boosters' Club, wo Babbitt einen Nachmittag damit verbringt, mit seinen Kumpels Spaß zu haben. Sie ärgern einen anderen Booster, weil er älter wird, da heute sein Geburtstag ist. Sie kümmern sich um einige Geschäfte des Nachmittags, wie zum Beispiel die Abstimmung darüber, wer im Raum der Schönste und wer der Hässlichste ist. Dann steht Chum Frink auf und spricht darüber, warum sie ein lokales Sinfonieorchester unterstützen sollten, obwohl klassische Musik für viele von ihnen zu anspruchsvoll ist. Bevor das Mittagessen vorbei ist, erfährt Babbitt überraschenderweise, dass er zum neuen Vizepräsidenten des Boosters' Club gewählt wurde. Alle klopfen ihm auf die Schulter und schütteln ihm die Hand. Und er fühlt sich so gut wie eine Sau im... sagen wir, Schlamm. Babbitts Glück verschwindet jedoch schnell, als er nach Hause anruft, um es Myra zu erzählen. Bevor er sein Glück erklären kann, informiert sie ihn darüber, dass sein Freund Paul seine Frau Zilla erschossen hat.

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: In dem Becky die Räume ihrer Vorfahren revisitiert Also, nachdem die Trauerfeier vorbereitet war und Sir Pitt Crawley über ihre Ankunft informiert wurde, nahmen Colonel Crawley und seine Frau zwei Plätze in demselben alten High-Flyer-Kutschen an, mit der Rebecca in Begleitung des verstorbenen Barons auf ihrer ersten Reise in die Welt vor neun Jahren gereist war. Wie gut erinnerte sie sich doch an den Innenhof des Gasthauses, den Kutscher, dem sie das Geld verweigerte, und den charmanten Cambridge-Jungen, der sie auf der Reise in seinen Mantel hüllte! Rawdon nahm seinen Platz draußen ein und hätte gerne selbst gefahren, aber seine Trauer ließ es nicht zu. Er saß beim Kutscher und unterhielt sich die ganze Fahrt über Pferde und Straßen und darüber, wer in welchem Gasthaus gearbeitet hat und wer die Kutsche befördert hat, mit der er und Pitt so oft zur Schule nach Eton gefahren sind. In Mudbury empfing sie eine Kutsche mit einem Kutscher in Schwarz und einem Pferdegespann. "Es ist der alte Vogelzug, Rawdon", sagte Rebecca, als sie einstiegen. "Die Motten haben den Stoff einiges beschädigt - da ist der Fleck, wegen dem sich Sir Pitt so laut beschwert hat. Es war eine Flasche Kirschlikör, die wir für deine Tante aus Southampton geholt haben. Wie doch die Zeit verfliegt! Das kann nicht Polly Talboys sein, das federnde Mädchen, das dort bei ihrer Mutter am Haus steht. Ich erinnere mich an sie als ein kümmerlicher kleiner Fratz, der im Garten Unkraut jäten musste." "Tolle Frau", sagte Rawdon und erwiderte den Gruß des Hauses, indem er zwei Finger an seine Trauerschärpe legte. Becky verbeugte sich und grüßte und erkannte hier und da Menschen freundlich wieder. Diese Wiedererkennungen waren unendlich angenehm für sie. Es schien, als ob sie keine Betrügerin mehr war und zu dem Zuhause ihrer Vorfahren zurückkehrte. Rawdon dagegen war etwas beschämt und niedergeschlagen. Welche Erinnerungen aus Kindheit und Unschuld konnten durch seinen Kopf schwirren? Welche Schmerzen der vergehenden Reue und des Zweifels und der Scham? "Deine Schwestern müssen jetzt junge Frauen sein", sagte Rebecca, zum ersten Mal vielleicht seitdem sie sie verlassen hatte, an sie denkend. "Weiß ich nicht, wirklich", antwortete der Colonel. "Hallo! Da ist ja alte Mrs. Lock. Wie geht es Ihnen, Mrs. Lock? Erinnern Sie sich an mich, nicht wahr? Master Rawdon, hey? Verdammt, wie alt diese alten Weiber werden, sie war schon hundert als ich noch ein Junge war." Sie fuhren durch die Torhäuser von Mrs. Lock, deren Hand Rebecca darauf bestand, zu schütteln, als sie das quietschende alte eiserne Tor öffnete und der Wagen zwischen den beiden mit Moos bewachsenen Säulen hindurchfuhr, die von einer Taube und einer Schlange gekrönt waren. "Der Gouverneur hat ins Holz geschnitten", sagte Rawdon, während er sich umschaute, und dann schwieg er - wie auch Becky. Beide waren eher aufgeregt und dachten an vergangene Zeiten. Er an Eton und an seine Mutter, an die er sich erinnerte, eine frigide keusche Frau, und an eine Schwester, in die er leidenschaftlich verliebt gewesen war; und daran, wie er Pitt verprügelte; und an das kleine Röcki zu Hause. Und Rebecca dachte an ihre eigene Jugend und an die dunklen Geheimnisse jener frühen verderbten Tage; und an ihren Eintritt ins Leben durch jene Tore hier; und an Miss Pinkerton, und Joe, und Amelia. Der Kiesweg und die Terrasse waren gründlich gefegt worden. Ein großes bemaltes Wappen hing bereits über dem großen Eingangstor, und zwei sehr feierliche und hohe Gestalten in Schwarz öffneten je eine Türseite, als der Wagen vor den vertrauten Stufen hielt. Rawdon errötete und Becky wurde etwas blass, als sie gemeinsam durch die alte Halle gingen, Arm in Arm. Sie klemmte ihren Ehemann am Arm, als sie das Eichenzimmer betraten, in dem Sir Pitt und seine Frau bereitstanden, um sie zu empfangen. Sir Pitt in Schwarz, Lady Jane in Schwarz und Lady Southdown mit einem großen schwarzen Kopfschmuck aus Glasperlen und Federn, der auf dem Kopf ihrer Ladyship wehte wie ein Sarg der Bestattungsbranche. Sir Pitt hatte richtig geurteilt, dass sie das Haus nicht verlassen würde. Sie begnügte sich damit, in Anwesenheit von Pitt und seiner widerspenstigen Frau eine feierliche und starrsinnige Stille zu bewahren, und versetzte die Kinder im Kinderzimmer durch ihre gespenstische Schwermut in Angst und Schrecken. Die Zuwendung von Rebecca und ihrem Ehemann wurde lediglich mit einer sehr schwachen Verbeugung des Kopfputzes und der Schmuckfedern begrüßt, als die beiden Verlorenen in die Familie zurückkehrten. Um die Wahrheit zu sagen, wurden sie von dieser Kühle kaum beeinflusst. Ihre Ladyship hatte in diesen Momenten nur eine untergeordnete Bedeutung in ihren Gedanken, sie waren mehr darauf bedacht, wie sie vom herrschenden Bruder und seiner Schwester empfangen würden. Pitt, mit einem etwas geröteten Gesicht, ging auf seinen Bruder zu, schüttelte ihm die Hand und grüßte Rebecca mit einem Händedruck und einer sehr tiefen Verbeugung. Doch Lady Jane nahm die Hände ihrer Schwägerin in ihre, küsste sie liebevoll. Die Umarmung rührte die kleine Abenteurerin auf unerklärliche Weise zu Tränen - ein Schmuck, wie wir wissen, den sie nur sehr selten trug. Das aufrichtige Zeichen von Freundlichkeit und Vertrauen berührte sie und erfreute sie gleichzeitig, und Rawdon, ermutigt durch diese Geste von seiner Schwester, drehte seine Schnurrbärte und wagte es, Lady Jane mit einem Kuss zu verabschieden, der ihre Ladyship außerordentlich erröten ließ. "Reizende kleine Frau, Lady Jane", war sein Urteil, als er und seine Frau wieder alleine waren. "Pitt ist auch dicker geworden und es gut gemacht." "Er hat sich es auch leisten können", sagte Rebecca und stimmte mit der weiteren Meinung ihres Mannes überein, "dass die Schwiegermutter ein furchtbares altes Weib ist - und dass die Schwestern ziemlich gut aussehende junge Frauen sind." Auch sie waren aus der Schule gerufen worden, um an den Trauerzeremonien teilzunehmen. Sir Pitt Crawley hatte es für würdig erachtet, im Interesse des Hauses und der Familie so viele in Schwarz gekleidete Personen wie möglich um sich zu versammeln. Alle Bediensteten des Hauses, die alten Frauen des Almshauses, denen der ältere Sir Pitt einen großen Teil ihrer Ansprüche weggenommen hatte, die Familie des Pfarrers, sowie die speziellen Anhänger sowohl des Herrenhauses als auch der Pfarrscheune waren in Trauerkleidung erschienen. Dazu kamen noch die Bestattungsunternehmer mit ihrer in schwarze Stoffstreifen gehüllten Trauerkleidung und Hüten, die eine stattliche Erscheinung machten, als das große Bestattungsspektakel stattfand. Doch diese stummen Gestalten spielen in unserem Drama keine Rolle und haben nichts zu tun oder zu sagen, daher sollten sie an dieser Stelle nur einen sehr kleinen Raum einnehmen. In Bezug auf ihre Schwägerinnen versuchte Rebecca nicht, ihre frühere Position als Gouvernante zu vergessen, sondern erinnerte sich offen und freundlich daran und fragte sie mit großer Ernsthaftigkeit nach ihrem Studium und berichtete ihnen von ihren eigenen Gedanken an sie und wie oft sie sich nach ihrem Wohlergehen gesehnt hatte. In der Tat könnte man annehmen, dass sie seit ihrer Trennung von ihnen nicht aufgehört hatte, diese in ihren Gedanken an erster Stelle zu halten und das zärtlichste Inter "Ich wünschte, sie würde es tun. Ich werde die Waschfrau von Finchley Common nicht lesen", schwor Violet. Und so sagend und einen Durchgang vermeidend, am Ende von dem ein bestimmter Sarg mit ein paar Wächtern platziert war, und Lichter die geschlossene Tür beleuchtend, kamen diese jungen Frauen zum Familiendinner, für das wie gewöhnlich die Glocke läutete. Aber bevor dies geschah, führte Lady Jane Rebecca zu den für sie vorbereiteten Gemächern, die zusammen mit dem Rest des Hauses während Pitts Regentschaft ein sehr verbessertes Erscheinungsbild von Ordnung und Komfort angenommen hatten, und hier, als sie sah, dass Mrs. Rawdons bescheidene kleine Kisten angekommen waren und im Schlafzimmer und Ankleideraum gefunden wurden, half sie ihr, ihre ordentliche schwarze Haube und ihren Umhang auszuziehen und fragte ihre Schwägerin, inwiefern sie noch nützlich sein könnte. "Am liebsten würde ich in die Kinderstube gehen und Ihre lieben kleinen Kinder sehen", sagte Rebecca. Daraufhin sahen sich die beiden Damen sehr freundlich an und gingen Hand in Hand zu diesem Raum. Becky bewunderte die kleine Matilda, die noch nicht einmal vier Jahre alt war, als den bezauberndsten kleinen Liebling der Welt; und den Jungen, einen kleinen Kerl von zwei Jahren - blass, mit schweren Augen und einem großen Kopf - erklärte sie, sei ein wahres Wunderkind, was Größe, Intelligenz und Schönheit angeht. "Ich wünschte, Mama würde darauf bestehen, ihm nicht so viele Medikamente zu geben", sagte Lady Jane seufzend. "Ich denke oft, wir wären alle besser dran ohne sie." Und dann hatten Lady Jane und ihre neu gefundene Freundin eine jener vertraulichen medizinischen Unterredungen über die Kinder, über die sich alle Mütter und die meisten Frauen, wie ich verstanden habe, zu freuen scheinen. Vor fünfzig Jahren - als der gegenwärtige Autor noch ein interessanter kleiner Junge war und nach dem Abendessen aus dem Zimmer geschickt wurde - weiß ich noch sehr gut, dass ihre Gespräche hauptsächlich von ihren Beschwerden handelten. Als ich zwei oder drei von ihnen diese Frage direkt gestellt habe, haben sie immer zugegeben, dass sich die Zeiten nicht geändert haben. Lassen Sie meine verehrten Leserinnen dies heute Abend selbst bemerken, wenn sie den Speisentisch verlassen und sich versammeln, um die Geheimnisse des Salons zu feiern. Nun - nach einer halben Stunde waren Becky und Lady Jane enge und innige Freunde - und im Laufe des Abends informierte ihre Ladyship Sir Pitt, dass sie ihre neue Schwägerin für eine freundliche, offene, unverstellte und liebevolle junge Frau hielt. Und nachdem sie die Zuneigung der Tochter leicht gewonnen hatte, bemühte sich die unermüdliche kleine Frau, die erhabene Lady Southdown zu besänftigen. Sobald sie ihre Ladyship alleine fand, griff Rebecca sie sofort mit der Frage nach der Kinderstube an und erzählte ihr, dass ihr kleiner Junge, als die Ärzte in Paris das liebe Kind bereits aufgegeben hatten, tatsächlich durch freie Verabreichung von Kalomel gerettet wurde. Und dann erwähnte sie, wie oft sie von Lady Southdown von diesem ausgezeichneten Mann, dem Reverend Lawrence Grills, Pfarrer der Kapelle in May Fair, von der sie besucht wurde, gehört hatte, und wie sich ihre Ansichten durch Umstände und Missgeschick sehr geändert hätten, und wie sie hoffe, dass ein Leben in Weltlichkeit und Fehler sie nicht daran hindern würde, in der Zukunft ernsthaftere Gedanken zu haben. Sie beschrieb, wie sie früher Mr. Crawley für religiöse Unterweisungen zu Dank verpflichtet gewesen war, erwähnte die Waschfrau von Finchley Common, die sie mit dem größten Gewinn gelesen hatte, und fragte nach Lady Emily, ihrer begabten Autorin, die jetzt Lady Emily Hornblower in Kapstadt ist, wo ihr Mann starke Hoffnungen hat, Bischof von Kaffraria zu werden. Aber sie krönte das Ganze und sicherte sich Lady Southdowns Gunst, indem sie sehr aufgewühlt und unwohl nach der Beerdigung war und um Lady Southdowns ärztlichen Rat bat, den die verwitwete Gräfin nicht nur gab, sondern auch in einem Morgenmantel gewickelt und mehr denn je wie Lady Macbeth aussah, nachts heimlich in Beckys Zimmer kam und ihr ein Paket mit Lieblingspredigten und eine eigene Arznei brachte, die sie darauf bestand, dass Mrs. Rawdon einnimmt. Becky nahm zuerst die Schriften an und begann, sie mit großem Interesse zu untersuchen, indem sie die Gräfin in ein Gespräch darüber und das Wohl ihrer Seele verwickelte. Dadurch hoffte sie, dass ihr Körper der Medizin entgehen könnte. Aber nachdem die religiösen Themen erschöpft waren, wollte Lady Macbeth Beckys Zimmer nicht verlassen, bis ihr Nachtgetränk ebenfalls ausgetrunken war. Und die arme Mrs. Rawdon wurde tatsächlich dazu gezwungen, eine dankbare Miene aufzusetzen und die Medizin unter der unbeugsamen Nase der alten Gräfin zu schlucken, die ihr Opfer schließlich mit einem Segen verließ. Es tröstete Mrs. Rawdon nicht sonderlich; ihr Gesichtsausdruck war sehr merkwürdig, als Rawdon hereinkam und hörte, was passiert war; und sein Ausbruch des Gelächters war so laut wie immer, als Becky, mit lustiger Ironie, die sie nicht verbergen konnte, selbst wenn es auf ihre Kosten ging, den Vorfall und wie sie von Lady Southdown hereingelegt worden war, beschrieb. Lord Steyne und ihr Sohn in London hatten viele Lacher über die Geschichte, als Rawdon und seine Frau nach May Fair zurückkehrten. Becky spielte die ganze Szene für sie nach. Sie setzte sich eine Nachtmütze und einen Morgenmantel auf. Sie hielt eine großartige Predigt mit der wahren ernsthaften Art; sie hielt einen Vortrag über die Tugend der Medizin, die sie zu verabreichen vorgab, mit einer Imitation so perfekt, dass man gedacht hätte, es sei die eigene römische Nase der Gräfin, durch die sie schniefte. "Gib uns Lady Southdown und die schwarze Dosis", war ein ständiger Ruf unter den Leuten in Beckys kleinem Salon in May Fair. Und zum ersten Mal in ihrem Leben wurde die verwitwete Gräfin von Southdown unterhaltsam. Sir Pitt erinnerte sich an die ihm persönlich von Rebecca erwiesene Achtung und Verehrung in frühen Tagen und war ihr gegenüber ziemlich wohlwollend gesinnt. Die, wenn auch unkluge, Ehe hatte Rawdon sehr zum Besseren verändert - das war offensichtlich an Hand von Col. Crawleys veränderten Gewohnheiten und seiner Haltung - und war es nicht eine glückliche Verbindung im Hinblick auf Pitt selbst? Der gewiefte Diplomat lächelte innerlich, als er zugab, dass er sein Glück dieser Ehe verdankte, und gab zu, dass er sich dagegen nicht beschweren sollte. Seine Zufriedenheit wurde auch nicht durch Rebeccas Aussagen, Verhalten und Gespräche beeinträchtigt. Sie erhöhte die Rücksichtnahme, die ihn zuvor entzückt hatte, und forderte seine geistigen Fähigkeiten auf so eine Weise heraus, dass Pitt selbst überrascht war und, immer geneigt, seine eigenen Talente zu respektieren, sie umso mehr bewunderte, als Rebecca sie ihm zeigte. Gegenüber ihrer Schwägerin konnte Rebecca zufriedenstellend beweisen, dass es Mrs. Bute Crawley war, die die nachfolgende Ehe herbeigeführt hatte, über die sie später so verleumderisch gesprochen hatte; dass es Mrs. Butes Habsucht war - die Die Familienmitglieder und Bediensteten des Hauses hielten sich fern von der düsteren Stelle, an der die Knochen des Nachkommen einer alten Linie von Rittern und Gentlemen lagen und auf ihre endgültige Beisetzung in der Familiengruft warteten. Keine Bedauern begleiteten sie, außer denen der armen Frau, die gehofft hatte, die Frau und Witwe von Sir Pitt zu sein und in Schande vom Haus geflohen war, über das sie beinahe geherrscht hätte. Abgesehen von ihr und einem geliebten alten Jagdhund, zwischen dem und ihm während seiner Schwächeperiode eine Bindung bestand, hatte der alte Mann keinen einzigen Freund, der um ihn trauerte, denn er hatte während seines ganzen Lebens nie den geringsten Aufwand betrieben, um sich einen zu sichern. Könnten die Besten und Gütigsten von uns, die von der Erde scheiden, die Gelegenheit haben, sie erneut zu besuchen, nehme ich an, dass er oder sie (unter der Annahme, dass noch irgendein Gefühl des Eitlen Jahrmarkt in der Sphäre fortbesteht, in die wir gehen) einen Schmerz der Demütigung empfinden würde, wenn er feststellen würde, wie schnell unsere Hinterbliebenen getröstet wurden. Und so wurde Sir Pitt vergessen - wie der nettete und beste von uns - nur wenige Wochen früher. Diejenigen, die möchten, können seiner Beerdigung folgen, die an dem festgelegten Tag, auf möglichst würdige Weise stattfand. Die Familie fuhr in schwarzen Kutschen mit Taschentüchern vor den Nasen, bereit für die Tränen, die nicht kamen, der Beerdigungsunternehmer und seine Herren waren in tiefer Trauer, die ausgewählten Pächter trauerten als Höflichkeit gegenüber dem neuen Grundherrn und die Nachbarwägen der Landbesitzer fuhren mit drei Meilen pro Stunde, leer und in tiefer Trauer, vorbei. Der Pfarrer sprach die Formel über "unseren geliebten verstorbenen Bruder“. Solange wir einen Körper haben, spielen wir unsere Eitelkeiten darauf aus, umgeben ihn mit Täuschungen und Zeremonien, legen ihn fein herausgeputzt in den Sarg, schmücken ihn mit goldenen Nägeln und Samt und erfüllen unsere Pflicht, indem wir einen Stein darüberlegen, der voller Lügen ist. Butes Vikar, ein eleganter junger Mann aus Oxford, und Sir Pitt Crawley verfassten zusammen einen angemessenen lateinischen Grabstein für den kürzlich betrauerten Baronet, und der Erstgenannte hielt eine klassische Predigt, in der er die Überlebenden ermahnte, nicht der Trauer nachzugeben, und ihnen in den respektvollsten Worten mitteilte, dass auch sie eines Tages aufgefordert würden, durch das finstere und geheimnisvolle Portal zu gehen, das sich gerade über die Überreste ihres betrauerten Bruders geschlossen hatte. Danach bestiegen die Pächter wieder ihre Pferde oder blieben im Gasthof Crawley Arms, um sich zu erfrischen. Anschließend fuhren die Wagen der Landbesitzer mit den Damen zu ihren verschiedenen Bestimmungsorten, dann kletterten die Arbeiter des Bestattungsunternehmens auf das Dach des Leichenwagens und fuhren nach Southampton, während sie die Seile, Totentücher, Samte, Straußenfedern und andere Begräbnisutensilien mitnahmen. Als die Pferde die Pforten des Parks passierten und auf der offenen Straße in einen flotteren Trab übergingen, kehrten ihre Gesichter zu einem natürlichen Ausdruck zurück, und man konnte Trupps von ihnen beobachten, wie sie die Eingänge der Gasthäuser in schwarze Punkte verwandelten, während die Zinnteller in der Sonne blitzten. Sir Pitts Krankenstuhl wurde in ein Gartenhäuschen im Garten geschoben; der alte Jagdhund heulte manchmal zuerst, aber dies waren die einzigen Äußerungen des Schmerzes, die im Schlosshall erklangen, dessen Herr Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet, seit etwa sechzig Jahren gewesen war. Da die Vögel ziemlich zahlreich waren und die Jagd auf Rebhühner sozusagen die Pflicht eines englischen Gentlemans mit staatsmännischen Neigungen war, ging Sir Pitt Crawley, nachdem der erste Schock des Kummers abgeklungen war, ein wenig nach draußen und nahm an dieser Vergnügung teil, mit einem weißen Hut mit Trauerflor. Der Anblick dieser Stoppelfelder und Rübenfelder, die jetzt ihm gehörten, bereiteten ihm viele geheime Freuden. Manchmal und mit vornehmer Bescheidenheit nahm er kein Gewehr, sondern ging mit einem friedlichen Bambusstock nach draußen; Rawdon, sein großer Bruder, und die Jäger feuerten neben ihm. Pitts Geld und Besitz hatten einen großen Einfluss auf seinen Bruder. Der mittellose Oberst wurde gegenüber dem Oberhaupt seines Hauses plötzlich gehorchend und respektvoll und verachtete den Waschlappen Pitt nicht mehr. Rawdon hörte mit Sympathie auf die Pläne seines Älteren, was die Bepflanzung und Entwässerung betraf, er gab ihm Ratschläge zu den Pferdeställen und Viehbeständen, ritt nach Mudbury, um sich eine Stute anzusehen, von der er dachte, sie würde Lady Jane tragen, und bot an, sie einzubringen usw. Der aufmüpfige Dragoner wurde ganz gedemütigt und unterwürfig und wurde zu einem sehr anständigen jüngeren Bruder. Er erhielt regelmäßige Mitteilungen von Miss Briggs in London über den kleinen Rawdon, der dort zurückgeblieben war, der seine eigenen Nachrichten schickte. "Mir geht es sehr gut", schrieb er. "Ich hoffe, es geht Ihnen sehr gut. Ich hoffe, Mama geht es sehr gut. Das Ponny geht es sehr gut. Grey nimmt mich mit in den Park zum Reiten. Ich kann traben. Ich traf den kleinen Jungen, der vorher geritten ist. Er weinte, als er trabte. Ich weine nicht." Rawdon las diese Briefe seinem Bruder und Lady Jane vor, die davon begeistert waren. Der Baronet versprach, sich um den Jungen in der Schule zu kümmern, und seine gutherzige Frau gab Rebecca einen Geldschein und bat sie, damit ein Geschenk für ihren kleinen Neffen zu kaufen. Ein Tag folgte auf den anderen, und die Damen des Hauses verbrachten ihr Leben mit jenen ruhigen Tätigkeiten und Vergnügungen, die Landfrauen zufriedenstellen. Die Glocken läuteten zum Essen und zum Gebet. Die jungen Damen übten jeden Morgen nach dem Frühstück Klavier, wobei Rebecca ihnen den Nutzen ihrer Anleitung zukommen ließ. Dann zogen sie dicke Schuhe an und spazierten im Park oder in den Gehölzen oder jenseits der Pfähle ins Dorf, um bei den Krankenhausbesuchen Lady Southdowns Medizin und Traktate mitzubringen. Lady Southdown fuhr in einer Pony-Kutsche, wo Rebecca Platz neben der Witwe einnahm und ihren feierlichen Reden mit äußerstem Interesse lauschte. Sie sang abends Handel und Haydn für die Familie und widmete sich einem großen Wollstickprojekt, als ob sie dazu geboren wäre, und als ob dieser Lebensstil bis zu ihrem Tod in einem angemessenen Alter andauern würde, und hinterließ Bedauern und eine große Menge an Renten hinter sich - als ob es keine Sorgen und Gläubiger, Pläne, Tricks und Armut gäbe, die darauf warteten, vor den Toren des Parks auf sie zu lauern, um sie zu überfallen, wenn sie wieder in die Welt hinaustritt. Es ist nicht schwer, die Ehefrau eines Landadligen zu sein, dachte sich Rebecca. "Ich denke, ich könnte eine gute Frau sein, wenn ich 5000 Pfund im Jahr hätte. Ich könnte im Kindergarten herum "Ich habe es überwunden, weil ich Gehirn habe", dachte Becky, "und fast der Rest der Welt sind Narren. Ich könnte nicht zurückgehen und jetzt mit diesen Leuten umgehen, mit denen ich mich früher im Studio meines Vaters getroffen habe. An meinem Tor kommen Lords mit Sternen und Strumpfbändern an, anstatt arme Künstler mit Tabakpapier in ihren Taschen. Ich habe einen Gentleman als Ehemann und eine Grafentochter als Schwester, im selben Haus, in dem ich vor ein paar Jahren kaum mehr als eine Dienerin war. Aber stehe ich jetzt in der Welt viel besser da als damals, als ich die Tochter des armen Malers war und den Lebensmittelhändler um Zucker und Tee anbettelte? Angenommen, ich hätte Francis geheiratet, der so verliebt in mich war - ich könnte nicht viel ärmer sein als ich jetzt bin. Heigho! Ich wünschte, ich könnte meine Position in der Gesellschaft und all meine Beziehungen gegen eine ansehnliche Summe in Staatsanleihen tauschen"; denn so empfand Becky die Eitelkeit der menschlichen Angelegenheiten, und in diesen Wertpapieren hätte sie gerne Anker geworfen. Es mag ihr vielleicht eingefallen sein, dass es sie fast genauso glücklich gemacht hätte, ehrlich und bescheiden zu sein, ihre Pflicht zu tun und auf geradem Weg voranzuschreiten, wie die Art und Weise, auf die sie es anstrebte. Aber - genau wie die Kinder in Queen’s Crawley das Zimmer umrundeten, in dem der Körper ihres Vaters lag - wenn Becky je solche Gedanken hatte, so war sie gewohnt, um sie herumzugehen und nicht hineinzusehen. Sie entzog sich ihnen und verachtete sie - oder zumindest war sie auf dem anderen Weg verpflichtet, von dem jetzt ein Rückzug unmöglich war. Und meiner Meinung nach glaube ich, dass Reue der am wenigsten aktive aller sittlichen Sinne eines Menschen ist - am einfachsten zu betäuben, wenn er geweckt ist, und bei manchen Menschen überhaupt nie geweckt wird. Wir trauern darüber, entdeckt zu werden und die Vorstellung von Scham oder Bestrafung, aber allein das Gefühl des Unrechts macht sehr wenige Menschen unglücklich in Vanity Fair. Also knüpfte Rebecca während ihres Aufenthalts in Queen's Crawley so viele Freundschaften mit Mammon der Ungerechtigkeit wie sie nur kontrollieren konnte. Lady Jane und ihr Ehemann verabschiedeten sie mit den herzlichsten Bekundungen des Wohlwollens. Sie freuten sich darauf, sich bald in London wiederzusehen, wenn das Familienhaus in der Gaunt Street repariert und verschönert wurde. Lady Southdown packte ein Medikamentenpaket für sie und schickte einen Brief damit an den Reverend Lawrence Grills, in dem sie den Herrn aufforderte, den Brief zu retten, den die "ehrenwerte" Person geschrieben hatte. Pitt begleitete sie mit vier Pferden im Wagen nach Mudbury und schickte ihr Gepäck zuvor in einem Wagen, begleitet von einer Ladung Wild. "Wie glücklich werden Sie sein, Ihren lieben kleinen Jungen wiederzusehen!" sagte Lady Crawley und verabschiedete sich von ihrer Verwandten. "Oh, so glücklich!" sagte Rebecca und ließ ihre grünen Augen aufleuchten. Sie war unendlich glücklich, diesen Ort zu verlassen, und doch widerwillig zu gehen. Queen's Crawley war schrecklich langweilig, aber die Luft dort war irgendwie reiner als die, die sie gewohnt war. Jeder war langweilig gewesen, aber auf seine eigene Art freundlich. "Es ist der Einfluss einer langen Zeit mit Staatsanleihen", sagte sich Becky und hatte wahrscheinlich recht. Die Londoner Laternen leuchteten freudig auf, als die Kutsche in die Piccadilly rollte, und Briggs hatte ein schönes Feuer in der Curzon Street gemacht, und der kleine Rawdon war wach, um seinen Papa und seine Mama willkommen zu heißen. 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.

Becky und Rawdon verfallen auf dem Rückweg nach Queen's Crawley in nostalgische Gedanken. Becky denkt darüber nach, wie viel jünger sie sich vor neun Jahren vorkam, als sie nach Queen's Crawley kam, um Gouvernante zu werden. Rawdon denkt an seine eigene verlorene Jugend. OK, sentimentale Pause vorbei. Sir Pitt jun. begrüßt Becky und Rawdon in der Villa und Lady Jane ist so nett zu ihr, dass Becky tatsächlich... wartet ab, es ist verrückt... echte Tränen vergießt. Es lässt uns erkennen, wie selten es ist, dass jemand wirklich nett zu ihr ist. Irgendwie traurig. Irgendwie. Becky fängt schnell damit an, sich bei jedem einzuschmeicheln. Sie bittet als erstes darum, Lady Janes zwei Kinder zu sehen und lobt sie dafür, wie süß sie sind. Das gewinnt Jane sofort für sie. Dann legt sie bei Lady Southdown los, die immer noch ziemlich kühl ist. Becky bittet sie um Hilfe bezüglich religiöser Angelegenheiten und dann, als Sahnehäubchen auf dem Schleimkuchen, um medizinischen Rat. Lady Southdown nimmt sie sehr ernst und hilft ihr aufgeblasen. Becky arbeitet an ihrer Darstellung von Lady Southdown und nutzt sie später, als sie nach London zurückkehrt, um Lord Steyne zu unterhalten. Aber jetzt wärmt sich Lady Southdown leicht für sie auf. Sir Pitt jun. hingegen ist total begeistert von seiner Schwägerin. Alles, was sie tut, ist, ihm Komplimente zu machen und ihn zu loben. Es hilft, dass er Lob wirklich zugänglich ist. Wie der Erzähler bemerkt, ""Pitt selbst, der stets geneigt war, seine eigenen Talente zu respektieren, bewunderte sie um so mehr, wenn Rebecca sie ihm zeigte". Während all dem liegt der alte, verstorbene Sir Pitt fein drapiert da. Sir Pitt jun. stellt die richtige Anzahl von Trauernden ein und bestellt schwarze Trauerkleidung für alle, die auf dem Anwesen leben und arbeiten. Allerdings nähern er und die anderen Familienmitglieder sich dem Sarg nicht. Es findet eine formelle und völlig unpersönliche Trauerfeier statt. Sobald sie vorbei ist, vergisst jeder sofort alles über ihn. Wir nehmen an, das ist fair – wenn man zu Lebzeiten keine Freunde findet, sollte man nicht viel Traurigkeit erwarten, wenn man stirbt. Sir Pitt jun. ist total begeistert davon, Kontrolle über sein Anwesen zu haben und beschließt, ein guter, wirtschaftlicher, praktischer und fairer Verwalter zu sein. Rawdon hat sich jetzt seinem Bruder sehr unterworfen. Er bekommt auch regelmäßig Nachrichten von Briggs, wie es Rawdon Jr. in London geht. Der Junge schreibt manchmal sogar selbst Briefe, die Rawdon stolz Lady Jane zeigt. Sir Pitt jun. verspricht, die Bildung des Jungen zu bezahlen. Becky, die ganz in ein langsames und komfortables Landleben eingebunden ist, hat einen Gedanken, der seitdem ein sehr berühmtes Zitat aus dem Roman geworden ist. Sie sieht, wie nett und ruhig alles und jeder ist, und beschließt: "Ich glaube, ich könnte eine gute Frau sein, wenn ich 5.000 Pfund im Jahr hätte". Diese Aussage ist seither zu einem schnellen Weg geworden, um zu sagen, dass die Moral relativ ist und dass sie tendenziell von den Umständen abhängt. Hier gibt Becky zum Beispiel ihren intriganten und manipulativen Weg ehrlich zu und führt es darauf zurück, dass sie arm ist und keine andere Möglichkeit hat, im Leben voranzukommen. Bald ist es Zeit, Queen's Crawley zu verlassen. Becky ist hin- und hergerissen zwischen der Langeweile und dem angenehmen Aufenthalt dort. Wie auch immer, ihr Leben spielt sich in London ab.

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: Mit dem Ende des Junis kam das Ende des Schuljahres und das Ende von Miss Stacys Zeit als Lehrerin in der Avonlea Schule. Anne und Diana gingen an diesem Abend nach Hause und fühlten sich sehr ernst. Rote Augen und feuchte Taschentücher waren ein überzeugender Beweis dafür, dass Miss Stacys Abschiedsworte genauso bewegend gewesen sein mussten wie die von Mr. Phillips unter ähnlichen Umständen drei Jahre zuvor. Diana schaute vom Fuße des Tannenhügels zurück auf das Schulhaus und seufzte tief. "Es scheint wirklich, als wäre alles vorbei, oder?", sagte sie betrübt. "Du solltest dich nicht halb so schlecht fühlen wie ich", sagte Anne und suchte vergeblich nach einem trockenen Fleck auf ihrem Taschentuch. "Du wirst im nächsten Winter wieder hier sein, aber ich denke, ich habe die liebe alte Schule für immer verlassen - wenn ich Glück habe." "Es wird überhaupt nicht dasselbe sein. Miss Stacy wird nicht da sein, und du und Jane und Ruby wahrscheinlich auch nicht. Ich werde ganz allein sitzen müssen, denn ich könnte es nicht ertragen, einen anderen Sitznachbarn zu haben nach dir. Oh, wir hatten eine tolle Zeit, oder? Es ist schrecklich zu denken, dass alles vorbei ist." Zwei große Tränen rollten Diana die Nase hinunter. "Wenn du aufhören würdest zu weinen, könnte ich auch aufhören", flehte Anne. "Sobald ich mein Taschentuch weglege, sehe ich dich wieder mit Tränen in den Augen, und dann fange ich auch an. Wie Mrs. Lynde sagt, 'Wenn du nicht fröhlich sein kannst, sei so fröhlich wie du kannst.' Im Endeffekt denke ich, dass ich im nächsten Jahr wieder dabei sein werde. Das ist einer dieser seltenen Momente, in denen ich _weiß_, dass ich es nicht schaffen werde. Die werden beängstigend häufig." "Wieso? Du hast doch hervorragend bei den Prüfungen abgeschnitten, die Miss Stacy gegeben hat." "Ja, aber diese Prüfungen haben mich nicht nervös gemacht. Wenn ich an die wirkliche Prüfung denke, kannst du dir nicht vorstellen, was für ein schrecklich kaltes und unruhiges Gefühl sich in meiner Brust ausbreitet. Und dann ist meine Nummer die Dreizehn, und Josie Pye sagt, dass das so unglücklich ist. Ich bin _nicht_ abergläubisch und ich weiß, dass es keinen Unterschied machen kann. Aber ich wünschte trotzdem, es wäre nicht die Dreizehn." "Ich wünschte, ich könnte mit dir zusammen gehen", sagte Diana. "Wir hätten eine wundervolle Zeit, oder? Aber ich denke, du wirst abends büffeln müssen." "Nein, Miss Stacy hat uns versprochen, überhaupt kein Buch aufzumachen. Sie sagt, das würde uns nur ermüden und verwirren und wir sollen spazieren gehen und gar nicht an die Prüfungen denken und früh ins Bett gehen. Das ist ein guter Rat, aber ich denke, es wird schwer sein, ihn zu befolgen; guter Rat neigt dazu, das zu sein, denke ich. Prissy Andrews hat mir erzählt, dass sie in ihrer Aufnahmeprüfungswoche jede Nacht die halbe Nacht wachgeblieben ist und für ihr Leben gelernt hat; und ich hatte beschlossen, zumindest genauso lange wachzubleiben wie sie. Es war so nett von deiner Tante Josephine, mich einzuladen, während ich in der Stadt bin, bei Beechwood zu bleiben." "Du wirst mir schreiben, solange du da bist, oder?" "Ich werde am Dienstagabend schreiben und dir berichten, wie der erste Tag gelaufen ist", versprach Anne. "Am Mittwoch werde ich das Postamt belagern", schwor Diana. Anne fuhr am folgenden Montag in die Stadt und am Mittwoch belagerte Diana, wie vereinbart, das Postamt und bekam ihren Brief. "Liebste Diana" [schrieb Anne], "hier ist es Dienstagabend und ich schreibe dies in der Bibliothek von Beechwood. Letzte Nacht war ich furchtbar einsam ganz allein in meinem Zimmer und wünschte mir so sehr, du wärst bei mir gewesen. Ich konnte nicht 'büffeln', weil ich Miss Stacy versprochen hatte, es nicht zu tun, aber es war genauso schwer, mein Geschichtsbuch nicht aufzuschlagen, wie es früher war, eine Geschichte vor dem Lernen meiner Lektionen zu lesen. "Heute Morgen kam Miss Stacy mich abholen, und wir gingen zur Akademie, holten auf dem Weg Jane, Ruby und Josie ab. Ruby bat mich, ihre Hände zu fühlen, und sie waren eiskalt. Josie sagte, ich sähe aus, als hätte ich keine Wimper geschlagen, und sie glaubte nicht, dass ich stark genug sei, um den Stress des Lehrerkurses auszuhalten, selbst wenn ich durchkomme. Es gibt immer noch Zeiten, in denen ich nicht das Gefühl habe, dass ich große Fortschritte darin gemacht habe, Josie Pye zu mögen! "Als wir den Campus erreichten, waren dort viele Studenten von der ganzen Insel. Die erste Person, die wir sahen, war Moody Spurgeon, der auf den Stufen saß und vor sich hin murmelte. Jane fragte ihn, was um Himmels willen er da tat, und er sagte, dass er das Einmaleins immer wieder aufsagte, um seine Nerven zu beruhigen, und dass sie ihn bitte nicht unterbrachen sollten, denn wenn er auch nur für einen Moment stehen blieb, bekam er Angst und vergaß alles, was er jemals gelernt hatte, aber das Einmaleins hielt alle seine Fakten an ihrem richtigen Platz! "Als uns unsere Zimmer zugeteilt wurden, musste uns Miss Stacy verlassen. Jane und ich saßen zusammen und Jane war so ruhig, dass ich es beneidenswert fand. Kein Bedarf an dem Einmaleins für gutes, beständiges, vernünftiges Jane! Ich fragte mich, ob ich so aussah, wie ich mich fühlte, und ob sie mein pochendes Herz bis auf die andere Seite des Zimmers hören konnten. Dann kam ein Mann herein und begann, die Englisch-Prüfungsbögen zu verteilen. Meine Hände wurden kalt und mein Kopf drehte sich regelrecht, als ich ihn aufnahm. Nur ein entsetzlicher Moment - Diana, ich fühlte mich genauso wie vor vier Jahren, als ich Marilla fragte, ob ich auf Green Gables bleiben dürfte - und dann wurde alles in meinem Kopf klar und mein Herz begann wieder zu schlagen - ich habe vergessen zu sagen, dass es ganz aufgehört hatte! - Denn ich wusste, dass ich mit _diesem_ Papier immerhin etwas anfangen konnte. "Zu Mittag sind wir nach Hause gegangen und dann wieder zurück, um am Nachmittag die Geschichtsprüfung abzulegen. Die Geschichte war ein ziemlich schwieriges Papier und ich habe mich furchtbar in den Daten verheddert. Trotzdem denke ich, dass ich heute ganz gut abgeschnitten habe. Aber oh, Diana, morgen steht die Geometrieprüfung an, und wenn ich daran denke, kostet es mich all meinen Willen, mein Euklid nicht aufzuschlagen. Wenn ich denken würde, dass mir das Einmaleins helfen könnte, würde ich es von nun an bis morgen früh aufsagen. "Ich bin heute Abend runtergegangen, um die anderen Mädchen zu sehen. Auf dem Weg habe ich Moody Spurgeon in der Gegend umherirrend getroffen. Er sagte, er wisse, dass er in Geschichte durchgefallen sei und dazu geboren sei, eine Enttäuschung für seine Eltern zu sein, und er würde am nächsten Morgen nach Hause fahren; und es wäre sowieso einfacher, Schreiner anstatt Priester zu sein. Ich habe ihn aufgemuntert und ihn überredet, bis zum Schluss zu bleiben, denn es wäre unfair gegenüber Miss Stacy, wenn er gehen würde. Manchmal habe ich gewünscht, ich wäre ein Junge, aber wenn ich Moody Spurgeon sehe, bin ich immer froh, dass ich ein Mädchen bin und nicht seine Schwester. "Ruby hatte einen hysterischen Mit diesem Ziel vor Augen hatte Anne während der Prüfungen jede Anstrengung unternommen. Das hatte Gilbert auch getan. Sie hatten sich bereits dutzendmal auf der Straße passiert, ohne sich zu erkennen zu geben, und jedes Mal hatte Anne ihren Kopf ein wenig höher gehalten und noch ernsthafter gewünscht, dass sie mit Gilbert befreundet gewesen wäre, als er sie darum gebeten hatte, und sich noch entschlossener geschworen, ihn in der Prüfung zu übertreffen. Sie wusste, dass ganz Avonlea Junior sich fragte, wer als Erster abschneiden würde; sie wusste sogar, dass Jimmy Glover und Ned Wright eine Wette auf diese Frage abgeschlossen hatten und dass Josie Pye gesagt hatte, es bestehe keine Zweifel, dass Gilbert erster sein würde; und sie fühlte, dass ihre Demütigung unerträglich wäre, wenn sie nicht bestehen würde. Doch sie hatte ein anderes, nobleres Motiv, um gute Ergebnisse zu erzielen. Sie wollte "hoch bestehen" zum Wohl von Matthew und Marilla - besonders Matthew. Matthew hatte ihr gegenüber erklärt, dass sie "die ganze Insel schlagen würde". Das war, dachte Anne, etwas, worauf man selbst in den wildesten Träumen nicht hoffen konnte. Aber sie hoffte inniglich, dass sie zumindest unter den ersten zehn sein würde, um Matthew stolz auf ihre Leistung zu sehen. Das, dachte sie, wäre eine süße Belohnung für all ihre harte Arbeit und geduldige Anstrengung mit fantasielosen Gleichungen und Konjugationen. Am Ende der zwei Wochen begann Anne damit, auch regelmäßig die Poststelle aufzusuchen, in der aufgeregten Begleitung von Jane, Ruby und Josie, und die Charlottetown-Zeitung in zitternden Händen und mit einem eisigen Gefühl des Nervenzusammenbruchs, genauso schlimm wie während der Eingangswoche, zu öffnen. Charlie und Gilbert taten dasselbe, aber Moody Spurgeon blieb konsequent fern. "Ich habe nicht den Mut, dorthin zu gehen und mir die Zeitung in aller Ruhe anzusehen", sagte er zu Anne. "Ich werde einfach warten, bis jemand auf mich zukommt und mir plötzlich sagt, ob ich bestanden habe oder nicht." Als drei Wochen vergangen waren, ohne dass die Bestehen-Liste veröffentlicht wurde, begann Anne das Gefühl zu haben, dass sie die Belastung nicht mehr lange aushalten konnte. Ihr Appetit schwand und ihr Interesse an den Ereignissen in Avonlea ließ nach. Mrs. Lynde wollte wissen, was man anderes erwarten könne, wenn ein Konservativer das Bildungswesen leitet, und Matthew, der Annes Blässe und Gleichgültigkeit, sowie die schleppenden Schritte, mit denen sie jeden Nachmittag von der Poststelle nach Hause kam, bemerkte, fragte sich ernsthaft, ob er bei der nächsten Wahl nicht besser Liberal stimmen sollte. Doch eines Abends kam die Nachricht. Anne saß an ihrem geöffneten Fenster und war vorübergehend vergessen von den Sorgen der Prüfungen und den Sorgen der Welt, als sie die Schönheit des sommerlichen Zwielichts genoss, welches süß duftend von den Blumen aus dem Garten unten und von den zischenden Geräuschen der Poplars kam. Der Himmel im Osten über den Tannen war leicht rosa eingefärbt vom Licht des Sonnenuntergangs im Westen, und Anne fragte sich träumerisch, ob der Geist der Farben so aussieht, als sie Diana durch die Tannen kommen sah, über die Holzbrücke, den Hang hinauf, mit einer flatternden Zeitung in der Hand. Anne sprang auf die Beine, da sie sofort wusste, was dieses Papier enthielt. Die Bestehen-Liste war da! Ihr Kopf drehte sich und ihr Herz schlug so sehr, dass es wehtat. Sie konnte keinen Schritt mehr machen. Es schien ihr eine Ewigkeit, bis Diana den Flur entlang stürzte und ohne zu klopfen in das Zimmer platzte, so groß war ihre Aufregung. "Anne, du hast bestanden", rief sie, "bist die _allererste_ - du und Gilbert beide - ihr habt gleich viele Punkte - aber dein Name steht an erster Stelle. Oh, ich bin so stolz!" Diana warf die Zeitung auf den Tisch und sich selbst auf Annes Bett, vollkommen außer Atem und unfähig weiterzusprechen. Anne zündete die Lampe an, stieß dabei das Streichholzschächtelchen um und verbrauchte eine halbe Schachtel Streichhölzer, bis ihre zitternden Hände die Aufgabe bewältigten. Dann schnappte sie sich die Zeitung. Ja, sie hatte bestanden - dort stand ihr Name ganz oben auf einer Liste von zweihundert Namen! Dieser Moment war lebenswert. "Du hast es einfach großartig gemacht, Anne", keuchte Diana, die sich langsam erholte und sich aufrichtete, denn Anne, mit staunenden Augen und verzaubert, hatte kein Wort gesprochen. "Vater hat die Zeitung gerade eben aus Bright River mitgebracht - sie wurde mit dem Nachmittagszug geliefert, weißt du, und wird erst morgen mit der Post hier sein - und als ich die Bestehen-Liste sah, bin ich einfach wie eine Verrückte herbeigeeilt. Ihr habt alle bestanden, jeder von euch, sogar Moody Spurgeon, obwohl er in Geschichte nacharbeiten muss. Jane und Ruby haben es recht gut gemacht - sie sind in der Mitte - und Charlie auch. Josie ist gerade so durchgekommen, mit drei Punkten Reserve, aber du wirst sehen, sie wird sich genauso aufspielen, als hätte sie es angeführt. Wird Miss Stacy freuen? Oh, Anne, wie fühlt es sich an, deinen Namen an der Spitze einer Bestehen-Liste wie dieser zu sehen? Wenn ich das wäre, weiß ich, dass ich vor Freude verrückt werden würde. Ich bin schon beinahe verrückt, aber du bist so ruhig und gelassen wie ein Frühlingsabend." "Ich bin drinnen einfach überwältigt", sagte Anne. "Ich möchte hundert Dinge sagen und finde keine Worte, um sie auszudrücken. Ich habe nie davon geträumt - doch, einmal schon! Ich habe mir _einmal_ erlaubt zu denken, 'Was wäre, wenn ich als Erste abschneiden würde?' mit zitternder Stimme, weißt du, denn es schien so eingebildet und anmaßend zu denken, dass ich die Insel anführen könnte. Entschuldige mich einen Augenblick, Diana. Ich muss sofort ins Feld zu Matthew laufen. Danach gehen wir die Straße entlang und erzählen den anderen die gute Nachricht." Sie beeilten sich zum Heuboden unterhalb des Stalls, wo Matthew das Heu aufrollte, und wie es das Schicksal wollte, sprach Mrs. Lynde gerade mit Marilla am Wegesrandzaun. "Oh, Matthew", rief Anne aus, "Ich habe bestanden und ich bin Erste - oder eine der Ersten! Ich bin nicht überheblich, aber ich bin dankbar." "Nun ja, das habe ich schon immer gesagt", sagte Matthew und betrachtete die Bestehen-Liste entzückt. "Ich wusste, dass du sie alle spielend schlagen würdest." "Du hast es wirklich gut gemacht, muss ich sagen, Anne", sagte Marilla und versuchte, ihren übermäßigen Stolz auf Anne vor der kritischen Sicht von Mrs. Rachel zu verbergen. Doch diese gute Seele sagte von Herzen: "Ich denke schon, dass sie es gut gemacht hat, und sei es mir fern, dahinter zurückzubleiben. Du bist eine Ehre für deine Freunde, Anne, das bist du, und wir sind alle stolz auf dich." An diesem Abend, nachdem sie den wunderbaren Abend mit einem ernsten Gespräch mit Mrs. Allan im Pfarrhaus abgerundet hatte, kniete Anne in großer Helle des Mondscheins an ihrem geöffneten Fenster und murmelte ein Gebet voller Dankbarkeit und Hoffnung, das aus ihrem Herzen kam. Es enthielt Dankbarkeit für die Vergangenheit und ehrfürchtige Bitte für die Zukunft. Und als sie auf ihrem weißen Kissen einschlief, waren ihre Träume so schön und strahlend und wunderschön, wie es ein männliches Mädchenherz nur wünschen könnte. Kannst du 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.

Im Juni endet das Schuljahr wieder. Anne und Diana gehen zusammen nach Hause und weinen über den Abschied von Miss Stacy. Anne wird bald gehen und die Aufnahmeprüfungen ablegen, die in Charlottetown überwacht werden. Dianas Tante Josephine hat Anne eingeladen, während ihrer Reise in ihrem Haus zu bleiben. Anne verspricht Diana, ihr einen Brief über den Verlauf der Prüfungen zu schicken. Annes Brief an Diana besagt, dass alle Schüler sehr besorgt vor der Prüfung waren. Manche haben die Nacht vorher nicht geschlafen, während andere den ganzen Morgen gepaukt haben. Schüler aus der ganzen Insel waren zur Prüfung gekommen. Anne hatte am ersten Tag Prüfungen in Englisch und Geschichte und würde am nächsten Tag die Geometrieprüfung ablegen. Anne besteht ihre Geometrieprüfung und sie und ihre Mitschüler kehren nach Avonlea zurück, um zwei Wochen auf ihre Prüfungsergebnisse zu warten. Anne ist gespannt auf ihre Ergebnisse und will sehen, ob sie Gilbert geschlagen hat. Sie hofft auch, eine hohe Punktzahl zu erreichen, um Marilla und Matthew stolz zu machen. Eines Abends kommt Diana mit einer Zeitung nach Green Gables und erzählt Anne, dass sie ihre Prüfungen bestanden hat. Tatsächlich hat Anne sich mit Gilbert den ersten Platz unter allen Schülern, die die Prüfung abgelegt haben, geteilt. Die erste Person, der Anne davon erzählt, ist Matthew. Matthew, Marilla und Mrs. Rachel Lynde drücken alle ihren Stolz darüber aus, wie gut Anne abgeschnitten hat.

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: The particular impression I had received proved in the morning light, I repeat, not quite successfully presentable to Mrs. Grose, though I reinforced it with the mention of still another remark that he had made before we separated. "It all lies in half a dozen words," I said to her, "words that really settle the matter. 'Think, you know, what I MIGHT do!' He threw that off to show me how good he is. He knows down to the ground what he 'might' do. That's what he gave them a taste of at school." "Lord, you do change!" cried my friend. "I don't change--I simply make it out. The four, depend upon it, perpetually meet. If on either of these last nights you had been with either child, you would clearly have understood. The more I've watched and waited the more I've felt that if there were nothing else to make it sure it would be made so by the systematic silence of each. NEVER, by a slip of the tongue, have they so much as alluded to either of their old friends, any more than Miles has alluded to his expulsion. Oh, yes, we may sit here and look at them, and they may show off to us there to their fill; but even while they pretend to be lost in their fairytale they're steeped in their vision of the dead restored. He's not reading to her," I declared; "they're talking of THEM--they're talking horrors! I go on, I know, as if I were crazy; and it's a wonder I'm not. What I've seen would have made YOU so; but it has only made me more lucid, made me get hold of still other things." My lucidity must have seemed awful, but the charming creatures who were victims of it, passing and repassing in their interlocked sweetness, gave my colleague something to hold on by; and I felt how tight she held as, without stirring in the breath of my passion, she covered them still with her eyes. "Of what other things have you got hold?" "Why, of the very things that have delighted, fascinated, and yet, at bottom, as I now so strangely see, mystified and troubled me. Their more than earthly beauty, their absolutely unnatural goodness. It's a game," I went on; "it's a policy and a fraud!" "On the part of little darlings--?" "As yet mere lovely babies? Yes, mad as that seems!" The very act of bringing it out really helped me to trace it--follow it all up and piece it all together. "They haven't been good--they've only been absent. It has been easy to live with them, because they're simply leading a life of their own. They're not mine--they're not ours. They're his and they're hers!" "Quint's and that woman's?" "Quint's and that woman's. They want to get to them." Oh, how, at this, poor Mrs. Grose appeared to study them! "But for what?" "For the love of all the evil that, in those dreadful days, the pair put into them. And to ply them with that evil still, to keep up the work of demons, is what brings the others back." "Laws!" said my friend under her breath. The exclamation was homely, but it revealed a real acceptance of my further proof of what, in the bad time--for there had been a worse even than this!--must have occurred. There could have been no such justification for me as the plain assent of her experience to whatever depth of depravity I found credible in our brace of scoundrels. It was in obvious submission of memory that she brought out after a moment: "They WERE rascals! But what can they now do?" she pursued. "Do?" I echoed so loud that Miles and Flora, as they passed at their distance, paused an instant in their walk and looked at us. "Don't they do enough?" I demanded in a lower tone, while the children, having smiled and nodded and kissed hands to us, resumed their exhibition. We were held by it a minute; then I answered: "They can destroy them!" At this my companion did turn, but the inquiry she launched was a silent one, the effect of which was to make me more explicit. "They don't know, as yet, quite how--but they're trying hard. They're seen only across, as it were, and beyond--in strange places and on high places, the top of towers, the roof of houses, the outside of windows, the further edge of pools; but there's a deep design, on either side, to shorten the distance and overcome the obstacle; and the success of the tempters is only a question of time. They've only to keep to their suggestions of danger." "For the children to come?" "And perish in the attempt!" Mrs. Grose slowly got up, and I scrupulously added: "Unless, of course, we can prevent!" Standing there before me while I kept my seat, she visibly turned things over. "Their uncle must do the preventing. He must take them away." "And who's to make him?" She had been scanning the distance, but she now dropped on me a foolish face. "You, miss." "By writing to him that his house is poisoned and his little nephew and niece mad?" "But if they ARE, miss?" "And if I am myself, you mean? That's charming news to be sent him by a governess whose prime undertaking was to give him no worry." Mrs. Grose considered, following the children again. "Yes, he do hate worry. That was the great reason--" "Why those fiends took him in so long? No doubt, though his indifference must have been awful. As I'm not a fiend, at any rate, I shouldn't take him in." My companion, after an instant and for all answer, sat down again and grasped my arm. "Make him at any rate come to you." I stared. "To ME?" I had a sudden fear of what she might do. "'Him'?" "He ought to BE here--he ought to help." I quickly rose, and I think I must have shown her a queerer face than ever yet. "You see me asking him for a visit?" No, with her eyes on my face she evidently couldn't. Instead of it even--as a woman reads another--she could see what I myself saw: his derision, his amusement, his contempt for the breakdown of my resignation at being left alone and for the fine machinery I had set in motion to attract his attention to my slighted charms. She didn't know--no one knew--how proud I had been to serve him and to stick to our terms; yet she nonetheless took the measure, I think, of the warning I now gave her. "If you should so lose your head as to appeal to him for me--" She was really frightened. "Yes, miss?" "I would leave, on the spot, both him and you." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen 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.

Wir mögen uns nicht sicher sein, was wir von den Kindern und ihren mysteriösen nächtlichen Eskapaden halten sollen, aber die Gouvernante weiß auf jeden Fall, was sie von all dem hält - sie ist sogar noch überzeugter davon, dass die Kinder sich jede Nacht mit Quint und Jessel treffen und dass sie, wenn die Kinder allein zusammen sind, über ihre geisterhaften Freunde sprechen. Sie bemerkt ziemlich seltsam, dass das, was sie gesehen hat, Mrs. Grose verrückt gemacht hätte, aber es hat sie nur noch klarer gemacht. Die Gouvernante erklärt ganz offen, dass die vermeintliche Unschuld der Kinder nur ein Spiel ist - statt zu ihr und Mrs. Grose gehören sie tatsächlich Peter Quint und Miss Jessel. Mrs. Grose, schockiert und entsetzt, stellt eine gute Frage, auf die wir eigentlich keine gute Antwort bekommen: Sie fragt, warum Quint und Jessel so etwas tun würden. Die Gouvernante antwortet selbstbewusst, dass es nur um das Böse geht und dass sie die Kinder auf irgendeine Weise zerstören wollen. Die Gouvernante kommt zu dem Schluss, dass die Geister, indem sie aus der Ferne erscheinen, die Kinder dazu verleiten wollen, ihnen zu folgen und bei dem Versuch zu sterben - und die Kinder werden letztendlich nachgeben, es sei denn, die beiden Frauen hindern sie daran. Mrs. Grose entscheidet, dass nur der Onkel der Kinder sie vor dieser tödlichen Belästigung schützen kann und dass die Gouvernante ihn kontaktieren sollte, trotz ihrer Vereinbarung, das niemals zu tun. Die Gouvernante widerspricht stark - schließlich, was sollte sie ihrem Arbeitgeber sagen, um zu erklären, was in Bly vor sich geht? Allerdings bleibt Mrs. Grose beharrlich, dass der Hausherr zurückkommen sollte, um bei dem Problem zu helfen. Die Gouvernante befürchtet, dass Mrs. Grose den Arbeitgeber holen könnte. In einem seltenen Moment klarer Selbsterkenntnis sehen wir, dass sie sich um seinen Spott und Verachtung sorgt, wenn sie zugeben müsste, gescheitert zu sein und ihn als Unterstützung hinzuzuziehen. Die Gouvernante ist stolz auf ihren gehorsamen Dienst ihm gegenüber und ihre Fähigkeit, sich an die Bedingungen zu halten, die er gestellt hat. Sie ist so entschlossen, ihn aus diesem Ärger herauszuhalten, dass sie damit droht, Bly zu verlassen, falls Mrs. Grose ihn kontaktiert.

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: "I was in bed and fast asleep when it pleased God to send the Bulgarians to our delightful castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh; they slew my father and brother, and cut my mother in pieces. A tall Bulgarian, six feet high, perceiving that I had fainted away at this sight, began to ravish me; this made me recover; I regained my senses, I cried, I struggled, I bit, I scratched, I wanted to tear out the tall Bulgarian's eyes--not knowing that what happened at my father's house was the usual practice of war. The brute gave me a cut in the left side with his hanger, and the mark is still upon me." "Ah! I hope I shall see it," said honest Candide. "You shall," said Cunegonde, "but let us continue." "Do so," replied Candide. Thus she resumed the thread of her story: "A Bulgarian captain came in, saw me all bleeding, and the soldier not in the least disconcerted. The captain flew into a passion at the disrespectful behaviour of the brute, and slew him on my body. He ordered my wounds to be dressed, and took me to his quarters as a prisoner of war. I washed the few shirts that he had, I did his cooking; he thought me very pretty--he avowed it; on the other hand, I must own he had a good shape, and a soft and white skin; but he had little or no mind or philosophy, and you might see plainly that he had never been instructed by Doctor Pangloss. In three months time, having lost all his money, and being grown tired of my company, he sold me to a Jew, named Don Issachar, who traded to Holland and Portugal, and had a strong passion for women. This Jew was much attached to my person, but could not triumph over it; I resisted him better than the Bulgarian soldier. A modest woman may be ravished once, but her virtue is strengthened by it. In order to render me more tractable, he brought me to this country house. Hitherto I had imagined that nothing could equal the beauty of Thunder-ten-Tronckh Castle; but I found I was mistaken. "The Grand Inquisitor, seeing me one day at Mass, stared long at me, and sent to tell me that he wished to speak on private matters. I was conducted to his palace, where I acquainted him with the history of my family, and he represented to me how much it was beneath my rank to belong to an Israelite. A proposal was then made to Don Issachar that he should resign me to my lord. Don Issachar, being the court banker, and a man of credit, would hear nothing of it. The Inquisitor threatened him with an _auto-da-fe_. At last my Jew, intimidated, concluded a bargain, by which the house and myself should belong to both in common; the Jew should have for himself Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and the Inquisitor should have the rest of the week. It is now six months since this agreement was made. Quarrels have not been wanting, for they could not decide whether the night from Saturday to Sunday belonged to the old law or to the new. For my part, I have so far held out against both, and I verily believe that this is the reason why I am still beloved. "At length, to avert the scourge of earthquakes, and to intimidate Don Issachar, my Lord Inquisitor was pleased to celebrate an _auto-da-fe_. He did me the honour to invite me to the ceremony. I had a very good seat, and the ladies were served with refreshments between Mass and the execution. I was in truth seized with horror at the burning of those two Jews, and of the honest Biscayner who had married his godmother; but what was my surprise, my fright, my trouble, when I saw in a _san-benito_ and mitre a figure which resembled that of Pangloss! I rubbed my eyes, I looked at him attentively, I saw him hung; I fainted. Scarcely had I recovered my senses than I saw you stripped, stark naked, and this was the height of my horror, consternation, grief, and despair. I tell you, truthfully, that your skin is yet whiter and of a more perfect colour than that of my Bulgarian captain. This spectacle redoubled all the feelings which overwhelmed and devoured me. I screamed out, and would have said, 'Stop, barbarians!' but my voice failed me, and my cries would have been useless after you had been severely whipped. How is it possible, said I, that the beloved Candide and the wise Pangloss should both be at Lisbon, the one to receive a hundred lashes, and the other to be hanged by the Grand Inquisitor, of whom I am the well-beloved? Pangloss most cruelly deceived me when he said that everything in the world is for the best. "Agitated, lost, sometimes beside myself, and sometimes ready to die of weakness, my mind was filled with the massacre of my father, mother, and brother, with the insolence of the ugly Bulgarian soldier, with the stab that he gave me, with my servitude under the Bulgarian captain, with my hideous Don Issachar, with my abominable Inquisitor, with the execution of Doctor Pangloss, with the grand Miserere to which they whipped you, and especially with the kiss I gave you behind the screen the day that I had last seen you. I praised God for bringing you back to me after so many trials, and I charged my old woman to take care of you, and to conduct you hither as soon as possible. She has executed her commission perfectly well; I have tasted the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you again, of hearing you, of speaking with you. But you must be hungry, for myself, I am famished; let us have supper." They both sat down to table, and, when supper was over, they placed themselves once more on the sofa; where they were when Signor Don Issachar arrived. It was the Jewish Sabbath, and Issachar had come to enjoy his rights, and to explain his tender love. 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.

Cunegonde erklärt Candide, dass die Bulgaren ihre Familie getötet haben. Nachdem er einen Soldaten exekutiert hat, der Cunegonde vergewaltigte, nahm ein bulgarischer Kapitän Cunegonde als seine Mätresse und verkaufte sie später an einen Juden namens Don Issachar. Nachdem der Großinquisitor sie in der Messe gesehen hatte, wollte er sie von Don Issachar kaufen. Als Don Issachar ablehnte, drohte der Großinquisitor ihm mit einem Auto-da-fé. Die beiden einigten sich darauf, Cunegonde zu teilen; der Großinquisitor sollte sie vier Tage die Woche haben, Don Issachar die übrigen drei. Cunegonde war anwesend, als Pangloss gehängt und Candide ausgepeitscht wurde, was sie an Pangloss' Lehren zweifeln ließ. Cunegonde sagte der alten Frau, ihrer Dienerin, dass sie sich um Candide kümmern und ihn zu ihr bringen solle.

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: Chapter XX In the Cellars of the Opera "Your hand high, ready to fire!" repeated Raoul's companion quickly. The wall, behind them, having completed the circle which it described upon itself, closed again; and the two men stood motionless for a moment, holding their breath. At last, the Persian decided to make a movement; and Raoul heard him slip on his knees and feel for something in the dark with his groping hands. Suddenly, the darkness was made visible by a small dark lantern and Raoul instinctively stepped backward as though to escape the scrutiny of a secret enemy. But he soon perceived that the light belonged to the Persian, whose movements he was closely observing. The little red disk was turned in every direction and Raoul saw that the floor, the walls and the ceiling were all formed of planking. It must have been the ordinary road taken by Erik to reach Christine's dressing-room and impose upon her innocence. And Raoul, remembering the Persian's remark, thought that it had been mysteriously constructed by the ghost himself. Later, he learned that Erik had found, all prepared for him, a secret passage, long known to himself alone and contrived at the time of the Paris Commune to allow the jailers to convey their prisoners straight to the dungeons that had been constructed for them in the cellars; for the Federates had occupied the opera-house immediately after the eighteenth of March and had made a starting-place right at the top for their Mongolfier balloons, which carried their incendiary proclamations to the departments, and a state prison right at the bottom. The Persian went on his knees and put his lantern on the ground. He seemed to be working at the floor; and suddenly he turned off his light. Then Raoul heard a faint click and saw a very pale luminous square in the floor of the passage. It was as though a window had opened on the Opera cellars, which were still lit. Raoul no longer saw the Persian, but he suddenly felt him by his side and heard him whisper: "Follow me and do all that I do." Raoul turned to the luminous aperture. Then he saw the Persian, who was still on his knees, hang by his hands from the rim of the opening, with his pistol between his teeth, and slide into the cellar below. Curiously enough, the viscount had absolute confidence in the Persian, though he knew nothing about him. His emotion when speaking of the "monster" struck him as sincere; and, if the Persian had cherished any sinister designs against him, he would not have armed him with his own hands. Besides, Raoul must reach Christine at all costs. He therefore went on his knees also and hung from the trap with both hands. "Let go!" said a voice. And he dropped into the arms of the Persian, who told him to lie down flat, closed the trap-door above him and crouched down beside him. Raoul tried to ask a question, but the Persian's hand was on his mouth and he heard a voice which he recognized as that of the commissary of police. Raoul and the Persian were completely hidden behind a wooden partition. Near them, a small staircase led to a little room in which the commissary appeared to be walking up and down, asking questions. The faint light was just enough to enable Raoul to distinguish the shape of things around him. And he could not restrain a dull cry: there were three corpses there. The first lay on the narrow landing of the little staircase; the two others had rolled to the bottom of the staircase. Raoul could have touched one of the two poor wretches by passing his fingers through the partition. "Silence!" whispered the Persian. He too had seen the bodies and he gave one word in explanation: "HE!" The commissary's voice was now heard more distinctly. He was asking for information about the system of lighting, which the stage-manager supplied. The commissary therefore must be in the "organ" or its immediate neighborhood. Contrary to what one might think, especially in connection with an opera-house, the "organ" is not a musical instrument. At that time, electricity was employed only for a very few scenic effects and for the bells. The immense building and the stage itself were still lit by gas; hydrogen was used to regulate and modify the lighting of a scene; and this was done by means of a special apparatus which, because of the multiplicity of its pipes, was known as the "organ." A box beside the prompter's box was reserved for the chief gas-man, who from there gave his orders to his assistants and saw that they were executed. Mauclair stayed in this box during all the performances. But now Mauclair was not in his box and his assistants not in their places. "Mauclair! Mauclair!" The stage-manager's voice echoed through the cellars. But Mauclair did not reply. I have said that a door opened on a little staircase that led to the second cellar. The commissary pushed it, but it resisted. "I say," he said to the stage-manager, "I can't open this door: is it always so difficult?" The stage-manager forced it open with his shoulder. He saw that, at the same time, he was pushing a human body and he could not keep back an exclamation, for he recognized the body at once: "Mauclair! Poor devil! He is dead!" But Mr. Commissary Mifroid, whom nothing surprised, was stooping over that big body. "No," he said, "he is dead-drunk, which is not quite the same thing." "It's the first time, if so," said the stage-manager "Then some one has given him a narcotic. That is quite possible." Mifroid went down a few steps and said: "Look!" By the light of a little red lantern, at the foot of the stairs, they saw two other bodies. The stage-manager recognized Mauclair's assistants. Mifroid went down and listened to their breathing. "They are sound asleep," he said. "Very curious business! Some person unknown must have interfered with the gas-man and his staff ... and that person unknown was obviously working on behalf of the kidnapper ... But what a funny idea to kidnap a performer on the stage! ... Send for the doctor of the theater, please." And Mifroid repeated, "Curious, decidedly curious business!" Then he turned to the little room, addressing the people whom Raoul and the Persian were unable to see from where they lay. "What do you say to all this, gentlemen? You are the only ones who have not given your views. And yet you must have an opinion of some sort." Thereupon, Raoul and the Persian saw the startled faces of the joint managers appear above the landing--and they heard Moncharmin's excited voice: "There are things happening here, Mr. Commissary, which we are unable to explain." And the two faces disappeared. "Thank you for the information, gentlemen," said Mifroid, with a jeer. But the stage-manager, holding his chin in the hollow of his right hand, which is the attitude of profound thought, said: "It is not the first time that Mauclair has fallen asleep in the theater. I remember finding him, one evening, snoring in his little recess, with his snuff-box beside him." "Is that long ago?" asked M. Mifroid, carefully wiping his eye-glasses. "No, not so very long ago ... Wait a bit! ... It was the night ... of course, yes ... It was the night when Carlotta--you know, Mr. Commissary--gave her famous 'co-ack'!" "Really? The night when Carlotta gave her famous 'co-ack'?" And M. Mifroid, replacing his gleaming glasses on his nose, fixed the stage-manager with a contemplative stare. "So Mauclair takes snuff, does he?" he asked carelessly. "'Yes, Mr. Commissary ... Look, there is his snuff-box on that little shelf ... Oh! he's a great snuff-taker!" "So am I," said Mifroid and put the snuff-box in his pocket. Raoul and the Persian, themselves unobserved, watched the removal of the three bodies by a number of scene-shifters, who were followed by the commissary and all the people with him. Their steps were heard for a few minutes on the stage above. When they were alone the Persian made a sign to Raoul to stand up. Raoul did so; but, as he did not lift his hand in front of his eyes, ready to fire, the Persian told him to resume that attitude and to continue it, whatever happened. "But it tires the hand unnecessarily," whispered Raoul. "If I do fire, I shan't be sure of my aim." "Then shift your pistol to the other hand," said the Persian. "I can't shoot with my left hand." Thereupon, the Persian made this queer reply, which was certainly not calculated to throw light into the young man's flurried brain: "It's not a question of shooting with the right hand or the left; it's a question of holding one of your hands as though you were going to pull the trigger of a pistol with your arm bent. As for the pistol itself, when all is said, you can put that in your pocket!" And he added, "Let this be clearly understood, or I will answer for nothing. It is a matter of life and death. And now, silence and follow me!" The cellars of the Opera are enormous and they are five in number. Raoul followed the Persian and wondered what he would have done without his companion in that extraordinary labyrinth. They went down to the third cellar; and their progress was still lit by some distant lamp. The lower they went, the more precautions the Persian seemed to take. He kept on turning to Raoul to see if he was holding his arm properly, showing him how he himself carried his hand as if always ready to fire, though the pistol was in his pocket. Suddenly, a loud voice made them stop. Some one above them shouted: "All the door-shutters on the stage! The commissary of police wants them!" Steps were heard and shadows glided through the darkness. The Persian drew Raoul behind a set piece. They saw passing before and above them old men bent by age and the past burden of opera-scenery. Some could hardly drag themselves along; others, from habit, with stooping bodies and outstretched hands, looked for doors to shut. They were the door-shutters, the old, worn-out scene-shifters, on whom a charitable management had taken pity, giving them the job of shutting doors above and below the stage. They went about incessantly, from top to bottom of the building, shutting the doors; and they were also called "The draft-expellers," at least at that time, for I have little doubt that by now they are all dead. Drafts are very bad for the voice, wherever they may come from.[1] The two men might have stumbled over them, waking them up and provoking a request for explanations. For the moment, M. Mifroid's inquiry saved them from any such unpleasant encounters. The Persian and Raoul welcomed this incident, which relieved them of inconvenient witnesses, for some of those door-shutters, having nothing else to do or nowhere to lay their heads, stayed at the Opera, from idleness or necessity, and spent the night there. But they were not left to enjoy their solitude for long. Other shades now came down by the same way by which the door-shutters had gone up. Each of these shades carried a little lantern and moved it about, above, below and all around, as though looking for something or somebody. "Hang it!" muttered the Persian. "I don't know what they are looking for, but they might easily find us ... Let us get away, quick! ... Your hand up, sir, ready to fire! ... Bend your arm ... more ... that's it! ... Hand at the level of your eye, as though you were fighting a duel and waiting for the word to fire! Oh, leave your pistol in your pocket. Quick, come along, down-stairs. Level of your eye! Question of life or death! ... Here, this way, these stairs!" They reached the fifth cellar. "Oh, what a duel, sir, what a duel!" Once in the fifth cellar, the Persian drew breath. He seemed to enjoy a rather greater sense of security than he had displayed when they both stopped in the third; but he never altered the attitude of his hand. And Raoul, remembering the Persian's observation--"I know these pistols can be relied upon"--was more and more astonished, wondering why any one should be so gratified at being able to rely upon a pistol which he did not intend to use! But the Persian left him no time for reflection. Telling Raoul to stay where he was, he ran up a few steps of the staircase which they had just left and then returned. "How stupid of us!" he whispered. "We shall soon have seen the end of those men with their lanterns. It is the firemen going their rounds."[2] The two men waited five minutes longer. Then the Persian took Raoul up the stairs again; but suddenly he stopped him with a gesture. Something moved in the darkness before them. "Flat on your stomach!" whispered the Persian. The two men lay flat on the floor. They were only just in time. A shade, this time carrying no light, just a shade in the shade, passed. It passed close to them, near enough to touch them. They felt the warmth of its cloak upon them. For they could distinguish the shade sufficiently to see that it wore a cloak which shrouded it from head to foot. On its head it had a soft felt hat ... It moved away, drawing its feet against the walls and sometimes giving a kick into a corner. "Whew!" said the Persian. "We've had a narrow escape; that shade knows me and has twice taken me to the managers' office." "Is it some one belonging to the theater police?" asked Raoul. "It's some one much worse than that!" replied the Persian, without giving any further explanation.[3] "It's not ... he?" "He? ... If he does not come behind us, we shall always see his yellow eyes! That is more or less our safeguard to-night. But he may come from behind, stealing up; and we are dead men if we do not keep our hands as though about to fire, at the level of our eyes, in front!" The Persian had hardly finished speaking, when a fantastic face came in sight ... a whole fiery face, not only two yellow eyes! Yes, a head of fire came toward them, at a man's height, but with no body attached to it. The face shed fire, looked in the darkness like a flame shaped as a man's face. "Oh," said the Persian, between his teeth. "I have never seen this before! ... Pampin was not mad, after all: he had seen it! ... What can that flame be? It is not HE, but he may have sent it! ... Take care! ... Take care! Your hand at the level of your eyes, in Heaven's name, at the level of your eyes! ... know most of his tricks ... but not this one ... Come, let us run ... it is safer. Hand at the level of your eyes!" And they fled down the long passage that opened before them. After a few seconds, that seemed to them like long minutes, they stopped. "He doesn't often come this way," said the Persian. "This side has nothing to do with him. This side does not lead to the lake nor to the house on the lake ... But perhaps he knows that we are at his heels ... although I promised him to leave him alone and never to meddle in his business again!" So saying, he turned his head and Raoul also turned his head; and they again saw the head of fire behind their two heads. It had followed them. And it must have run also, and perhaps faster than they, for it seemed to be nearer to them. At the same time, they began to perceive a certain noise of which they could not guess the nature. They simply noticed that the sound seemed to move and to approach with the fiery face. It was a noise as though thousands of nails had been scraped against a blackboard, the perfectly unendurable noise that is sometimes made by a little stone inside the chalk that grates on the blackboard. They continued to retreat, but the fiery face came on, came on, gaining on them. They could see its features clearly now. The eyes were round and staring, the nose a little crooked and the mouth large, with a hanging lower lip, very like the eyes, nose and lip of the moon, when the moon is quite red, bright red. How did that red moon manage to glide through the darkness, at a man's height, with nothing to support it, at least apparently? And how did it go so fast, so straight ahead, with such staring, staring eyes? And what was that scratching, scraping, grating sound which it brought with it? The Persian and Raoul could retreat no farther and flattened themselves against the wall, not knowing what was going to happen because of that incomprehensible head of fire, and especially now, because of the more intense, swarming, living, "numerous" sound, for the sound was certainly made up of hundreds of little sounds that moved in the darkness, under the fiery face. And the fiery face came on ... with its noise ... came level with them! ... And the two companions, flat against their wall, felt their hair stand on end with horror, for they now knew what the thousand noises meant. They came in a troop, hustled along in the shadow by innumerable little hurried waves, swifter than the waves that rush over the sands at high tide, little night-waves foaming under the moon, under the fiery head that was like a moon. And the little waves passed between their legs, climbing up their legs, irresistibly, and Raoul and the Persian could no longer restrain their cries of horror, dismay and pain. Nor could they continue to hold their hands at the level of their eyes: their hands went down to their legs to push back the waves, which were full of little legs and nails and claws and teeth. Yes, Raoul and the Persian were ready to faint, like Pampin the fireman. But the head of fire turned round in answer to their cries, and spoke to them: "Don't move! Don't move! ... Whatever you do, don't come after me! ... I am the rat-catcher! ... Let me pass, with my rats! ..." And the head of fire disappeared, vanished in the darkness, while the passage in front of it lit up, as the result of the change which the rat-catcher had made in his dark lantern. Before, so as not to scare the rats in front of him, he had turned his dark lantern on himself, lighting up his own head; now, to hasten their flight, he lit the dark space in front of him. And he jumped along, dragging with him the waves of scratching rats, all the thousand sounds. Raoul and the Persian breathed again, though still trembling. "I ought to have remembered that Erik talked to me about the rat-catcher," said the Persian. "But he never told me that he looked like that ... and it's funny that I should never have met him before ... Of course, Erik never comes to this part!" [Illustration: two page color illustration] "Are we very far from the lake, sir?" asked Raoul. "When shall we get there? ... Take me to the lake, oh, take me to the lake! ... When we are at the lake, we will call out! ... Christine will hear us! ... And HE will hear us, too! ... And, as you know him, we shall talk to him!" "Baby!" said the Persian. "We shall never enter the house on the lake by the lake! ... I myself have never landed on the other bank ... the bank on which the house stands. ... You have to cross the lake first ... and it is well guarded! ... I fear that more than one of those men--old scene-shifters, old door-shutters--who have never been seen again were simply tempted to cross the lake ... It is terrible ... I myself would have been nearly killed there ... if the monster had not recognized me in time! ... One piece of advice, sir; never go near the lake... And, above all, shut your ears if you hear the voice singing under the water, the siren's voice!" "But then, what are we here for?" asked Raoul, in a transport of fever, impatience and rage. "If you can do nothing for Christine, at least let me die for her!" The Persian tried to calm the young man. "We have only one means of saving Christine Daae, believe me, which is to enter the house unperceived by the monster." "And is there any hope of that, sir?" "Ah, if I had not that hope, I would not have come to fetch you!" "And how can one enter the house on the lake without crossing the lake?" "From the third cellar, from which we were so unluckily driven away. We will go back there now ... I will tell you," said the Persian, with a sudden change in his voice, "I will tell you the exact place, sir: it is between a set piece and a discarded scene from ROI DE LAHORE, exactly at the spot where Joseph Buquet died... Come, sir, take courage and follow me! And hold your hand at the level of your eyes! ... But where are we?" The Persian lit his lamp again and flung its rays down two enormous corridors that crossed each other at right angles. "We must be," he said, "in the part used more particularly for the waterworks. I see no fire coming from the furnaces." He went in front of Raoul, seeking his road, stopping abruptly when he was afraid of meeting some waterman. Then they had to protect themselves against the glow of a sort of underground forge, which the men were extinguishing, and at which Raoul recognized the demons whom Christine had seen at the time of her first captivity. In this way, they gradually arrived beneath the huge cellars below the stage. They must at this time have been at the very bottom of the "tub" and at an extremely great depth, when we remember that the earth was dug out at fifty feet below the water that lay under the whole of that part of Paris.[4] The Persian touched a partition-wall and said: "If I am not mistaken, this is a wall that might easily belong to the house on the lake." He was striking a partition-wall of the "tub," and perhaps it would be as well for the reader to know how the bottom and the partition-walls of the tub were built. In order to prevent the water surrounding the building-operations from remaining in immediate contact with the walls supporting the whole of the theatrical machinery, the architect was obliged to build a double case in every direction. The work of constructing this double case took a whole year. It was the wall of the first inner case that the Persian struck when speaking to Raoul of the house on the lake. To any one understanding the architecture of the edifice, the Persian's action would seem to indicate that Erik's mysterious house had been built in the double case, formed of a thick wall constructed as an embankment or dam, then of a brick wall, a tremendous layer of cement and another wall several yards in thickness. At the Persian's words, Raoul flung himself against the wall and listened eagerly. But he heard nothing ... nothing ... except distant steps sounding on the floor of the upper portions of the theater. The Persian darkened his lantern again. "Look out!" he said. "Keep your hand up! And silence! For we shall try another way of getting in." And he led him to the little staircase by which they had come down lately. They went up, stopping at each step, peering into the darkness and the silence, till they came to the third cellar. Here the Persian motioned to Raoul to go on his knees; and, in this way, crawling on both knees and one hand--for the other hand was held in the position indicated--they reached the end wall. Against this wall stood a large discarded scene from the ROI DE LAHORE. Close to this scene was a set piece. Between the scene and the set piece there was just room for a body ... for a body which one day was found hanging there. The body of Joseph Buquet. The Persian, still kneeling, stopped and listened. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate and looked at Raoul; then he turned his eyes upward, toward the second cellar, which sent down the faint glimmer of a lantern, through a cranny between two boards. This glimmer seemed to trouble the Persian. At last, he tossed his head and made up his mind to act. He slipped between the set piece and the scene from the ROI DE LAHORE, with Raoul close upon his heels. With his free hand, the Persian felt the wall. Raoul saw him bear heavily upon the wall, just as he had pressed against the wall in Christine's dressing-room. Then a stone gave way, leaving a hole in the wall. This time, the Persian took his pistol from his pocket and made a sign to Raoul to do as he did. He cocked the pistol. And, resolutely, still on his knees, he wiggled through the hole in the wall. Raoul, who had wished to pass first, had to be content to follow him. The hole was very narrow. The Persian stopped almost at once. Raoul heard him feeling the stones around him. Then the Persian took out his dark lantern again, stooped forward, examined something beneath him and immediately extinguished his lantern. Raoul heard him say, in a whisper: "We shall have to drop a few yards, without making a noise; take off your boots." The Persian handed his own shoes to Raoul. "Put them outside the wall," he said. "We shall find them there when we leave."[5] He crawled a little farther on his knees, then turned right round and said: "I am going to hang by my hands from the edge of the stone and let myself drop INTO HIS HOUSE. You must do exactly the same. Do not be afraid. I will catch you in my arms." Raoul soon heard a dull sound, evidently produced by the fall of the Persian, and then dropped down. He felt himself clasped in the Persian's arms. "Hush!" said the Persian. And they stood motionless, listening. The darkness was thick around them, the silence heavy and terrible. Then the Persian began to make play with the dark lantern again, turning the rays over their heads, looking for the hole through which they had come, and failing to find it: "Oh!" he said. "The stone has closed of itself!" And the light of the lantern swept down the wall and over the floor. The Persian stooped and picked up something, a sort of cord, which he examined for a second and flung away with horror. "The Punjab lasso!" he muttered. "What is it?" asked Raoul. The Persian shivered. "It might very well be the rope by which the man was hanged, and which was looked for so long." And, suddenly seized with fresh anxiety, he moved the little red disk of his lantern over the walls. In this way, he lit up a curious thing: the trunk of a tree, which seemed still quite alive, with its leaves; and the branches of that tree ran right up the walls and disappeared in the ceiling. Because of the smallness of the luminous disk, it was difficult at first to make out the appearance of things: they saw a corner of a branch ... and a leaf ... and another leaf ... and, next to it, nothing at all, nothing but the ray of light that seemed to reflect itself ... Raoul passed his hand over that nothing, over that reflection. "Hullo!" he said. "The wall is a looking-glass!" "Yes, a looking-glass!" said the Persian, in a tone of deep emotion. And, passing the hand that held the pistol over his moist forehead, he added, "We have dropped into the torture-chamber!" What the Persian knew of this torture-chamber and what there befell him and his companion shall be told in his own words, as set down in a manuscript which he left behind him, and which I copy VERBATIM. [1] M. Pedro Gailhard has himself told me that he created a few additional posts as door-shutters for old stage-carpenters whom he was unwilling to dismiss from the service of the Opera. [2] In those days, it was still part of the firemen's duty to watch over the safety of the Opera house outside the performances; but this service has since been suppressed. I asked M. Pedro Gailhard the reason, and he replied: "It was because the management was afraid that, in their utter inexperience of the cellars of the Opera, the firemen might set fire to the building!" [3] Like the Persian, I can give no further explanation touching the apparition of this shade. Whereas, in this historic narrative, everything else will be normally explained, however abnormal the course of events may seem, I can not give the reader expressly to understand what the Persian meant by the words, "It is some one much worse than that!" The reader must try to guess for himself, for I promised M. Pedro Gailhard, the former manager of the Opera, to keep his secret regarding the extremely interesting and useful personality of the wandering, cloaked shade which, while condemning itself to live in the cellars of the Opera, rendered such immense services to those who, on gala evenings, for instance, venture to stray away from the stage. I am speaking of state services; and, upon my word of honor, I can say no more. [4] All the water had to be exhausted, in the building of the Opera. To give an idea of the amount of water that was pumped up, I can tell the reader that it represented the area of the courtyard of the Louvre and a height half as deep again as the towers of Notre Dame. And nevertheless the engineers had to leave a lake. [5] These two pairs of boots, which were placed, according to the Persian's papers, just between the set piece and the scene from the ROI DE LAHORE, on the spot where Joseph Buquet was found hanging, were never discovered. They must have been taken by some stage-carpenter or "door-shutter." Chapter XXI Interesting and Instructive Vicissitudes of a Persian in the Cellars of the Opera THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE It was the first time that I entered the house on the lake. I had often begged the "trap-door lover," as we used to call Erik in my country, to open its mysterious doors to me. He always refused. I made very many attempts, but in vain, to obtain admittance. Watch him as I might, after I first learned that he had taken up his permanent abode at the Opera, the darkness was always too thick to enable me to see how he worked the door in the wall on the lake. One day, when I thought myself alone, I stepped into the boat and rowed toward that part of the wall through which I had seen Erik disappear. It was then that I came into contact with the siren who guarded the approach and whose charm was very nearly fatal to me. I had no sooner put off from the bank than the silence amid which I floated on the water was disturbed by a sort of whispered singing that hovered all around me. It was half breath, half music; it rose softly from the waters of the lake; and I was surrounded by it through I knew not what artifice. It followed me, moved with me and was so soft that it did not alarm me. On the contrary, in my longing to approach the source of that sweet and enticing harmony, I leaned out of my little boat over the water, for there was no doubt in my mind that the singing came from the water itself. By this time, I was alone in the boat in the middle of the lake; the voice--for it was now distinctly a voice--was beside me, on the water. I leaned over, leaned still farther. The lake was perfectly calm, and a moonbeam that passed through the air hole in the Rue Scribe showed me absolutely nothing on its surface, which was smooth and black as ink. I shook my ears to get rid of a possible humming; but I soon had to accept the fact that there was no humming in the ears so harmonious as the singing whisper that followed and now attracted me. Had I been inclined to superstition, I should have certainly thought that I had to do with some siren whose business it was to confound the traveler who should venture on the waters of the house on the lake. Fortunately, I come from a country where we are too fond of fantastic things not to know them through and through; and I had no doubt but that I was face to face with some new invention of Erik's. But this invention was so perfect that, as I leaned out of the boat, I was impelled less by a desire to discover its trick than to enjoy its charm; and I leaned out, leaned out until I almost overturned the boat. Suddenly, two monstrous arms issued from the bosom of the waters and seized me by the neck, dragging me down to the depths with irresistible force. I should certainly have been lost, if I had not had time to give a cry by which Erik knew me. For it was he; and, instead of drowning me, as was certainly his first intention, he swam with me and laid me gently on the bank: "How imprudent you are!" he said, as he stood before me, dripping with water. "Why try to enter my house? I never invited you! I don't want you there, nor anybody! Did you save my life only to make it unbearable to me? However great the service you rendered him, Erik may end by forgetting it; and you know that nothing can restrain Erik, not even Erik himself." He spoke, but I had now no other wish than to know what I already called the trick of the siren. He satisfied my curiosity, for Erik, who is a real monster--I have seen him at work in Persia, alas--is also, in certain respects, a regular child, vain and self-conceited, and there is nothing he loves so much, after astonishing people, as to prove all the really miraculous ingenuity of his mind. He laughed and showed me a long reed. "It's the silliest trick you ever saw," he said, "but it's very useful for breathing and singing in the water. I learned it from the Tonkin pirates, who are able to remain hidden for hours in the beds of the rivers."[1] I spoke to him severely. "It's a trick that nearly killed me!" I said. "And it may have been fatal to others! You know what you promised me, Erik? No more murders!" "Have I really committed murders?" he asked, putting on his most amiable air. "Wretched man!" I cried. "Have you forgotten the rosy hours of Mazenderan?" "Yes," he replied, in a sadder tone, "I prefer to forget them. I used to make the little sultana laugh, though!" "All that belongs to the past," I declared; "but there is the present ... and you are responsible to me for the present, because, if I had wished, there would have been none at all for you. Remember that, Erik: I saved your life!" And I took advantage of the turn of conversation to speak to him of something that had long been on my mind: "Erik," I asked, "Erik, swear that ..." "What?" he retorted. "You know I never keep my oaths. Oaths are made to catch gulls with." "Tell me ... you can tell me, at any rate..." "Well?" "Well, the chandelier ... the chandelier, Erik? ..." "What about the chandelier?" "You know what I mean." "Oh," he sniggered, "I don't mind telling you about the chandelier! ... IT WASN'T I! ... The chandelier was very old and worn." When Erik laughed, he was more terrible than ever. He jumped into the boat, chuckling so horribly that I could not help trembling. "Very old and worn, my dear daroga![2] Very old and worn, the chandelier! ... It fell of itself! ... It came down with a smash! ... And now, daroga, take my advice and go and dry yourself, or you'll catch a cold in the head! ... And never get into my boat again ... And, whatever you do, don't try to enter my house: I'm not always there ... daroga! And I should be sorry to have to dedicate my Requiem Mass to you!" So saying, swinging to and fro, like a monkey, and still chuckling, he pushed off and soon disappeared in the darkness of the lake. From that day, I gave up all thought of penetrating into his house by the lake. That entrance was obviously too well guarded, especially since he had learned that I knew about it. But I felt that there must be another entrance, for I had often seen Erik disappear in the third cellar, when I was watching him, though I could not imagine how. Ever since I had discovered Erik installed in the Opera, I lived in a perpetual terror of his horrible fancies, not in so far as I was concerned, but I dreaded everything for others.[3] And whenever some accident, some fatal event happened, I always thought to myself, "I should not be surprised if that were Erik," even as others used to say, "It's the ghost!" How often have I not heard people utter that phrase with a smile! Poor devils! If they had known that the ghost existed in the flesh, I swear they would not have laughed! Although Erik announced to me very solemnly that he had changed and that he had become the most virtuous of men SINCE HE WAS LOVED FOR HIMSELF--a sentence that, at first, perplexed me most terribly--I could not help shuddering when I thought of the monster. His horrible, unparalleled and repulsive ugliness put him without the pale of humanity; and it often seemed to me that, for this reason, he no longer believed that he had any duty toward the human race. The way in which he spoke of his love affairs only increased my alarm, for I foresaw the cause of fresh and more hideous tragedies in this event to which he alluded so boastfully. On the other hand, I soon discovered the curious moral traffic established between the monster and Christine Daae. Hiding in the lumber-room next to the young prima donna's dressing-room, I listened to wonderful musical displays that evidently flung Christine into marvelous ecstasy; but, all the same, I would never have thought that Erik's voice--which was loud as thunder or soft as angels' voices, at will--could have made her forget his ugliness. I understood all when I learned that Christine had not yet seen him! I had occasion to go to the dressing-room and, remembering the lessons he had once given me, I had no difficulty in discovering the trick that made the wall with the mirror swing round and I ascertained the means of hollow bricks and so on--by which he made his voice carry to Christine as though she heard it close beside her. In this way also I discovered the road that led to the well and the dungeon--the Communists' dungeon--and also the trap-door that enabled Erik to go straight to the cellars below the stage. A few days later, what was not my amazement to learn by my own eyes and ears that Erik and Christine Daae saw each other and to catch the monster stooping over the little well, in the Communists' road and sprinkling the forehead of Christine Daae, who had fainted. A white horse, the horse out of the PROFETA, which had disappeared from the stables under the Opera, was standing quietly beside them. I showed myself. It was terrible. I saw sparks fly from those yellow eyes and, before I had time to say a word, I received a blow on the head that stunned me. When I came to myself, Erik, Christine and the white horse had disappeared. I felt sure that the poor girl was a prisoner in the house on the lake. Without hesitation, I resolved to return to the bank, notwithstanding the attendant danger. For twenty-four hours, I lay in wait for the monster to appear; for I felt that he must go out, driven by the need of obtaining provisions. And, in this connection, I may say, that, when he went out in the streets or ventured to show himself in public, he wore a pasteboard nose, with a mustache attached to it, instead of his own horrible hole of a nose. This did not quite take away his corpse-like air, but it made him almost, I say almost, endurable to look at. I therefore watched on the bank of the lake and, weary of long waiting, was beginning to think that he had gone through the other door, the door in the third cellar, when I heard a slight splashing in the dark, I saw the two yellow eyes shining like candles and soon the boat touched shore. Erik jumped out and walked up to me: "You've been here for twenty-four hours," he said, "and you're annoying me. I tell you, all this will end very badly. And you will have brought it upon yourself; for I have been extraordinarily patient with you. You think you are following me, you great booby, whereas it's I who am following you; and I know all that you know about me, here. I spared you yesterday, in MY COMMUNISTS' ROAD; but I warn you, seriously, don't let me catch you there again! Upon my word, you don't seem able to take a hint!" He was so furious that I did not think, for the moment, of interrupting him. After puffing and blowing like a walrus, he put his horrible thought into words: "Yes, you must learn, once and for all--once and for all, I say--to take a hint! I tell you that, with your recklessness--for you have already been twice arrested by the shade in the felt hat, who did not know what you were doing in the cellars and took you to the managers, who looked upon you as an eccentric Persian interested in stage mechanism and life behind the scenes: I know all about it, I was there, in the office; you know I am everywhere--well, I tell you that, with your recklessness, they will end by wondering what you are after here ... and they will end by knowing that you are after Erik ... and then they will be after Erik themselves and they will discover the house on the lake ... If they do, it will be a bad lookout for you, old chap, a bad lookout! ... I won't answer for anything." Again he puffed and blew like a walrus. "I won't answer for anything! ... If Erik's secrets cease to be Erik's secrets, IT WILL BE A BAD LOOKOUT FOR A GOODLY NUMBER OF THE HUMAN RACE! That's all I have to tell you, and unless you are a great booby, it ought to be enough for you ... except that you don't know how to take a hint." He had sat down on the stern of his boat and was kicking his heels against the planks, waiting to hear what I had to answer. I simply said: "It's not Erik that I'm after here!" "Who then?" "You know as well as I do: it's Christine Daae," I answered. He retorted: "I have every right to see her in my own house. I am loved for my own sake." "That's not true," I said. "You have carried her off and are keeping her locked up." "Listen," he said. "Will you promise never to meddle with my affairs again, if I prove to you that I am loved for my own sake?" "Yes, I promise you," I replied, without hesitation, for I felt convinced that for such a monster the proof was impossible. "Well, then, it's quite simple ... Christine Daae shall leave this as she pleases and come back again! ... Yes, come back again, because she wishes ... come back of herself, because she loves me for myself! ..." "Oh, I doubt if she will come back! ... But it is your duty to let her go." "My duty, you great booby! ... It is my wish ... my wish to let her go; and she will come back again ... for she loves me! ... All this will end in a marriage ... a marriage at the Madeleine, you great booby! Do you believe me now? When I tell you that my nuptial mass is written ... wait till you hear the KYRIE..." He beat time with his heels on the planks of the boat and sang: "KYRIE! ... KYRIE! ... KYRIE ELEISON! ... Wait till you hear, wait till you hear that mass." "Look here," I said. "I shall believe you if I see Christine Daae come out of the house on the lake and go back to it of her own accord." "And you won't meddle any more in my affairs?" "No." "Very well, you shall see that to-night. Come to the masked ball. Christine and I will go and have a look round. Then you can hide in the lumber-room and you shall see Christine, who will have gone to her dressing-room, delighted to come back by the Communists' road... And, now, be off, for I must go and do some shopping!" To my intense astonishment, things happened as he had announced. Christine Daae left the house on the lake and returned to it several times, without, apparently, being forced to do so. It was very difficult for me to clear my mind of Erik. However, I resolved to be extremely prudent, and did not make the mistake of returning to the shore of the lake, or of going by the Communists' road. But the idea of the secret entrance in the third cellar haunted me, and I repeatedly went and waited for hours behind a scene from the Roi de Lahore, which had been left there for some reason or other. At last my patience was rewarded. One day, I saw the monster come toward me, on his knees. I was certain that he could not see me. He passed between the scene behind which I stood and a set piece, went to the wall and pressed on a spring that moved a stone and afforded him an ingress. He passed through this, and the stone closed behind him. I waited for at least thirty minutes and then pressed the spring in my turn. Everything happened as with Erik. But I was careful not to go through the hole myself, for I knew that Erik was inside. On the other hand, the idea that I might be caught by Erik suddenly made me think of the death of Joseph Buquet. I did not wish to jeopardize the advantages of so great a discovery which might be useful to many people, "to a goodly number of the human race," in Erik's words; and I left the cellars of the Opera after carefully replacing the stone. I continued to be greatly interested in the relations between Erik and Christine Daae, not from any morbid curiosity, but because of the terrible thought which obsessed my mind that Erik was capable of anything, if he once discovered that he was not loved for his own sake, as he imagined. I continued to wander, very cautiously, about the Opera and soon learned the truth about the monster's dreary love-affair. He filled Christine's mind, through the terror with which he inspired her, but the dear child's heart belonged wholly to the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. While they played about, like an innocent engaged couple, on the upper floors of the Opera, to avoid the monster, they little suspected that some one was watching over them. I was prepared to do anything: to kill the monster, if necessary, and explain to the police afterward. But Erik did not show himself; and I felt none the more comfortable for that. I must explain my whole plan. I thought that the monster, being driven from his house by jealousy, would thus enable me to enter it, without danger, through the passage in the third cellar. It was important, for everybody's sake, that I should know exactly what was inside. One day, tired of waiting for an opportunity, I moved the stone and at once heard an astounding music: the monster was working at his Don Juan Triumphant, with every door in his house wide open. I knew that this was the work of his life. I was careful not to stir and remained prudently in my dark hole. He stopped playing, for a moment, and began walking about his place, like a madman. And he said aloud, at the top of his voice: "It must be finished FIRST! Quite finished!" This speech was not calculated to reassure me and, when the music recommenced, I closed the stone very softly. On the day of the abduction of Christine Daae, I did not come to the theater until rather late in the evening, trembling lest I should hear bad news. I had spent a horrible day, for, after reading in a morning paper the announcement of a forthcoming marriage between Christine and the Vicomte de Chagny, I wondered whether, after all, I should not do better to denounce the monster. But reason returned to me, and I was persuaded that this action could only precipitate a possible catastrophe. When, my cab set me down before the Opera, I was really almost astonished to see it still standing! But I am something of a fatalist, like all good Orientals, and I entered ready, for anything. Christine Daae's abduction in the Prison Act, which naturally surprised everybody, found me prepared. I was quite certain that she had been juggled away by Erik, that prince of conjurers. And I thought positively that this was the end of Christine and perhaps of everybody, so much so that I thought of advising all these people who were staying on at the theater to make good their escape. I felt, however, that they would be sure to look upon me as mad and I refrained. On the other hand, I resolved to act without further delay, as far as I was concerned. The chances were in my favor that Erik, at that moment, was thinking only of his captive. This was the moment to enter his house through the third cellar; and I resolved to take with me that poor little desperate viscount, who, at the first suggestion, accepted, with an amount of confidence in myself that touched me profoundly. I had sent my servant for my pistols. I gave one to the viscount and advised him to hold himself ready to fire, for, after all, Erik might be waiting for us behind the wall. We were to go by the Communists' road and through the trap-door. Seeing my pistols, the little viscount asked me if we were going to fight a duel. I said: "Yes; and what a duel!" But, of course, I had no time to explain anything to him. The little viscount is a brave fellow, but he knew hardly anything about his adversary; and it was so much the better. My great fear was that he was already somewhere near us, preparing the Punjab lasso. No one knows better than he how to throw the Punjab lasso, for he is the king of stranglers even as he is the prince of conjurors. When he had finished making the little sultana laugh, at the time of the "rosy hours of Mazenderan," she herself used to ask him to amuse her by giving her a thrill. It was then that he introduced the sport of the Punjab lasso. He had lived in India and acquired an incredible skill in the art of strangulation. He would make them lock him into a courtyard to which they brought a warrior--usually, a man condemned to death--armed with a long pike and broadsword. Erik had only his lasso; and it was always just when the warrior thought that he was going to fell Erik with a tremendous blow that we heard the lasso whistle through the air. With a turn of the wrist, Erik tightened the noose round his adversary's neck and, in this fashion, dragged him before the little sultana and her women, who sat looking from a window and applauding. The little sultana herself learned to wield the Punjab lasso and killed several of her women and even of the friends who visited her. But I prefer to drop this terrible subject of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. I have mentioned it only to explain why, on arriving with the Vicomte de Chagny in the cellars of the Opera, I was bound to protect my companion against the ever-threatening danger of death by strangling. My pistols could serve no purpose, for Erik was not likely to show himself; but Erik could always strangle us. I had no time to explain all this to the viscount; besides, there was nothing to be gained by complicating the position. I simply told M. de Chagny to keep his hand at the level of his eyes, with the arm bent, as though waiting for the command to fire. With his victim in this attitude, it is impossible even for the most expert strangler to throw the lasso with advantage. It catches you not only round the neck, but also round the arm or hand. This enables you easily to unloose the lasso, which then becomes harmless. After avoiding the commissary of police, a number of door-shutters and the firemen, after meeting the rat-catcher and passing the man in the felt hat unperceived, the viscount and I arrived without obstacle in the third cellar, between the set piece and the scene from the Roi de Lahore. I worked the stone, and we jumped into the house which Erik had built himself in the double case of the foundation-walls of the Opera. And this was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, because Erik was one of the chief contractors under Philippe Garnier, the architect of the Opera, and continued to work by himself when the works were officially suspended, during the war, the siege of Paris and the Commune. I knew my Erik too well to feel at all comfortable on jumping into his house. I knew what he had made of a certain palace at Mazenderan. From being the most honest building conceivable, he soon turned it into a house of the very devil, where you could not utter a word but it was overheard or repeated by an echo. With his trap-doors the monster was responsible for endless tragedies of all kinds. He hit upon astonishing inventions. Of these, the most curious, horrible and dangerous was the so-called torture-chamber. Except in special cases, when the little sultana amused herself by inflicting suffering upon some unoffending citizen, no one was let into it but wretches condemned to death. And, even then, when these had "had enough," they were always at liberty to put an end to themselves with a Punjab lasso or bowstring, left for their use at the foot of an iron tree. My alarm, therefore, was great when I saw that the room into which M. le Vicomte de Chagny and I had dropped was an exact copy of the torture-chamber of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. At our feet, I found the Punjab lasso which I had been dreading all the evening. I was convinced that this rope had already done duty for Joseph Buquet, who, like myself, must have caught Erik one evening working the stone in the third cellar. He probably tried it in his turn, fell into the torture-chamber and only left it hanged. I can well imagine Erik dragging the body, in order to get rid of it, to the scene from the Roi de Lahore, and hanging it there as an example, or to increase the superstitious terror that was to help him in guarding the approaches to his lair! Then, upon reflection, Erik went back to fetch the Punjab lasso, which is very curiously made out of catgut, and which might have set an examining magistrate thinking. This explains the disappearance of the rope. And now I discovered the lasso, at our feet, in the torture-chamber! ... I am no coward, but a cold sweat covered my forehead as I moved the little red disk of my lantern over the walls. M. de Chagny noticed it and asked: "What is the matter, sir?" I made him a violent sign to be silent. [1] An official report from Tonkin, received in Paris at the end of July, 1909, relates how the famous pirate chief De Tham was tracked, together with his men, by our soldiers; and how all of them succeeded in escaping, thanks to this trick of the reeds. [2] DAROGA is Persian for chief of police. [3] The Persian might easily have admitted that Erik's fate also interested himself, for he was well aware that, if the government of Teheran had learned that Erik was still alive, it would have been all up with the modest pension of the erstwhile daroga. It is only fair, however, to add that the Persian had a noble and generous heart; and I do not doubt for a moment that the catastrophes which he feared for others greatly occupied his mind. His conduct, throughout this business, proves it and is above all praise. Chapter XXII In the Torture Chamber THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED We were in the middle of a little six-cornered room, the sides of which were covered with mirrors from top to bottom. In the corners, we could clearly see the "joins" in the glasses, the segments intended to turn on their gear; yes, I recognized them and I recognized the iron tree in the corner, at the bottom of one of those segments ... the iron tree, with its iron branch, for the hanged men. I seized my companion's arm: the Vicomte de Chagny was all a-quiver, eager to shout to his betrothed that he was bringing her help. I feared that he would not be able to contain himself. Suddenly, we heard a noise on our left. It sounded at first like a door opening and shutting in the next room; and then there was a dull moan. I clutched M. de Chagny's arm more firmly still; and then we distinctly heard these words: "You must make your choice! The wedding mass or the requiem mass!" I recognized the voice of the monster. There was another moan, followed by a long silence. I was persuaded by now that the monster was unaware of our presence in his house, for otherwise he would certainly have managed not to let us hear him. He would only have had to close the little invisible window through which the torture-lovers look down into the torture-chamber. Besides, I was certain that, if he had known of our presence, the tortures would have begun at once. The important thing was not to let him know; and I dreaded nothing so much as the impulsiveness of the Vicomte de Chagny, who wanted to rush through the walls to Christine Daae, whose moans we continued to hear at intervals. "The requiem mass is not at all gay," Erik's voice resumed, "whereas the wedding mass--you can take my word for it--is magnificent! You must take a resolution and know your own mind! I can't go on living like this, like a mole in a burrow! Don Juan Triumphant is finished; and now I want to live like everybody else. I want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays. I have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. People will not even turn round in the streets. You will be the happiest of women. And we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight. You are crying! You are afraid of me! And yet I am not really wicked. Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself. If you loved me I should be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do anything with me that you pleased." Soon the moans that accompanied this sort of love's litany increased and increased. I have never heard anything more despairing; and M. de Chagny and I recognized that this terrible lamentation came from Erik himself. Christine seemed to be standing dumb with horror, without the strength to cry out, while the monster was on his knees before her. Three times over, Erik fiercely bewailed his fate: "You don't love me! You don't love me! You don't love me!" And then, more gently: "Why do you cry? You know it gives me pain to see you cry!" A silence. Each silence gave us fresh hope. We said to ourselves: "Perhaps he has left Christine behind the wall." And we thought only of the possibility of warning Christine Daae of our presence, unknown to the monster. We were unable to leave the torture-chamber now, unless Christine opened the door to us; and it was only on this condition that we could hope to help her, for we did not even know where the door might be. Suddenly, the silence in the next room was disturbed by the ringing of an electric bell. There was a bound on the other side of the wall and Erik's voice of thunder: "Somebody ringing! Walk in, please!" A sinister chuckle. "Who has come bothering now? Wait for me here ... I AM GOING TO TELL THE SIREN TO OPEN THE DOOR." Steps moved away, a door closed. I had no time to think of the fresh horror that was preparing; I forgot that the monster was only going out perhaps to perpetrate a fresh crime; I understood but one thing: Christine was alone behind the wall! The Vicomte de Chagny was already calling to her: "Christine! Christine!" As we could hear what was said in the next room, there was no reason why my companion should not be heard in his turn. Nevertheless, the viscount had to repeat his cry time after time. At last, a faint voice reached us. "I am dreaming!" it said. "Christine, Christine, it is I, Raoul!" A silence. "But answer me, Christine! ... In Heaven's name, if you are alone, answer me!" Then Christine's voice whispered Raoul's name. "Yes! Yes! It is I! It is not a dream! ... Christine, trust me! ... We are here to save you ... but be prudent! When you hear the monster, warn us!" Then Christine gave way to fear. She trembled lest Erik should discover where Raoul was hidden; she told us in a few hurried words that Erik had gone quite mad with love and that he had decided TO KILL EVERYBODY AND HIMSELF WITH EVERYBODY if she did not consent to become his wife. He had given her till eleven o'clock the next evening for reflection. It was the last respite. She must choose, as he said, between the wedding mass and the requiem. And Erik had then uttered a phrase which Christine did not quite understand: "Yes or no! If your answer is no, everybody will be dead AND BURIED!" But I understood the sentence perfectly, for it corresponded in a terrible manner with my own dreadful thought. "Can you tell us where Erik is?" I asked. She replied that he must have left the house. "Could you make sure?" "No. I am fastened. I can not stir a limb." When we heard this, M. de Chagny and I gave a yell of fury. Our safety, the safety of all three of us, depended on the girl's liberty of movement. "But where are you?" asked Christine. "There are only two doors in my room, the Louis-Philippe room of which I told you, Raoul; a door through which Erik comes and goes, and another which he has never opened before me and which he has forbidden me ever to go through, because he says it is the most dangerous of the doors, the door of the torture-chamber!" "Christine, that is where we are!" "You are in the torture-chamber?" "Yes, but we can not see the door." "Oh, if I could only drag myself so far! I would knock at the door and that would tell you where it is." "Is it a door with a lock to it?" I asked. "Yes, with a lock." "Mademoiselle," I said, "it is absolutely necessary, that you should open that door to us!" "But how?" asked the poor girl tearfully. We heard her straining, trying to free herself from the bonds that held her. "I know where the key is," she said, in a voice that seemed exhausted by the effort she had made. "But I am fastened so tight ... Oh, the wretch!" And she gave a sob. "Where is the key?" I asked, signing to M. de Chagny not to speak and to leave the business to me, for we had not a moment to lose. "In the next room, near the organ, with another little bronze key, which he also forbade me to touch. They are both in a little leather bag which he calls the bag of life and death... Raoul! Raoul! Fly! Everything is mysterious and terrible here, and Erik will soon have gone quite mad, and you are in the torture-chamber! ... Go back by the way you came. There must be a reason why the room is called by that name!" "Christine," said the young man. "We will go from here together or die together!" "We must keep cool," I whispered. "Why has he fastened you, mademoiselle? You can't escape from his house; and he knows it!" "I tried to commit suicide! The monster went out last night, after carrying me here fainting and half chloroformed. He was going TO HIS BANKER, so he said! ... When he returned he found me with my face covered with blood ... I had tried to kill myself by striking my forehead against the walls." "Christine!" groaned Raoul; and he began to sob. "Then he bound me ... I am not allowed to die until eleven o'clock to-morrow evening." "Mademoiselle," I declared, "the monster bound you ... and he shall unbind you. You have only to play the necessary part! Remember that he loves you!" "Alas!" we heard. "Am I likely to forget it!" "Remember it and smile to him ... entreat him ... tell him that your bonds hurt you." But Christine Daae said: "Hush! ... I hear something in the wall on the lake! ... It is he! ... Go away! Go away! Go away!" "We could not go away, even if we wanted to," I said, as impressively as I could. "We can not leave this! And we are in the torture-chamber!" "Hush!" whispered Christine again. Heavy steps sounded slowly behind the wall, then stopped and made the floor creak once more. Next came a tremendous sigh, followed by a cry of horror from Christine, and we heard Erik's voice: "I beg your pardon for letting you see a face like this! What a state I am in, am I not? It's THE OTHER ONE'S FAULT! Why did he ring? Do I ask people who pass to tell me the time? He will never ask anybody the time again! It is the siren's fault." [Illustration: two page color illustration] Another sigh, deeper, more tremendous still, came from the abysmal depths of a soul. "Why did you cry out, Christine?" "Because I am in pain, Erik." "I thought I had frightened you." "Erik, unloose my bonds ... Am I not your prisoner?" "You will try to kill yourself again." "You have given me till eleven o'clock to-morrow evening, Erik." The footsteps dragged along the floor again. "After all, as we are to die together ... and I am just as eager as you ... yes, I have had enough of this life, you know... Wait, don't move, I will release you ... You have only one word to say: 'NO!' And it will at once be over WITH EVERYBODY! ... You are right, you are right; why wait till eleven o'clock to-morrow evening? True, it would have been grander, finer ... But that is childish nonsense ... We should only think of ourselves in this life, of our own death ... the rest doesn't matter... YOU'RE LOOKING AT ME BECAUSE I AM ALL WET? ... Oh, my dear, it's raining cats and dogs outside! ... Apart from that, Christine, I think I am subject to hallucinations ... You know, the man who rang at the siren's door just now--go and look if he's ringing at the bottom of the lake-well, he was rather like... There, turn round ... are you glad? You're free now... Oh, my poor Christine, look at your wrists: tell me, have I hurt them? ... That alone deserves death ... Talking of death, I MUST SING HIS REQUIEM!" Hearing these terrible remarks, I received an awful presentiment ... I too had once rung at the monster's door ... and, without knowing it, must have set some warning current in motion. And I remembered the two arms that had emerged from the inky waters... What poor wretch had strayed to that shore this time? Who was 'the other one,' the one whose requiem we now heard sung? Erik sang like the god of thunder, sang a DIES IRAE that enveloped us as in a storm. The elements seemed to rage around us. Suddenly, the organ and the voice ceased so suddenly that M. de Chagny sprang back, on the other side of the wall, with emotion. And the voice, changed and transformed, distinctly grated out these metallic syllables: "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY BAG?" Chapter XXIII The Tortures Begin THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. The voice repeated angrily: "What have you done with my bag? So it was to take my bag that you asked me to release you!" We heard hurried steps, Christine running back to the Louis-Philippe room, as though to seek shelter on the other side of our wall. "What are you running away for?" asked the furious voice, which had followed her. "Give me back my bag, will you? Don't you know that it is the bag of life and death?" "Listen to me, Erik," sighed the girl. "As it is settled that we are to live together ... what difference can it make to you?" "You know there are only two keys in it," said the monster. "What do you want to do?" "I want to look at this room which I have never seen and which you have always kept from me ... It's woman's curiosity!" she said, in a tone which she tried to render playful. But the trick was too childish for Erik to be taken in by it. "I don't like curious women," he retorted, "and you had better remember the story of BLUE-BEARD and be careful ... Come, give me back my bag! ... Give me back my bag! ... Leave the key alone, will you, you inquisitive little thing?" And he chuckled, while Christine gave a cry of pain. Erik had evidently recovered the bag from her. At that moment, the viscount could not help uttering an exclamation of impotent rage. "Why, what's that?" said the monster. "Did you hear, Christine?" "No, no," replied the poor girl. "I heard nothing." "I thought I heard a cry." "A cry! Are you going mad, Erik? Whom do you expect to give a cry, in this house? ... I cried out, because you hurt me! I heard nothing." "I don't like the way you said that! ... You're trembling... You're quite excited ... You're lying! ... That was a cry, there was a cry! ... There is some one in the torture-chamber! ... Ah, I understand now!" "There is no one there, Erik!" "I understand!" "No one!" "The man you want to marry, perhaps!" "I don't want to marry anybody, you know I don't." Another nasty chuckle. "Well, it won't take long to find out. Christine, my love, we need not open the door to see what is happening in the torture-chamber. Would you like to see? Would you like to see? Look here! If there is some one, if there is really some one there, you will see the invisible window light up at the top, near the ceiling. We need only draw the black curtain and put out the light in here. There, that's it ... Let's put out the light! You're not afraid of the dark, when you're with your little husband!" Then we heard Christine's voice of anguish: "No! ... I'm frightened! ... I tell you, I'm afraid of the dark! ... I don't care about that room now ... You're always frightening me, like a child, with your torture-chamber! ... And so I became inquisitive... But I don't care about it now ... not a bit ... not a bit!" And that which I feared above all things began, AUTOMATICALLY. We were suddenly flooded with light! Yes, on our side of the wall, everything seemed aglow. The Vicomte de Chagny was so much taken aback that he staggered. And the angry voice roared: "I told you there was some one! Do you see the window now? The lighted window, right up there? The man behind the wall can't see it! But you shall go up the folding steps: that is what they are there for! ... You have often asked me to tell you; and now you know! ... They are there to give a peep into the torture-chamber ... you inquisitive little thing!" "What tortures? ... Who is being tortured? ... Erik, Erik, say you are only trying to frighten me! ... Say it, if you love me, Erik! ... There are no tortures, are there?" "Go and look at the little window, dear!" I do not know if the viscount heard the girl's swooning voice, for he was too much occupied by the astounding spectacle that now appeared before his distracted gaze. As for me, I had seen that sight too often, through the little window, at the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan; and I cared only for what was being said next door, seeking for a hint how to act, what resolution to take. "Go and peep through the little window! Tell me what he looks like!" We heard the steps being dragged against the wall. "Up with you! ... No! ... No, I will go up myself, dear!" "Oh, very well, I will go up. Let me go!" "Oh, my darling, my darling! ... How sweet of you! ... How nice of you to save me the exertion at my age! ... Tell me what he looks like!" At that moment, we distinctly heard these words above our heads: "There is no one there, dear!" "No one? ... Are you sure there is no one?" "Why, of course not ... no one!" "Well, that's all right! ... What's the matter, Christine? You're not going to faint, are you ... as there is no one there? ... Here ... come down ... there! ... Pull yourself together ... as there is no one there! ... BUT HOW DO YOU LIKE THE LANDSCAPE?" "Oh, very much!" "There, that's better! ... You're better now, are you not? ... That's all right, you're better! ... No excitement! ... And what a funny house, isn't it, with landscapes like that in it?" "Yes, it's like the Musee Grevin ... But, say, Erik ... there are no tortures in there! ... What a fright you gave me!" "Why ... as there is no one there?" "Did you design that room? It's very handsome. You're a great artist, Erik." "Yes, a great artist, in my own line." "But tell me, Erik, why did you call that room the torture-chamber?" "Oh, it's very simple. First of all, what did you see?" "I saw a forest." "And what is in a forest?" "Trees." "And what is in a tree?" "Birds." "Did you see any birds?" "No, I did not see any birds." "Well, what did you see? Think! You saw branches And what are the branches?" asked the terrible voice. "THERE'S A GIBBET! That is why I call my wood the torture-chamber! ... You see, it's all a joke. I never express myself like other people. But I am very tired of it! ... I'm sick and tired of having a forest and a torture-chamber in my house and of living like a mountebank, in a house with a false bottom! ... I'm tired of it! I want to have a nice, quiet flat, with ordinary doors and windows and a wife inside it, like anybody else! A wife whom I could love and take out on Sundays and keep amused on week-days ... Here, shall I show you some card-tricks? That will help us to pass a few minutes, while waiting for eleven o'clock to-morrow evening ... My dear little Christine! ... Are you listening to me? ... Tell me you love me! ... No, you don't love me ... but no matter, you will! ... Once, you could not look at my mask because you knew what was behind... And now you don't mind looking at it and you forget what is behind! ... One can get used to everything ... if one wishes... Plenty of young people who did not care for each other before marriage have adored each other since! Oh, I don't know what I am talking about! But you would have lots of fun with me. For instance, I am the greatest ventriloquist that ever lived, I am the first ventriloquist in the world! ... You're laughing ... Perhaps you don't believe me? Listen." The wretch, who really was the first ventriloquist in the world, was only trying to divert the child's attention from the torture-chamber; but it was a stupid scheme, for Christine thought of nothing but us! She repeatedly besought him, in the gentlest tones which she could assume: "Put out the light in the little window! ... Erik, do put out the light in the little window!" For she saw that this light, which appeared so suddenly and of which the monster had spoken in so threatening a voice, must mean something terrible. One thing must have pacified her for a moment; and that was seeing the two of us, behind the wall, in the midst of that resplendent light, alive and well. But she would certainly have felt much easier if the light had been put out. Meantime, the other had already begun to play the ventriloquist. He said: "Here, I raise my mask a little ... Oh, only a little! ... You see my lips, such lips as I have? They're not moving! ... My mouth is closed--such mouth as I have--and yet you hear my voice... Where will you have it? In your left ear? In your right ear? In the table? In those little ebony boxes on the mantelpiece? ... Listen, dear, it's in the little box on the right of the mantelpiece: what does it say? 'SHALL I TURN THE SCORPION?' ... And now, crack! What does it say in the little box on the left? 'SHALL I TURN THE GRASSHOPPER?' ... And now, crack! Here it is in the little leather bag ... What does it say? 'I AM THE LITTLE BAG OF LIFE AND DEATH!' ... And now, crack! It is in Carlotta's throat, in Carlotta's golden throat, in Carlotta's crystal throat, as I live! What does it say? It says, 'It's I, Mr. Toad, it's I singing! I FEEL WITHOUT ALARM--CO-ACK--WITH ITS MELODY ENWIND ME--CO-ACK!' ... And now, crack! It is on a chair in the ghost's box and it says, 'MADAME CARLOTTA IS SINGING TO-NIGHT TO BRING THE CHANDELIER DOWN!' ... And now, crack! Aha! Where is Erik's voice now? Listen, Christine, darling! Listen! It is behind the door of the torture-chamber! Listen! It's myself in the torture-chamber! And what do I say? I say, 'Woe to them that have a nose, a real nose, and come to look round the torture-chamber! Aha, aha, aha!'" Oh, the ventriloquist's terrible voice! It was everywhere, everywhere. It passed through the little invisible window, through the walls. It ran around us, between us. Erik was there, speaking to us! We made a movement as though to fling ourselves upon him. But, already, swifter, more fleeting than the voice of the echo, Erik's voice had leaped back behind the wall! Soon we heard nothing more at all, for this is what happened: "Erik! Erik!" said Christine's voice. "You tire me with your voice. Don't go on, Erik! Isn't it very hot here?" "Oh, yes," replied Erik's voice, "the heat is unendurable!" "But what does this mean? ... The wall is really getting quite hot! ... The wall is burning!" "I'll tell you, Christine, dear: it is because of the forest next door." "Well, what has that to do with it? The forest?" "WHY, DIDN'T YOU SEE THAT IT WAS AN AFRICAN FOREST?" And the monster laughed so loudly and hideously that we could no longer distinguish Christine's supplicating cries! The Vicomte de Chagny shouted and banged against the walls like a madman. I could not restrain him. But we heard nothing except the monster's laughter, and the monster himself can have heard nothing else. And then there was the sound of a body falling on the floor and being dragged along and a door slammed and then nothing, nothing more around us save the scorching silence of the south in the heart of a tropical forest! Chapter XXIV "Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any Barrels to Sell?" THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED I have said that the room in which M. le Vicomte de Chagny and I were imprisoned was a regular hexagon, lined entirely with mirrors. Plenty of these rooms have been seen since, mainly at exhibitions: they are called "palaces of illusion," or some such name. But the invention belongs entirely to Erik, who built the first room of this kind under my eyes, at the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. A decorative object, such as a column, for instance, was placed in one of the corners and immediately produced a hall of a thousand columns; for, thanks to the mirrors, the real room was multiplied by six hexagonal rooms, each of which, in its turn, was multiplied indefinitely. But the little sultana soon tired of this infantile illusion, whereupon Erik altered his invention into a "torture-chamber." For the architectural motive placed in one corner, he substituted an iron tree. This tree, with its painted leaves, was absolutely true to life and was made of iron so as to resist all the attacks of the "patient" who was locked into the torture-chamber. We shall see how the scene thus obtained was twice altered instantaneously into two successive other scenes, by means of the automatic rotation of the drums or rollers in the corners. These were divided into three sections, fitting into the angles of the mirrors and each supporting a decorative scheme that came into sight as the roller revolved upon its axis. The walls of this strange room gave the patient nothing to lay hold of, because, apart from the solid decorative object, they were simply furnished with mirrors, thick enough to withstand any onslaught of the victim, who was flung into the chamber empty-handed and barefoot. There was no furniture. The ceiling was capable of being lit up. An ingenious system of electric heating, which has since been imitated, allowed the temperature of the walls and room to be increased at will. I am giving all these details of a perfectly natural invention, producing, with a few painted branches, the supernatural illusion of an equatorial forest blazing under the tropical sun, so that no one may doubt the present balance of my brain or feel entitled to say that I am mad or lying or that I take him for a fool.[1] I now return to the facts where I left them. When the ceiling lit up and the forest became visible around us, the viscount's stupefaction was immense. That impenetrable forest, with its innumerable trunks and branches, threw him into a terrible state of consternation. He passed his hands over his forehead, as though to drive away a dream; his eyes blinked; and, for a moment, he forgot to listen. I have already said that the sight of the forest did not surprise me at all; and therefore I listened for the two of us to what was happening next door. Lastly, my attention was especially attracted, not so much to the scene, as to the mirrors that produced it. These mirrors were broken in parts. Yes, they were marked and scratched; they had been "starred," in spite of their solidity; and this proved to me that the torture-chamber in which we now were HAD ALREADY SERVED A PURPOSE. Yes, some wretch, whose feet were not bare like those of the victims of the rosy hours of Mazenderan, had certainly fallen into this "mortal illusion" and, mad with rage, had kicked against those mirrors which, nevertheless, continued to reflect his agony. And the branch of the tree on which he had put an end to his own sufferings was arranged in such a way that, before dying, he had seen, for his last consolation, a thousand men writhing in his company. Yes, Joseph Buquet had undoubtedly been through all this! Were we to die as he had done? I did not think so, for I knew that we had a few hours before us and that I could employ them to better purpose than Joseph Buquet was able to do. After all, I was thoroughly acquainted with most of Erik's "tricks;" and now or never was the time to turn my knowledge to account. To begin with, I gave up every idea of returning to the passage that had brought us to that accursed chamber. I did not trouble about the possibility of working the inside stone that closed the passage; and this for the simple reason that to do so was out of the question. We had dropped from too great a height into the torture-chamber; there was no furniture to help us reach that passage; not even the branch of the iron tree, not even each other's shoulders were of any avail. There was only one possible outlet, that opening into the Louis-Philippe room in which Erik and Christine Daae were. But, though this outlet looked like an ordinary door on Christine's side, it was absolutely invisible to us. We must therefore try to open it without even knowing where it was. When I was quite sure that there was no hope for us from Christine Daae's side, when I had heard the monster dragging the poor girl from the Louis-Philippe room LEST SHE SHOULD INTERFERE WITH OUR TORTURES, I resolved to set to work without delay. But I had first to calm M. de Chagny, who was already walking about like a madman, uttering incoherent cries. The snatches of conversation which he had caught between Christine and the monster had contributed not a little to drive him beside himself: add to that the shock of the magic forest and the scorching heat which was beginning to make the prespiration{sic} stream down his temples and you will have no difficulty in understanding his state of mind. He shouted Christine's name, brandished his pistol, knocked his forehead against the glass in his endeavors to run down the glades of the illusive forest. In short, the torture was beginning to work its spell upon a brain unprepared for it. I did my best to induce the poor viscount to listen to reason. I made him touch the mirrors and the iron tree and the branches and explained to him, by optical laws, all the luminous imagery by which we were surrounded and of which we need not allow ourselves to be the victims, like ordinary, ignorant people. "We are in a room, a little room; that is what you must keep saying to yourself. And we shall leave the room as soon as we have found the door." And I promised him that, if he let me act, without disturbing me by shouting and walking up and down, I would discover the trick of the door in less than an hour's time. Then he lay flat on the floor, as one does in a wood, and declared that he would wait until I found the door of the forest, as there was nothing better to do! And he added that, from where he was, "the view was splendid!" The torture was working, in spite of all that I had said. Myself, forgetting the forest, I tackled a glass panel and began to finger it in every direction, hunting for the weak point on which to press in order to turn the door in accordance with Erik's system of pivots. This weak point might be a mere speck on the glass, no larger than a pea, under which the spring lay hidden. I hunted and hunted. I felt as high as my hands could reach. Erik was about the same height as myself and I thought that he would not have placed the spring higher than suited his stature. While groping over the successive panels with the greatest care, I endeavored not to lose a minute, for I was feeling more and more overcome with the heat and we were literally roasting in that blazing forest. I had been working like this for half an hour and had finished three panels, when, as ill-luck would have it, I turned round on hearing a muttered exclamation from the viscount. "I am stifling," he said. "All those mirrors are sending out an infernal heat! Do you think you will find that spring soon? If you are much longer about it, we shall be roasted alive!" I was not sorry to hear him talk like this. He had not said a word of the forest and I hoped that my companion's reason would hold out some time longer against the torture. But he added: "What consoles me is that the monster has given Christine until eleven to-morrow evening. If we can't get out of here and go to her assistance, at least we shall be dead before her! Then Erik's mass can serve for all of us!" And he gulped down a breath of hot air that nearly made him faint. As I had not the same desperate reasons as M. le Vicomte for accepting death, I returned, after giving him a word of encouragement, to my panel, but I had made the mistake of taking a few steps while speaking and, in the tangle of the illusive forest, I was no longer able to find my panel for certain! I had to begin all over again, at random, feeling, fumbling, groping. Now the fever laid hold of me in my turn ... for I found nothing, absolutely nothing. In the next room, all was silence. We were quite lost in the forest, without an outlet, a compass, a guide or anything. Oh, I knew what awaited us if nobody came to our aid ... or if I did not find the spring! But, look as I might, I found nothing but branches, beautiful branches that stood straight up before me, or spread gracefully over my head. But they gave no shade. And this was natural enough, as we were in an equatorial forest, with the sun right above our heads, an African forest. M. de Chagny and I had repeatedly taken off our coats and put them on again, finding at one time that they made us feel still hotter and at another that they protected us against the heat. I was still making a moral resistance, but M. de Chagny seemed to me quite "gone." He pretended that he had been walking in that forest for three days and nights, without stopping, looking for Christine Daae! From time to time, he thought he saw her behind the trunk of a tree, or gliding between the branches; and he called to her with words of supplication that brought the tears to my eyes. And then, at last: "Oh, how thirsty I am!" he cried, in delirious accents. I too was thirsty. My throat was on fire. And, yet, squatting on the floor, I went on hunting, hunting, hunting for the spring of the invisible door ... especially as it was dangerous to remain in the forest as evening drew nigh. Already the shades of night were beginning to surround us. It had happened very quickly: night falls quickly in tropical countries ... suddenly, with hardly any twilight. Now night, in the forests of the equator, is always dangerous, particularly when, like ourselves, one has not the materials for a fire to keep off the beasts of prey. I did indeed try for a moment to break off the branches, which I would have lit with my dark lantern, but I knocked myself also against the mirrors and remembered, in time, that we had only images of branches to do with. The heat did not go with the daylight; on the contrary, it was now still hotter under the blue rays of the moon. I urged the viscount to hold our weapons ready to fire and not to stray from camp, while I went on looking for my spring. Suddenly, we heard a lion roaring a few yards away. "Oh," whispered the viscount, "he is quite close! ... Don't you see him? ... There ... through the trees ... in that thicket! If he roars again, I will fire! ..." And the roaring began again, louder than before. And the viscount fired, but I do not think that he hit the lion; only, he smashed a mirror, as I perceived the next morning, at daybreak. We must have covered a good distance during the night, for we suddenly found ourselves on the edge of the desert, an immense desert of sand, stones and rocks. It was really not worth while leaving the forest to come upon the desert. Tired out, I flung myself down beside the viscount, for I had had enough of looking for springs which I could not find. I was quite surprised--and I said so to the viscount--that we had encountered no other dangerous animals during the night. Usually, after the lion came the leopard and sometimes the buzz of the tsetse fly. These were easily obtained effects; and I explained to M. de Chagny that Erik imitated the roar of a lion on a long tabour or timbrel, with an ass's skin at one end. Over this skin he tied a string of catgut, which was fastened at the middle to another similar string passing through the whole length of the tabour. Erik had only to rub this string with a glove smeared with resin and, according to the manner in which he rubbed it, he imitated to perfection the voice of the lion or the leopard, or even the buzzing of the tsetse fly. The idea that Erik was probably in the room beside us, working his trick, made me suddenly resolve to enter into a parley with him, for we must obviously give up all thought of taking him by surprise. And by this time he must be quite aware who were the occupants of his torture-chamber. I called him: "Erik! Erik!" I shouted as loudly as I could across the desert, but there was no answer to my voice. All around us lay the silence and the bare immensity of that stony desert. What was to become of us in the midst of that awful solitude? We were beginning literally to die of heat, hunger and thirst ... of thirst especially. At last, I saw M. de Chagny raise himself on his elbow and point to a spot on the horizon. He had discovered an oasis! Yes, far in the distance was an oasis ... an oasis with limpid water, which reflected the iron trees! ... Tush, it was the scene of the mirage ... I recognized it at once ... the worst of the three! ... No one had been able to fight against it ... no one... I did my utmost to keep my head AND NOT TO HOPE FOR WATER, because I knew that, if a man hoped for water, the water that reflected the iron tree, and if, after hoping for water, he struck against the mirror, then there was only one thing for him to do: to hang himself on the iron tree! So I cried to M. de Chagny: "It's the mirage! ... It's the mirage! ... Don't believe in the water! ... It's another trick of the mirrors! ..." Then he flatly told me to shut up, with my tricks of the mirrors, my springs, my revolving doors and my palaces of illusions! He angrily declared that I must be either blind or mad to imagine that all that water flowing over there, among those splendid, numberless trees, was not real water! ... And the desert was real! ... And so was the forest! ... And it was no use trying to take him in ... he was an old, experienced traveler ... he had been all over the place! And he dragged himself along, saying: "Water! Water!" And his mouth was open, as though he were drinking. And my mouth was open too, as though I were drinking. For we not only saw the water, but WE HEARD IT! ... We heard it flow, we heard it ripple! ... Do you understand that word "ripple?" ... IT IS A SOUND WHICH YOU HEAR WITH YOUR TONGUE! ... You put your tongue out of your mouth to listen to it better! Lastly--and this was the most pitiless torture of all--we heard the rain and it was not raining! This was an infernal invention... Oh, I knew well enough how Erik obtained it! He filled with little stones a very long and narrow box, broken up inside with wooden and metal projections. The stones, in falling, struck against these projections and rebounded from one to another; and the result was a series of pattering sounds that exactly imitated a rainstorm. Ah, you should have seen us putting out our tongues and dragging ourselves toward the rippling river-bank! Our eyes and ears were full of water, but our tongues were hard and dry as horn! When we reached the mirror, M. de Chagny licked it ... and I also licked the glass. It was burning hot! Then we rolled on the floor with a hoarse cry of despair. M. de Chagny put the one pistol that was still loaded to his temple; and I stared at the Punjab lasso at the foot of the iron tree. I knew why the iron tree had returned, in this third change of scene! ... The iron tree was waiting for me! ... But, as I stared at the Punjab lasso, I saw a thing that made me start so violently that M. de Chagny delayed his attempt at suicide. I took his arm. And then I caught the pistol from him ... and then I dragged myself on my knees toward what I had seen. I had discovered, near the Punjab lasso, in a groove in the floor, a black-headed nail of which I knew the use. At last I had discovered the spring! I felt the nail ... I lifted a radiant face to M. de Chagny ... The black-headed nail yielded to my pressure ... And then ... And then we saw not a door opened in the wall, but a cellar-flap released in the floor. Cool air came up to us from the black hole below. We stooped over that square of darkness as though over a limpid well. With our chins in the cool shade, we drank it in. And we bent lower and lower over the trap-door. What could there be in that cellar which opened before us? Water? Water to drink? I thrust my arm into the darkness and came upon a stone and another stone ... a staircase ... a dark staircase leading into the cellar. The viscount wanted to fling himself down the hole; but I, fearing a new trick of the monster's, stopped him, turned on my dark lantern and went down first. The staircase was a winding one and led down into pitchy darkness. But oh, how deliciously cool were the darkness and the stairs? The lake could not be far away. We soon reached the bottom. Our eyes were beginning to accustom themselves to the dark, to distinguish shapes around us ... circular shapes ... on which I turned the light of my lantern. Barrels! We were in Erik's cellar: it was here that he must keep his wine and perhaps his drinking-water. I knew that Erik was a great lover of good wine. Ah, there was plenty to drink here! M. de Chagny patted the round shapes and kept on saying: "Barrels! Barrels! What a lot of barrels! ..." Indeed, there was quite a number of them, symmetrically arranged in two rows, one on either side of us. They were small barrels and I thought that Erik must have selected them of that size to facilitate their carriage to the house on the lake. We examined them successively, to see if one of them had not a funnel, showing that it had been tapped at some time or another. But all the barrels were hermetically closed. Then, after half lifting one to make sure it was full, we went on our knees and, with the blade of a small knife which I carried, I prepared to stave in the bung-hole. At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the streets of Paris: "Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell?" My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said: "That's funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!" The song was renewed, farther away: "Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell? ..." "Oh, I swear," said the viscount, "that the tune dies away in the barrel! ..." We stood up and went to look behind the barrel. "It's inside," said M. de Chagny, "it's inside!" But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition of our senses. And we returned to the bung-hole. M. de Chagny put his two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the bung. "What's this?" cried the viscount. "This isn't water!" The viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern ... I stooped to look ... and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that it broke and went out, leaving us in utter darkness. What I had seen in M. de Chagny's hands ... was gun-powder! [1] It is very natural that, at the time when the Persian was writing, he should take so many precautions against any spirit of incredulity on the part of those who were likely to read his narrative. Nowadays, when we have all seen this sort of room, his precautions would be superfluous. Chapter XXV The Scorpion or the Grasshopper: Which? THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE CONCLUDED The discovery flung us into a state of alarm that made us forget all our past and present sufferings. We now knew all that the monster meant to convey when he said to Christine Daae: "Yes or no! If your answer is no, everybody will be dead AND BURIED!" Yes, buried under the ruins of the Paris Grand Opera! The monster had given her until eleven o'clock in the evening. He had chosen his time well. There would be many people, many "members of the human race," up there, in the resplendent theater. What finer retinue could be expected for his funeral? He would go down to the tomb escorted by the whitest shoulders in the world, decked with the richest jewels. Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening! We were all to be blown up in the middle of the performance ... if Christine Daae said no! Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening! ... And what else could Christine say but no? Would she not prefer to espouse death itself rather than that living corpse? She did not know that on her acceptance or refusal depended the awful fate of many members of the human race! Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening! And we dragged ourselves through the darkness, feeling our way to the stone steps, for the light in the trap-door overhead that led to the room of mirrors was now extinguished; and we repeated to ourselves: "Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening!" At last, I found the staircase. But, suddenly I drew myself up on the first step, for a terrible thought had come to my mind: "What is the time?" Ah, what was the time? ... For, after all, eleven o'clock to-morrow evening might be now, might be this very moment! Who could tell us the time? We seemed to have been imprisoned in that hell for days and days ... for years ... since the beginning of the world. Perhaps we should be blown up then and there! Ah, a sound! A crack! "Did you hear that? ... There, in the corner ... good heavens! ... Like a sound of machinery! ... Again! ... Oh, for a light! ... Perhaps it's the machinery that is to blow everything up! ... I tell you, a cracking sound: are you deaf?" M. de Chagny and I began to yell like madmen. Fear spurred us on. We rushed up the treads of the staircase, stumbling as we went, anything to escape the dark, to return to the mortal light of the room of mirrors! We found the trap-door still open, but it was now as dark in the room of mirrors as in the cellar which we had left. We dragged ourselves along the floor of the torture-chamber, the floor that separated us from the powder-magazine. What was the time? We shouted, we called: M. de Chagny to Christine, I to Erik. I reminded him that I had saved his life. But no answer, save that of our despair, of our madness: what was the time? We argued, we tried to calculate the time which we had spent there, but we were incapable of reasoning. If only we could see the face of a watch! ... Mine had stopped, but M. de Chagny's was still going ... He told me that he had wound it up before dressing for the Opera ... We had not a match upon us ... And yet we must know ... M. de Chagny broke the glass of his watch and felt the two hands... He questioned the hands of the watch with his finger-tips, going by the position of the ring of the watch ... Judging by the space between the hands, he thought it might be just eleven o'clock! But perhaps it was not the eleven o'clock of which we stood in dread. Perhaps we had still twelve hours before us! Suddenly, I exclaimed: "Hush!" I seemed to hear footsteps in the next room. Some one tapped against the wall. Christine Daae's voice said: "Raoul! Raoul!" We were now all talking at once, on either side of the wall. Christine sobbed; she was not sure that she would find M. de Chagny alive. The monster had been terrible, it seemed, had done nothing but rave, waiting for her to give him the "yes" which she refused. And yet she had promised him that "yes," if he would take her to the torture-chamber. But he had obstinately declined, and had uttered hideous threats against all the members of the human race! At last, after hours and hours of that hell, he had that moment gone out, leaving her alone to reflect for the last time. "Hours and hours? What is the time now? What is the time, Christine?" "It is eleven o'clock! Eleven o'clock, all but five minutes!" "But which eleven o'clock?" "The eleven o'clock that is to decide life or death! ... He told me so just before he went ... He is terrible ... He is quite mad: he tore off his mask and his yellow eyes shot flames! ... He did nothing but laugh! ... He said, 'I give you five minutes to spare your blushes! Here,' he said, taking a key from the little bag of life and death, 'here is the little bronze key that opens the two ebony caskets on the mantelpiece in the Louis-Philippe room... In one of the caskets, you will find a scorpion, in the other, a grasshopper, both very cleverly imitated in Japanese bronze: they will say yes or no for you. If you turn the scorpion round, that will mean to me, when I return, that you have said yes. The grasshopper will mean no.' And he laughed like a drunken demon. I did nothing but beg and entreat him to give me the key of the torture-chamber, promising to be his wife if he granted me that request ... But he told me that there was no future need for that key and that he was going to throw it into the lake! ... And he again laughed like a drunken demon and left me. Oh, his last words were, 'The grasshopper! Be careful of the grasshopper! A grasshopper does not only turn: it hops! It hops! And it hops jolly high!'" The five minutes had nearly elapsed and the scorpion and the grasshopper were scratching at my brain. Nevertheless, I had sufficient lucidity left to understand that, if the grasshopper were turned, it would hop ... and with it many members of the human race! There was no doubt but that the grasshopper controlled an electric current intended to blow up the powder-magazine! M. de Chagny, who seemed to have recovered all his moral force from hearing Christine's voice, explained to her, in a few hurried words, the situation in which we and all the Opera were. He told her to turn the scorpion at once. There was a pause. "Christine," I cried, "where are you?" "By the scorpion." "Don't touch it!" The idea had come to me--for I knew my Erik--that the monster had perhaps deceived the girl once more. Perhaps it was the scorpion that would blow everything up. After all, why wasn't he there? The five minutes were long past ... and he was not back... Perhaps he had taken shelter and was waiting for the explosion! ... Why had he not returned? ... He could not really expect Christine ever to consent to become his voluntary prey! ... Why had he not returned? "Don't touch the scorpion!" I said. "Here he comes!" cried Christine. "I hear him! Here he is!" We heard his steps approaching the Louis-Philippe room. He came up to Christine, but did not speak. Then I raised my voice: "Erik! It is I! Do you know me?" With extraordinary calmness, he at once replied: "So you are not dead in there? Well, then, see that you keep quiet." I tried to speak, but he said coldly: "Not a word, daroga, or I shall blow everything up." And he added, "The honor rests with mademoiselle ... Mademoiselle has not touched the scorpion"--how deliberately he spoke!--"mademoiselle has not touched the grasshopper"--with that composure!--"but it is not too late to do the right thing. There, I open the caskets without a key, for I am a trap-door lover and I open and shut what I please and as I please. I open the little ebony caskets: mademoiselle, look at the little dears inside. Aren't they pretty? If you turn the grasshopper, mademoiselle, we shall all be blown up. There is enough gun-powder under our feet to blow up a whole quarter of Paris. If you turn the scorpion, mademoiselle, all that powder will be soaked and drowned. Mademoiselle, to celebrate our wedding, you shall make a very handsome present to a few hundred Parisians who are at this moment applauding a poor masterpiece of Meyerbeer's ... you shall make them a present of their lives ... For, with your own fair hands, you shall turn the scorpion ... And merrily, merrily, we will be married!" A pause; and then: "If, in two minutes, mademoiselle, you have not turned the scorpion, I shall turn the grasshopper ... and the grasshopper, I tell you, HOPS JOLLY HIGH!" The terrible silence began anew. The Vicomte de Chagny, realizing that there was nothing left to do but pray, went down on his knees and prayed. As for me, my blood beat so fiercely that I had to take my heart in both hands, lest it should burst. At last, we heard Erik's voice: "The two minutes are past ... Good-by, mademoiselle... Hop, grasshopper! "Erik," cried Christine, "do you swear to me, monster, do you swear to me that the scorpion is the one to turn? "Yes, to hop at our wedding." "Ah, you see! You said, to hop!" "At our wedding, ingenuous child! ... The scorpion opens the ball... But that will do! ... You won't have the scorpion? Then I turn the grasshopper!" "Erik!" "Enough!" I was crying out in concert with Christine. M. de Chagny was still on his knees, praying. "Erik! I have turned the scorpion!" Oh, the second through which we passed! Waiting! Waiting to find ourselves in fragments, amid the roar and the ruins! Feeling something crack beneath our feet, hearing an appalling hiss through the open trap-door, a hiss like the first sound of a rocket! It came softly, at first, then louder, then very loud. But it was not the hiss of fire. It was more like the hiss of water. And now it became a gurgling sound: "Guggle! Guggle!" We rushed to the trap-door. All our thirst, which vanished when the terror came, now returned with the lapping of the water. The water rose in the cellar, above the barrels, the powder-barrels--"Barrels! ... Barrels! Any barrels to sell?"--and we went down to it with parched throats. It rose to our chins, to our mouths. And we drank. We stood on the floor of the cellar and drank. And we went up the stairs again in the dark, step by step, went up with the water. The water came out of the cellar with us and spread over the floor of the room. If, this went on, the whole house on the lake would be swamped. The floor of the torture-chamber had itself become a regular little lake, in which our feet splashed. Surely there was water enough now! Erik must turn off the tap! "Erik! Erik! That is water enough for the gunpowder! Turn off the tap! Turn off the scorpion!" But Erik did not reply. We heard nothing but the water rising: it was half-way to our waists! "Christine!" cried M. de Chagny. "Christine! The water is up to our knees!" But Christine did not reply ... We heard nothing but the water rising. No one, no one in the next room, no one to turn the tap, no one to turn the scorpion! We were all alone, in the dark, with the dark water that seized us and clasped us and froze us! "Erik! Erik!" "Christine! Christine!" By this time, we had lost our foothold and were spinning round in the water, carried away by an irresistible whirl, for the water turned with us and dashed us against the dark mirror, which thrust us back again; and our throats, raised above the whirlpool, roared aloud. Were we to die here, drowned in the torture-chamber? I had never seen that. Erik, at the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan, had never shown me that, through the little invisible window. "Erik! Erik!" I cried. "I saved your life! Remember! ... You were sentenced to death! But for me, you would be dead now! ... Erik!" We whirled around in the water like so much wreckage. But, suddenly, my straying hands seized the trunk of the iron tree! I called M. de Chagny, and we both hung to the branch of the iron tree. And the water rose still higher. "Oh! Oh! Can you remember? How much space is there between the branch of the tree and the dome-shaped ceiling? Do try to remember! ... After all, the water may stop, it must find its level! ... There, I think it is stopping! ... No, no, oh, horrible! ... Swim! Swim for your life!" Our arms became entangled in the effort of swimming; we choked; we fought in the dark water; already we could hardly breathe the dark air above the dark water, the air which escaped, which we could hear escaping through some vent-hole or other. "Oh, let us turn and turn and turn until we find the air hole and then glue our mouths to it!" But I lost my strength; I tried to lay hold of the walls! Oh, how those glass walls slipped from under my groping fingers! ... We whirled round again! ... We began to sink! ... One last effort! ... A last cry: "Erik! ... Christine! ..." "Guggle, guggle, guggle!" in our ears. "Guggle! Guggle!" At the bottom of the dark water, our ears went, "Guggle! Guggle!" And, before losing consciousness entirely, I seemed to hear, between two guggles: "Barrels! Barrels! Any barrels to sell?" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Der Perser schildert seine vorherigen Versuche, in Eriks Haus zu gelangen. An einem Tag, als er dachte, er sei allein, stieg er ins Boot und ruderte in Richtung der Mauer, durch die er Erik verschwinden sah. Dabei traf er auf die Sirene, die den Zugang bewachte und deren Zauber ihn fast umgebracht hätte. Als er ruderte, packten ihn zwei monströse Arme aus dem Wasser und zogen ihn mit unwiderstehlicher Kraft nach unten. Der Perser sagte, er wäre verloren gewesen, wenn er nicht nach Erik gerufen hätte, der mit ihm schwamm und ihn sanft am Ufer ablegte. Erik fragt den Perser, warum er versucht hat, in sein Haus einzudringen, und sagt ihm, er solle ihn in Ruhe lassen. Erik fängt an zu lachen, und der Perser schimpft mit ihm, weil er die Situation nicht ernst nimmt: Erik hatte dem Perser versprochen, keine Morde mehr zu begehen, und doch war er derjenige, der den Kronleuchter im Opernhaus hat fallen lassen. Erik bestreitet, den Kronleuchter manipuliert zu haben, lacht und sagt, dass er abgenutzt und alt war. Von diesem Tag an gab der Perser alle Gedanken daran auf, in Eriks Seehaus einzudringen. In den folgenden Tagen erfuhr der Perser mehr über Eriks Beziehung zu Christine. Der Perser versuchte mehr zu erfahren und beobachtete vom Ufer des Sees aus, was Erik ärgerte. Erik sagte dem Perser, er solle ihn und Christine in Ruhe lassen, sonst würden Menschen sterben. Erik schließt einen Deal mit dem Perser, dass wenn er dem Perser beweist, dass Christine ihn aus eigener Liebe liebt, der Perser ihn in Ruhe lassen wird. Zur Verblüffung des Persers verlässt Christine das Haus am See und kehrt mehrmals dorthin zurück, ohne offensichtlich dazu gezwungen zu werden. Der Perser blieb weiterhin an den Beziehungen zwischen Erik und Christine interessiert. Der Perser dachte, dass Erik, der von Eifersucht aus seinem Haus vertrieben wurde, ihm ermöglichen würde, ohne Gefahr durch den Durchgang, den er im dritten Keller entdeckt hatte, einzutreten. Es war wichtig für die Sicherheit aller, dass er wusste, was genau sich darin befand. In der Nacht, in der Christine entführt wurde, erzählt der Perser, war er vorbereitet. Er ließ Darius zwei Pistolen holen. Der Rest des Berichts erinnert an seine Begegnung mit Raoul und daran, wie er ihn mit zu Eriks Haus nahm. Er merkt an, dass eine der gefährlichsten Falltüren, die Erik im gesamten Opernhaus installiert hat, die der Folterkammer war: Sie wurde von der Kammer inspiriert, die die Kleine Sultanin von Persien zur Folterung unschuldiger Bürger hatte. Jeder, der hineingeworfen wurde, konnte sich mit einem Punjab-Lasso oder einer Schlinge am Fuß eines Eisenbaums selbst umbringen. Der Perser setzt seinen Bericht fort und beschreibt mit beträchtlicher Detailgenauigkeit den Inhalt der Kammer: Der Perser und Raoul befanden sich in der Mitte eines kleinen sechseckigen Raumes, dessen Wände von oben bis unten mit Spiegeln bedeckt waren. Sie hören ein Geräusch zu ihrer Linken und erkennen Eriks Stimme. Er spricht mit Christine über seine Liebe zu ihr und seinen Wunsch, sie zu heiraten. Er geht, um sich um jemanden an der Tür zu kümmern, und genau zu diesem Zeitpunkt ruft Raoul nach Christine. Sie erzählt ihm, dass Erik vor Liebe wahnsinnig geworden sei und beschlossen habe, alle, einschließlich sich selbst, umzubringen, wenn sie nicht einwillige, seine Frau zu werden. Er hatte ihr bis zum nächsten Abend um 23 Uhr Zeit gegeben, um ihre Entscheidung zu treffen. Sie muss zwischen der Hochzeitsmesse und dem Requiem wählen. Christine bemerkt auch, dass Erik sie gefesselt hat, woraufhin Raoul und der Perser mit Ärger reagieren. Sie sagt, dass der Schlüssel zur Folterkammer in Eriks Besitz ist. Erik kehrt bald zurück und entschuldigt sich bei Christine für die Unterbrechung. Christine bittet ihn, sie freizulassen und verspricht, sich vor 23 Uhr am nächsten Abend nicht umzubringen. Daraufhin löst er ihre Fesseln. Erik fängt dann an zu singen, hört aber plötzlich auf, als er bemerkt, dass seine Tasche verschwunden ist. Der Bericht des Persers setzt fort. Erik fragt Christine wütend, was sie mit seiner Tasche gemacht hat. Christine rennt zurück in den Raum und sagt, dass sie neugierig ist zu sehen, was in dem Raum ist, den er ihr noch nie gezeigt hat. Erik nimmt ihr bald die Tasche ab und hört etwas aus der Folterkammer. Christine versucht ihn zu überzeugen, dass dort niemand ist, aber er beschließt, selbst nachzusehen. Erik sagt, dass wenn sich jemand im Inneren befindet, der Betrachter von außen durch das unsichtbare Fenster oben, in der Nähe der Decke, sehen kann. Erik muss nur den schwarzen Vorhang ziehen und das Licht im Schlafzimmer löschen. Die Folterkammer wird plötzlich von Licht überflutet. Christine besteht darauf, durch das kleine Fenster zu spähen, um zu sehen, ob jemand in der Kammer ist, und sagt, dass dort niemand ist. Erik versucht, Christine von der Kammer abzulenken, indem er eine Bauchredner-Nummer vorspielt, aber er hat keinen Erfolg. Sie bittet ihn, das Licht in der Kammer auszuschalten, aber Erik tut es nicht. Stattdessen fängt er so laut an zu lachen, dass der Perser und Raoul Christines flehenden Schreie nicht mehr hören können. Raoul schreit und schlägt gegen die Wände wie ein Verrückter, und der Perser kann ihn nicht zurückhalten. Sie hören nur noch Eriks Gelächter und dann das Geräusch eines fallenden Körpers und wie er über den Boden geschleift wird, gefolgt von einer zuschlagenden Tür. Der Perser bemerkt, dass die Folterkammer tatsächlich ein Palast der Illusionen ist, der vollständig mit Spiegeln ausgekleidet ist. Es gibt keine Möbel und die Decke kann beleuchtet werden. Der Perser bezeichnet es als "rdüftiges" System der elektrischen Heizung, das es ermöglicht, die Temperatur der Wände und des Raums nach Belieben zu erhöhen. Der Perser stellt fest, dass es nur einen möglichen Ausgang gibt, der in den Raum führt, in dem Christine und Erik sich befanden. Aber obwohl dieser Ausgang auf Christines Seite wie eine gewöhnliche Tür aussieht, ist sie von innen für sie absolut unsichtbar. Der Perser beschließt, sie zu öffnen, ohne auch nur zu wissen, wo sie sich befindet. Aber bevor sie nach der Tür suchen konnten, musste der Perser Raoul beruhigen, der bereits wie ein Verrückter handelte: Die Kammer forderte ihren Tribut von ihm. Der Perser versucht, Raoul dazu zu bringen, Vernunft anzunehmen, und verspricht ihm, dass er - wenn er ihn in Ruhe arbeiten lässt, ohne zu schreien und auf und ab zu gehen - den Trick der Tür in weniger als einer Stunde entdecken kann. Raoul legt sich flach auf den Boden und beschließt zu warten, bis der Perser die Tür findet. Der Perser macht sich an die Arbeit und fühlt jede Klappe ab, um den schwachen Punkt zu finden, auf den er drücken kann, um die Tür entsprechend Eriks System der Achsen zu drehen. Der Perser verliert seinen Platz, nachdem er sich ein paar Schritte von der Wand entfernt hat, während er mit Raoul spricht, und muss wieder von vorne anfangen. Sie müssen immer wieder ihre Mäntel aus- und wieder anziehen: um sich abzukühlen, aber auch zum Schutz vor der Hitze. Es wird bald dunkel, aber die Hitze vergeht nicht mit dem Tageslicht. Die Vorstellung, dass Erik wahrscheinlich in dem Raum neben ihnen ist und seinen Trick benutzt, lässt den Perser plötzlich beschließen, mit ihm zu verhandeln, weil er dachte, dass sie jede Hoffnung auf einen Überraschungsangriff auf Erik aufgeben müssten. Der Perser fängt an zu schreien, aber vergeblich. Die Hitze wird so intensiv, dass sie beide mit heiserem Verzweiflungsgebrüll auf dem Boden rollen. Der Perser sieht eine Nut im Boden in der Nähe des Punjab-Lassos - speziell einen schwarzköpfigen Nagel, der Druck nachgibt. Der Perser drückt ihn und öffnet eine Kellertürklappe im Boden. Kühle Luft steigt aus dem schwarzen Loch darunter auf. Der Perser stößt seinen Arm in das Loch und stößt auf eine Treppe, die in den Keller führt. Sie erreichen bald das Ende der Treppe und stellen fest, dass die Fässer im Keller nicht mit Wein, sondern mit Schießpulver gefüllt sind. Sie erkennen, dass Erik plant, das Opernhaus in die Luft zu sprengen. Sie fangen an wie Verrückte zu schreien, voller Angst. Sie stürzen die Stufen der Treppe hinauf, um dem dunklen Keller zu entfliehen. Sie versuchen, die Zeit herauszufinden, aber sie sind erfolglos. Dann hören sie Schritte im nächsten Raum. Christine ruft nach ihnen und sagt, dass es nur noch fünf Minuten bis 23 Uhr sind. Erik betritt den Raum, und der Perser versucht mit ihm zu reden. Erik sagt ihm, er solle ruhig sein und darauf warten, dass Christine ihre Entscheidung trifft. Sie warten schweigend, und Raoul beginnt zu beten, im Bewusstsein, dass nichts anderes getan werden kann. Christine entscheidet sich, Erik zu heiraten; als Folge davon steigt das Wasser im Keller über die Fässer und der Perser und Raoul trinken das Wasser zu ihrer Zufriedenheit. Der Boden der Folterkammer wird bald wie ein See, während das Wasser weiter steigt. Sie rufen Erik zu, das Wasser abzustellen, aber in der Dunkelheit ergreift und gefriert sie das Wasser. Ihre Arme verheddern sich im Versuch zu schwimmen. Sie ersticken und verlieren langsam ihre Kraft. Bevor der Perser das Bewusstsein verliert, scheint er zu hören, wie jemand fragt, ob es Fässer zu verkaufen gibt. Das vorherige Kapitel markiert den Abschluss der schriftlichen Erzählung des Persers. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Christine Raoul und den Perser rettet. Als der Perser die Augen öffnet, findet er sich auf einem Bett liegend wieder. Raoul liegt auf einem Sofa neben einem Kleiderschrank. Erik fragt den Perser, wie es ihm geht. Christine sagt kein Wort und geht lautlos umher. Erik sagt, dass Raoul lange vor ihm zu sich kam. Raoul ist wohlauf und schläft. Erik verlässt das Zimmer und kommt mit einigen kleinen Fläschchen zurück, die er auf seinen Kaminsims stellt. Er sagt dem Perser, dass er sie beide an die Erdoberfläche bringen wird, um Christine, seine Frau, glücklich zu machen. Der Perser schläft schließlich ein und wacht nicht auf, bis er in seinem eigenen Zimmer ist, von Darius gepflegt, der ihm sagt, dass er am Vorabend an der Tür seiner Wohnung gelehnt gefunden wurde, wo er von einem Fremden gebracht worden war. Sobald der Perser seine Kräfte zurückerlangt, schickt er jemanden zum Haus von Graf Philippe, um nach Raouls Gesundheit zu fragen. Die Antwort lautet, dass Raoul nicht aufzufinden war und dass Philippe tot am Ufer des Opernsees, auf der Seite der Rue Scribe, gefunden wurde. Der Perser, entschlossen, der Presse von dem Geschehenen zu berichten, schreibt seinen Bericht, gerade als Erik an seine Tür klopft. Erik sieht extrem schwach aus und lehnt sich gegen die Wand. Erik sagt, dass der Tod von Philippe ein Unfall war und dass er zu spät kam, um ihn zu retten: Die Sirene hatte ihn bereits getötet. Erik ist zu dem Perser gekommen, um ihm zu sagen, dass er vor Liebe sterben wird. Erik sagt, dass er Christine auf die Stirn geküsst hat und dass sie ihre Stirn nicht von seinen Lippen zurückgezogen hat. Erik sagt, dass er zwar den Perser an die Oberfläche gebracht hat, aber Raoul in das Verlies der Kommunisten gesperrt hat, das im entlegensten und abgelegensten Teil der Oper unter dem fünften Keller liegt, wo niemand jemals hingeht und niemand je gehört werden kann. Dann kam Erik zurück und nahm Christine mit sich, die auf ihn wartete. Sowohl Erik als auch Christine weinten zusammen, und Erik erzählte ihr dann, dass sie Raoul heiraten könne, wann immer sie wolle, weil sie mit ihm geweint und ihre Tränen mit seinen Tränen vermischt hatte. Eriks Emotionen sind so groß, als er dem Perser seine Geschichte erzählt, dass er den Perser auffordern muss, ihn nicht anzusehen. Das Herz des Persers ist voller Mitleid. Erik sagt, dass er ihn am Ende zu sich rufen wird, wenn er seinem Ende nahe ist. Der Perser begleitet Erik zur Tür seiner Wohnung und Darius hilft ihm auf die Straße. Erik steigt in die Kutsche ein und der Perser hört, wie er dem Fahrer sagt, er solle zum Opernhaus fahren. Drei Wochen später veröffentlicht die Zeitung Epoque eine Anzeige, dass Erik tot ist. Leroux stellt fest, dass es viele Beweise für seine Existenz in Reichweite jedermanns gibt, dass sie Eriks Handlungen logisch durch die gesamte Tragödie der Chagnys verfolgen können. Raoul und Christine nehmen eines Tages den Zug vom "nördlichen Bahnhof der Welt". Mamma Valerius verschwand zur gleichen Zeit. Nur der Perser kannte die ganze Wahrheit und hatte die wichtigsten Beweise, die ihm mit den Relikten übergeben wurden, die Erik zum Zeitpunkt seines Todes versprochen hatte. Leroux entlarvt viele der Geheimnisse des Phantoms: wie er das Geld von den Managern nahm und sogar wie er seine Stimme in Box Nummer Fünf projizierte. Er stellt auch fest, dass Erik in einer kleinen französischen Stadt namens Rouen geboren wurde und aus dem Haus seines Vaters weglief, wo seine Hässlichkeit für seine Eltern ein Schrecken war. Er besuchte eine Zeit lang Jahrmärkte und Zirkusse und ging dann in das Persische Reich, wo der Shah Gefallen an ihm fand. Nachdem er dem Shah einen uneinnehmbaren und prächtigen Palast errichtet hatte, wurde Erik als Gefahr angesehen, da er andere mit Informationen versorgen könnte. Er wurde daher hingerichtet, aber der Perser rettete ihn. Erik ging nach Kleinasien und dann nach Paris, wo er sich um einen Teil der Fundamente in der Oper bewarb. Der Rest ist Gegenstand des Buches selbst. Das Skelett lag in der Nähe des kleinen Brunnens, an der Stelle, an der Erik Christine bewusstlos in seinen Armen hielt, in der Nacht, als er sie in die Keller des Opernhauses brachte.

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: "What suit of grace hath Virtue to put on If Vice shall wear as good, and do as well? If Wrong, if Craft, if Indiscretion Act as fair parts with ends as laudable? Which all this mighty volume of events The world, the universal map of deeds, Strongly controls, and proves from all descents, That the directest course still best succeeds. For should not grave and learn'd Experience That looks with the eyes of all the world beside, And with all ages holds intelligence, Go safer than Deceit without a guide! --DANIEL: Musophilus. That change of plan and shifting of interest which Bulstrode stated or betrayed in his conversation with Lydgate, had been determined in him by some severe experience which he had gone through since the epoch of Mr. Larcher's sale, when Raffles had recognized Will Ladislaw, and when the banker had in vain attempted an act of restitution which might move Divine Providence to arrest painful consequences. His certainty that Raffles, unless he were dead, would return to Middlemarch before long, had been justified. On Christmas Eve he had reappeared at The Shrubs. Bulstrode was at home to receive him, and hinder his communication with the rest of the family, but he could not altogether hinder the circumstances of the visit from compromising himself and alarming his wife. Raffles proved more unmanageable than he had shown himself to be in his former appearances, his chronic state of mental restlessness, the growing effect of habitual intemperance, quickly shaking off every impression from what was said to him. He insisted on staying in the house, and Bulstrode, weighing two sets of evils, felt that this was at least not a worse alternative than his going into the town. He kept him in his own room for the evening and saw him to bed, Raffles all the while amusing himself with the annoyance he was causing this decent and highly prosperous fellow-sinner, an amusement which he facetiously expressed as sympathy with his friend's pleasure in entertaining a man who had been serviceable to him, and who had not had all his earnings. There was a cunning calculation under this noisy joking--a cool resolve to extract something the handsomer from Bulstrode as payment for release from this new application of torture. But his cunning had a little overcast its mark. Bulstrode was indeed more tortured than the coarse fibre of Raffles could enable him to imagine. He had told his wife that he was simply taking care of this wretched creature, the victim of vice, who might otherwise injure himself; he implied, without the direct form of falsehood, that there was a family tie which bound him to this care, and that there were signs of mental alienation in Raffles which urged caution. He would himself drive the unfortunate being away the next morning. In these hints he felt that he was supplying Mrs. Bulstrode with precautionary information for his daughters and servants, and accounting for his allowing no one but himself to enter the room even with food and drink. But he sat in an agony of fear lest Raffles should be overheard in his loud and plain references to past facts--lest Mrs. Bulstrode should be even tempted to listen at the door. How could he hinder her, how betray his terror by opening the door to detect her? She was a woman of honest direct habits, and little likely to take so low a course in order to arrive at painful knowledge; but fear was stronger than the calculation of probabilities. In this way Raffles had pushed the torture too far, and produced an effect which had not been in his plan. By showing himself hopelessly unmanageable he had made Bulstrode feel that a strong defiance was the only resource left. After taking Raffles to bed that night the banker ordered his closed carriage to be ready at half-past seven the next morning. At six o'clock he had already been long dressed, and had spent some of his wretchedness in prayer, pleading his motives for averting the worst evil if in anything he had used falsity and spoken what was not true before God. For Bulstrode shrank from a direct lie with an intensity disproportionate to the number of his more indirect misdeeds. But many of these misdeeds were like the subtle muscular movements which are not taken account of in the consciousness, though they bring about the end that we fix our mind on and desire. And it is only what we are vividly conscious of that we can vividly imagine to be seen by Omniscience. Bulstrode carried his candle to the bedside of Raffles, who was apparently in a painful dream. He stood silent, hoping that the presence of the light would serve to waken the sleeper gradually and gently, for he feared some noise as the consequence of a too sudden awakening. He had watched for a couple of minutes or more the shudderings and pantings which seemed likely to end in waking, when Raffles, with a long half-stifled moan, started up and stared round him in terror, trembling and gasping. But he made no further noise, and Bulstrode, setting down the candle, awaited his recovery. It was a quarter of an hour later before Bulstrode, with a cold peremptoriness of manner which he had not before shown, said, "I came to call you thus early, Mr. Raffles, because I have ordered the carriage to be ready at half-past seven, and intend myself to conduct you as far as Ilsely, where you can either take the railway or await a coach." Raffles was about to speak, but Bulstrode anticipated him imperiously with the words, "Be silent, sir, and hear what I have to say. I shall supply you with money now, and I will furnish you with a reasonable sum from time to time, on your application to me by letter; but if you choose to present yourself here again, if you return to Middlemarch, if you use your tongue in a manner injurious to me, you will have to live on such fruits as your malice can bring you, without help from me. Nobody will pay you well for blasting my name: I know the worst you can do against me, and I shall brave it if you dare to thrust yourself upon me again. Get up, sir, and do as I order you, without noise, or I will send for a policeman to take you off my premises, and you may carry your stories into every pothouse in the town, but you shall have no sixpence from me to pay your expenses there." Bulstrode had rarely in his life spoken with such nervous energy: he had been deliberating on this speech and its probable effects through a large part of the night; and though he did not trust to its ultimately saving him from any return of Raffles, he had concluded that it was the best throw he could make. It succeeded in enforcing submission from the jaded man this morning: his empoisoned system at this moment quailed before Bulstrode's cold, resolute bearing, and he was taken off quietly in the carriage before the family breakfast time. The servants imagined him to be a poor relation, and were not surprised that a strict man like their master, who held his head high in the world, should be ashamed of such a cousin and want to get rid of him. The banker's drive of ten miles with his hated companion was a dreary beginning of the Christmas day; but at the end of the drive, Raffles had recovered his spirits, and parted in a contentment for which there was the good reason that the banker had given him a hundred pounds. Various motives urged Bulstrode to this open-handedness, but he did not himself inquire closely into all of them. As he had stood watching Raffles in his uneasy sleep, it had certainly entered his mind that the man had been much shattered since the first gift of two hundred pounds. He had taken care to repeat the incisive statement of his resolve not to be played on any more; and had tried to penetrate Raffles with the fact that he had shown the risks of bribing him to be quite equal to the risks of defying him. But when, freed from his repulsive presence, Bulstrode returned to his quiet home, he brought with him no confidence that he had secured more than a respite. It was as if he had had a loathsome dream, and could not shake off its images with their hateful kindred of sensations--as if on all the pleasant surroundings of his life a dangerous reptile had left his slimy traces. Who can know how much of his most inward life is made up of the thoughts he believes other men to have about him, until that fabric of opinion is threatened with ruin? Bulstrode was only the more conscious that there was a deposit of uneasy presentiment in his wife's mind, because she carefully avoided any allusion to it. He had been used every day to taste the flavor of supremacy and the tribute of complete deference: and the certainty that he was watched or measured with a hidden suspicion of his having some discreditable secret, made his voice totter when he was speaking to edification. Foreseeing, to men of Bulstrode's anxious temperament, is often worse than seeing; and his imagination continually heightened the anguish of an imminent disgrace. Yes, imminent; for if his defiance of Raffles did not keep the man away--and though he prayed for this result he hardly hoped for it--the disgrace was certain. In vain he said to himself that, if permitted, it would be a divine visitation, a chastisement, a preparation; he recoiled from the imagined burning; and he judged that it must be more for the Divine glory that he should escape dishonor. That recoil had at last urged him to make preparations for quitting Middlemarch. If evil truth must be reported of him, he would then be at a less scorching distance from the contempt of his old neighbors; and in a new scene, where his life would not have gathered the same wide sensibility, the tormentor, if he pursued him, would be less formidable. To leave the place finally would, he knew, be extremely painful to his wife, and on other grounds he would have preferred to stay where he had struck root. Hence he made his preparations at first in a conditional way, wishing to leave on all sides an opening for his return after brief absence, if any favorable intervention of Providence should dissipate his fears. He was preparing to transfer his management of the Bank, and to give up any active control of other commercial affairs in the neighborhood, on the ground of his failing health, but without excluding his future resumption of such work. The measure would cause him some added expense and some diminution of income beyond what he had already undergone from the general depression of trade; and the Hospital presented itself as a principal object of outlay on which he could fairly economize. This was the experience which had determined his conversation with Lydgate. But at this time his arrangements had most of them gone no farther than a stage at which he could recall them if they proved to be unnecessary. He continually deferred the final steps; in the midst of his fears, like many a man who is in danger of shipwreck or of being dashed from his carriage by runaway horses, he had a clinging impression that something would happen to hinder the worst, and that to spoil his life by a late transplantation might be over-hasty--especially since it was difficult to account satisfactorily to his wife for the project of their indefinite exile from the only place where she would like to live. Among the affairs Bulstrode had to care for, was the management of the farm at Stone Court in case of his absence; and on this as well as on all other matters connected with any houses and land he possessed in or about Middlemarch, he had consulted Caleb Garth. Like every one else who had business of that sort, he wanted to get the agent who was more anxious for his employer's interests than his own. With regard to Stone Court, since Bulstrode wished to retain his hold on the stock, and to have an arrangement by which he himself could, if he chose, resume his favorite recreation of superintendence, Caleb had advised him not to trust to a mere bailiff, but to let the land, stock, and implements yearly, and take a proportionate share of the proceeds. "May I trust to you to find me a tenant on these terms, Mr. Garth?" said Bulstrode. "And will you mention to me the yearly sum which would repay you for managing these affairs which we have discussed together?" "I'll think about it," said Caleb, in his blunt way. "I'll see how I can make it out." If it had not been that he had to consider Fred Vincy's future, Mr. Garth would not probably have been glad of any addition to his work, of which his wife was always fearing an excess for him as he grew older. But on quitting Bulstrode after that conversation, a very alluring idea occurred to him about this said letting of Stone Court. What if Bulstrode would agree to his placing Fred Vincy there on the understanding that he, Caleb Garth, should be responsible for the management? It would be an excellent schooling for Fred; he might make a modest income there, and still have time left to get knowledge by helping in other business. He mentioned his notion to Mrs. Garth with such evident delight that she could not bear to chill his pleasure by expressing her constant fear of his undertaking too much. "The lad would be as happy as two," he said, throwing himself back in his chair, and looking radiant, "if I could tell him it was all settled. Think; Susan! His mind had been running on that place for years before old Featherstone died. And it would be as pretty a turn of things as could be that he should hold the place in a good industrious way after all--by his taking to business. For it's likely enough Bulstrode might let him go on, and gradually buy the stock. He hasn't made up his mind, I can see, whether or not he shall settle somewhere else as a lasting thing. I never was better pleased with a notion in my life. And then the children might be married by-and-by, Susan." "You will not give any hint of the plan to Fred, until you are sure that Bulstrode would agree to the plan?" said Mrs. Garth, in a tone of gentle caution. "And as to marriage, Caleb, we old people need not help to hasten it." "Oh, I don't know," said Caleb, swinging his head aside. "Marriage is a taming thing. Fred would want less of my bit and bridle. However, I shall say nothing till I know the ground I'm treading on. I shall speak to Bulstrode again." He took his earliest opportunity of doing so. Bulstrode had anything but a warm interest in his nephew Fred Vincy, but he had a strong wish to secure Mr. Garth's services on many scattered points of business at which he was sure to be a considerable loser, if they were under less conscientious management. On that ground he made no objection to Mr. Garth's proposal; and there was also another reason why he was not sorry to give a consent which was to benefit one of the Vincy family. It was that Mrs. Bulstrode, having heard of Lydgate's debts, had been anxious to know whether her husband could not do something for poor Rosamond, and had been much troubled on learning from him that Lydgate's affairs were not easily remediable, and that the wisest plan was to let them "take their course." Mrs. Bulstrode had then said for the first time, "I think you are always a little hard towards my family, Nicholas. And I am sure I have no reason to deny any of my relatives. Too worldly they may be, but no one ever had to say that they were not respectable." "My dear Harriet," said Mr. Bulstrode, wincing under his wife's eyes, which were filling with tears, "I have supplied your brother with a great deal of capital. I cannot be expected to take care of his married children." That seemed to be true, and Mrs. Bulstrode's remonstrance subsided into pity for poor Rosamond, whose extravagant education she had always foreseen the fruits of. But remembering that dialogue, Mr. Bulstrode felt that when he had to talk to his wife fully about his plan of quitting Middlemarch, he should be glad to tell her that he had made an arrangement which might be for the good of her nephew Fred. At present he had merely mentioned to her that he thought of shutting up The Shrubs for a few months, and taking a house on the Southern Coast. Hence Mr. Garth got the assurance he desired, namely, that in case of Bulstrode's departure from Middlemarch for an indefinite time, Fred Vincy should be allowed to have the tenancy of Stone Court on the terms proposed. Caleb was so elated with his hope of this "neat turn" being given to things, that if his self-control had not been braced by a little affectionate wifely scolding, he would have betrayed everything to Mary, wanting "to give the child comfort." However, he restrained himself, and kept in strict privacy from Fred certain visits which he was making to Stone Court, in order to look more thoroughly into the state of the land and stock, and take a preliminary estimate. He was certainly more eager in these visits than the probable speed of events required him to be; but he was stimulated by a fatherly delight in occupying his mind with this bit of probable happiness which he held in store like a hidden birthday gift for Fred and Mary. "But suppose the whole scheme should turn out to be a castle in the air?" said Mrs. Garth. "Well, well," replied Caleb; "the castle will tumble about nobody's head." "If thou hast heard a word, let it die with thee." --Ecclesiasticus. Mr. Bulstrode was still seated in his manager's room at the Bank, about three o'clock of the same day on which he had received Lydgate there, when the clerk entered to say that his horse was waiting, and also that Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak with him. "By all means," said Bulstrode; and Caleb entered. "Pray sit down, Mr. Garth," continued the banker, in his suavest tone. "I am glad that you arrived just in time to find me here. I know you count your minutes." "Oh," said Caleb, gently, with a slow swing of his head on one side, as he seated himself and laid his hat on the floor. He looked at the ground, leaning forward and letting his long fingers droop between his legs, while each finger moved in succession, as if it were sharing some thought which filled his large quiet brow. Mr. Bulstrode, like every one else who knew Caleb, was used to his slowness in beginning to speak on any topic which he felt to be important, and rather expected that he was about to recur to the buying of some houses in Blindman's Court, for the sake of pulling them down, as a sacrifice of property which would be well repaid by the influx of air and light on that spot. It was by propositions of this kind that Caleb was sometimes troublesome to his employers; but he had usually found Bulstrode ready to meet him in projects of improvement, and they had got on well together. When he spoke again, however, it was to say, in rather a subdued voice-- "I have just come away from Stone Court, Mr. Bulstrode." "You found nothing wrong there, I hope," said the banker; "I was there myself yesterday. Abel has done well with the lambs this year." "Why, yes," said Caleb, looking up gravely, "there is something wrong--a stranger, who is very ill, I think. He wants a doctor, and I came to tell you of that. His name is Raffles." He saw the shock of his words passing through Bulstrode's frame. On this subject the banker had thought that his fears were too constantly on the watch to be taken by surprise; but he had been mistaken. "Poor wretch!" he said in a compassionate tone, though his lips trembled a little. "Do you know how he came there?" "I took him myself," said Caleb, quietly--"took him up in my gig. He had got down from the coach, and was walking a little beyond the turning from the toll-house, and I overtook him. He remembered seeing me with you once before, at Stone Court, and he asked me to take him on. I saw he was ill: it seemed to me the right thing to do, to carry him under shelter. And now I think you should lose no time in getting advice for him." Caleb took up his hat from the floor as he ended, and rose slowly from his seat. "Certainly," said Bulstrode, whose mind was very active at this moment. "Perhaps you will yourself oblige me, Mr. Garth, by calling at Mr. Lydgate's as you pass--or stay! he may at this hour probably be at the Hospital. I will first send my man on the horse there with a note this instant, and then I will myself ride to Stone Court." Bulstrode quickly wrote a note, and went out himself to give the commission to his man. When he returned, Caleb was standing as before with one hand on the back of the chair, holding his hat with the other. In Bulstrode's mind the dominant thought was, "Perhaps Raffles only spoke to Garth of his illness. Garth may wonder, as he must have done before, at this disreputable fellow's claiming intimacy with me; but he will know nothing. And he is friendly to me--I can be of use to him." He longed for some confirmation of this hopeful conjecture, but to have asked any question as to what Raffles had said or done would have been to betray fear. "I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Garth," he said, in his usual tone of politeness. "My servant will be back in a few minutes, and I shall then go myself to see what can be done for this unfortunate man. Perhaps you had some other business with me? If so, pray be seated." "Thank you," said Caleb, making a slight gesture with his right hand to waive the invitation. "I wish to say, Mr. Bulstrode, that I must request you to put your business into some other hands than mine. I am obliged to you for your handsome way of meeting me--about the letting of Stone Court, and all other business. But I must give it up." A sharp certainty entered like a stab into Bulstrode's soul. "This is sudden, Mr. Garth," was all he could say at first. "It is," said Caleb; "but it is quite fixed. I must give it up." He spoke with a firmness which was very gentle, and yet he could see that Bulstrode seemed to cower under that gentleness, his face looking dried and his eyes swerving away from the glance which rested on him. Caleb felt a deep pity for him, but he could have used no pretexts to account for his resolve, even if they would have been of any use. "You have been led to this, I apprehend, by some slanders concerning me uttered by that unhappy creature," said Bulstrode, anxious now to know the utmost. "That is true. I can't deny that I act upon what I heard from him." "You are a conscientious man, Mr. Garth--a man, I trust, who feels himself accountable to God. You would not wish to injure me by being too ready to believe a slander," said Bulstrode, casting about for pleas that might be adapted to his hearer's mind. "That is a poor reason for giving up a connection which I think I may say will be mutually beneficial." "I would injure no man if I could help it," said Caleb; "even if I thought God winked at it. I hope I should have a feeling for my fellow-creature. But, sir--I am obliged to believe that this Raffles has told me the truth. And I can't be happy in working with you, or profiting by you. It hurts my mind. I must beg you to seek another agent." "Very well, Mr. Garth. But I must at least claim to know the worst that he has told you. I must know what is the foul speech that I am liable to be the victim of," said Bulstrode, a certain amount of anger beginning to mingle with his humiliation before this quiet man who renounced his benefits. "That's needless," said Caleb, waving his hand, bowing his head slightly, and not swerving from the tone which had in it the merciful intention to spare this pitiable man. "What he has said to me will never pass from my lips, unless something now unknown forces it from me. If you led a harmful life for gain, and kept others out of their rights by deceit, to get the more for yourself, I dare say you repent--you would like to go back, and can't: that must be a bitter thing"--Caleb paused a moment and shook his head--"it is not for me to make your life harder to you." "But you do--you do make it harder to me," said Bulstrode constrained into a genuine, pleading cry. "You make it harder to me by turning your back on me." "That I'm forced to do," said Caleb, still more gently, lifting up his hand. "I am sorry. I don't judge you and say, he is wicked, and I am righteous. God forbid. I don't know everything. A man may do wrong, and his will may rise clear out of it, though he can't get his life clear. That's a bad punishment. If it is so with you,--well, I'm very sorry for you. But I have that feeling inside me, that I can't go on working with you. That's all, Mr. Bulstrode. Everything else is buried, so far as my will goes. And I wish you good-day." "One moment, Mr. Garth!" said Bulstrode, hurriedly. "I may trust then to your solemn assurance that you will not repeat either to man or woman what--even if it have any degree of truth in it--is yet a malicious representation?" Caleb's wrath was stirred, and he said, indignantly-- "Why should I have said it if I didn't mean it? I am in no fear of you. Such tales as that will never tempt my tongue." "Excuse me--I am agitated--I am the victim of this abandoned man." "Stop a bit! you have got to consider whether you didn't help to make him worse, when you profited by his vices." "You are wronging me by too readily believing him," said Bulstrode, oppressed, as by a nightmare, with the inability to deny flatly what Raffles might have said; and yet feeling it an escape that Caleb had not so stated it to him as to ask for that flat denial. "No," said Caleb, lifting his hand deprecatingly; "I am ready to believe better, when better is proved. I rob you of no good chance. As to speaking, I hold it a crime to expose a man's sin unless I'm clear it must be done to save the innocent. That is my way of thinking, Mr. Bulstrode, and what I say, I've no need to swear. I wish you good-day." Some hours later, when he was at home, Caleb said to his wife, incidentally, that he had had some little differences with Bulstrode, and that in consequence, he had given up all notion of taking Stone Court, and indeed had resigned doing further business for him. "He was disposed to interfere too much, was he?" said Mrs. Garth, imagining that her husband had been touched on his sensitive point, and not been allowed to do what he thought right as to materials and modes of work. "Oh," said Caleb, bowing his head and waving his hand gravely. And Mrs. Garth knew that this was a sign of his not intending to speak further on the subject. As for Bulstrode, he had almost immediately mounted his horse and set off for Stone Court, being anxious to arrive there before Lydgate. His mind was crowded with images and conjectures, which were a language to his hopes and fears, just as we hear tones from the vibrations which shake our whole system. The deep humiliation with which he had winced under Caleb Garth's knowledge of his past and rejection of his patronage, alternated with and almost gave way to the sense of safety in the fact that Garth, and no other, had been the man to whom Raffles had spoken. It seemed to him a sort of earnest that Providence intended his rescue from worse consequences; the way being thus left open for the hope of secrecy. That Raffles should be afflicted with illness, that he should have been led to Stone Court rather than elsewhere--Bulstrode's heart fluttered at the vision of probabilities which these events conjured up. If it should turn out that he was freed from all danger of disgrace--if he could breathe in perfect liberty--his life should be more consecrated than it had ever been before. He mentally lifted up this vow as if it would urge the result he longed for--he tried to believe in the potency of that prayerful resolution--its potency to determine death. He knew that he ought to say, "Thy will be done;" and he said it often. But the intense desire remained that the will of God might be the death of that hated man. Yet when he arrived at Stone Court he could not see the change in Raffles without a shock. But for his pallor and feebleness, Bulstrode would have called the change in him entirely mental. Instead of his loud tormenting mood, he showed an intense, vague terror, and seemed to deprecate Bulstrode's anger, because the money was all gone--he had been robbed--it had half of it been taken from him. He had only come here because he was ill and somebody was hunting him--somebody was after him, he had told nobody anything, he had kept his mouth shut. Bulstrode, not knowing the significance of these symptoms, interpreted this new nervous susceptibility into a means of alarming Raffles into true confessions, and taxed him with falsehood in saying that he had not told anything, since he had just told the man who took him up in his gig and brought him to Stone Court. Raffles denied this with solemn adjurations; the fact being that the links of consciousness were interrupted in him, and that his minute terror-stricken narrative to Caleb Garth had been delivered under a set of visionary impulses which had dropped back into darkness. Bulstrode's heart sank again at this sign that he could get no grasp over the wretched man's mind, and that no word of Raffles could be trusted as to the fact which he most wanted to know, namely, whether or not he had really kept silence to every one in the neighborhood except Caleb Garth. The housekeeper had told him without the least constraint of manner that since Mr. Garth left, Raffles had asked her for beer, and after that had not spoken, seeming very ill. On that side it might be concluded that there had been no betrayal. Mrs. Abel thought, like the servants at The Shrubs, that the strange man belonged to the unpleasant "kin" who are among the troubles of the rich; she had at first referred the kinship to Mr. Rigg, and where there was property left, the buzzing presence of such large blue-bottles seemed natural enough. How he could be "kin" to Bulstrode as well was not so clear, but Mrs. Abel agreed with her husband that there was "no knowing," a proposition which had a great deal of mental food for her, so that she shook her head over it without further speculation. In less than an hour Lydgate arrived. Bulstrode met him outside the wainscoted parlor, where Raffles was, and said-- "I have called you in, Mr. Lydgate, to an unfortunate man who was once in my employment, many years ago. Afterwards he went to America, and returned I fear to an idle dissolute life. Being destitute, he has a claim on me. He was slightly connected with Rigg, the former owner of this place, and in consequence found his way here. I believe he is seriously ill: apparently his mind is affected. I feel bound to do the utmost for him." Lydgate, who had the remembrance of his last conversation with Bulstrode strongly upon him, was not disposed to say an unnecessary word to him, and bowed slightly in answer to this account; but just before entering the room he turned automatically and said, "What is his name?"--to know names being as much a part of the medical man's accomplishment as of the practical politician's. "Raffles, John Raffles," said Bulstrode, who hoped that whatever became of Raffles, Lydgate would never know any more of him. When he had thoroughly examined and considered the patient, Lydgate ordered that he should go to bed, and be kept there in as complete quiet as possible, and then went with Bulstrode into another room. "It is a serious case, I apprehend," said the banker, before Lydgate began to speak. "No--and yes," said Lydgate, half dubiously. "It is difficult to decide as to the possible effect of long-standing complications; but the man had a robust constitution to begin with. I should not expect this attack to be fatal, though of course the system is in a ticklish state. He should be well watched and attended to." "I will remain here myself," said Bulstrode. "Mrs. Abel and her husband are inexperienced. I can easily remain here for the night, if you will oblige me by taking a note for Mrs. Bulstrode." "I should think that is hardly necessary," said Lydgate. "He seems tame and terrified enough. He might become more unmanageable. But there is a man here--is there not?" "I have more than once stayed here a few nights for the sake of seclusion," said Bulstrode, indifferently; "I am quite disposed to do so now. Mrs. Abel and her husband can relieve or aid me, if necessary." "Very well. Then I need give my directions only to you," said Lydgate, not feeling surprised at a little peculiarity in Bulstrode. "You think, then, that the case is hopeful?" said Bulstrode, when Lydgate had ended giving his orders. "Unless there turn out to be further complications, such as I have not at present detected--yes," said Lydgate. "He may pass on to a worse stage; but I should not wonder if he got better in a few days, by adhering to the treatment I have prescribed. There must be firmness. Remember, if he calls for liquors of any sort, not to give them to him. In my opinion, men in his condition are oftener killed by treatment than by the disease. Still, new symptoms may arise. I shall come again to-morrow morning." After waiting for the note to be carried to Mrs. Bulstrode, Lydgate rode away, forming no conjectures, in the first instance, about the history of Raffles, but rehearsing the whole argument, which had lately been much stirred by the publication of Dr. Ware's abundant experience in America, as to the right way of treating cases of alcoholic poisoning such as this. Lydgate, when abroad, had already been interested in this question: he was strongly convinced against the prevalent practice of allowing alcohol and persistently administering large doses of opium; and he had repeatedly acted on this conviction with a favorable result. "The man is in a diseased state," he thought, "but there's a good deal of wear in him still. I suppose he is an object of charity to Bulstrode. It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie side by side in men's dispositions. Bulstrode seems the most unsympathetic fellow I ever saw about some people, and yet he has taken no end of trouble, and spent a great deal of money, on benevolent objects. I suppose he has some test by which he finds out whom Heaven cares for--he has made up his mind that it doesn't care for me." This streak of bitterness came from a plenteous source, and kept widening in the current of his thought as he neared Lowick Gate. He had not been there since his first interview with Bulstrode in the morning, having been found at the Hospital by the banker's messenger; and for the first time he was returning to his home without the vision of any expedient in the background which left him a hope of raising money enough to deliver him from the coming destitution of everything which made his married life tolerable--everything which saved him and Rosamond from that bare isolation in which they would be forced to recognize how little of a comfort they could be to each other. It was more bearable to do without tenderness for himself than to see that his own tenderness could make no amends for the lack of other things to her. The sufferings of his own pride from humiliations past and to come were keen enough, yet they were hardly distinguishable to himself from that more acute pain which dominated them--the pain of foreseeing that Rosamond would come to regard him chiefly as the cause of disappointment and unhappiness to her. He had never liked the makeshifts of poverty, and they had never before entered into his prospects for himself; but he was beginning now to imagine how two creatures who loved each other, and had a stock of thoughts in common, might laugh over their shabby furniture, and their calculations how far they could afford butter and eggs. But the glimpse of that poetry seemed as far off from him as the carelessness of the golden age; in poor Rosamond's mind there was not room enough for luxuries to look small in. He got down from his horse in a very sad mood, and went into the house, not expecting to be cheered except by his dinner, and reflecting that before the evening closed it would be wise to tell Rosamond of his application to Bulstrode and its failure. It would be well not to lose time in preparing her for the worst. But his dinner waited long for him before he was able to eat it. For on entering he found that Dover's agent had already put a man in the house, and when he asked where Mrs. Lydgate was, he was told that she was in her bedroom. He went up and found her stretched on the bed pale and silent, without an answer even in her face to any word or look of his. He sat down by the bed and leaning over her said with almost a cry of prayer-- "Forgive me for this misery, my poor Rosamond! Let us only love one another." She looked at him silently, still with the blank despair on her face; but then the tears began to fill her blue eyes, and her lip trembled. The strong man had had too much to bear that day. He let his head fall beside hers and sobbed. He did not hinder her from going to her father early in the morning--it seemed now that he ought not to hinder her from doing as she pleased. In half an hour she came back, and said that papa and mamma wished her to go and stay with them while things were in this miserable state. Papa said he could do nothing about the debt--if he paid this, there would be half-a-dozen more. She had better come back home again till Lydgate had got a comfortable home for her. "Do you object, Tertius?" "Do as you like," said Lydgate. "But things are not coming to a crisis immediately. There is no hurry." "I should not go till to-morrow," said Rosamond; "I shall want to pack my clothes." "Oh, I would wait a little longer than to-morrow--there is no knowing what may happen," said Lydgate, with bitter irony. "I may get my neck broken, and that may make things easier to you." It was Lydgate's misfortune and Rosamond's too, that his tenderness towards her, which was both an emotional prompting and a well-considered resolve, was inevitably interrupted by these outbursts of indignation either ironical or remonstrant. She thought them totally unwarranted, and the repulsion which this exceptional severity excited in her was in danger of making the more persistent tenderness unacceptable. "I see you do not wish me to go," she said, with chill mildness; "why can you not say so, without that kind of violence? I shall stay until you request me to do otherwise." Lydgate said no more, but went out on his rounds. He felt bruised and shattered, and there was a dark line under his eyes which Rosamond had not seen before. She could not bear to look at him. Tertius had a way of taking things which made them a great deal worse for her. Our deeds still travel with us from afar, And what we have been makes us what we are." Bulstrode's first object after Lydgate had left Stone Court was to examine Raffles's pockets, which he imagined were sure to carry signs in the shape of hotel-bills of the places he had stopped in, if he had not told the truth in saying that he had come straight from Liverpool because he was ill and had no money. There were various bills crammed into his pocketbook, but none of a later date than Christmas at any other place, except one, which bore date that morning. This was crumpled up with a hand-bill about a horse-fair in one of his tail-pockets, and represented the cost of three days' stay at an inn at Bilkley, where the fair was held--a town at least forty miles from Middlemarch. The bill was heavy, and since Raffles had no luggage with him, it seemed probable that he had left his portmanteau behind in payment, in order to save money for his travelling fare; for his purse was empty, and he had only a couple of sixpences and some loose pence in his pockets. Bulstrode gathered a sense of safety from these indications that Raffles had really kept at a distance from Middlemarch since his memorable visit at Christmas. At a distance and among people who were strangers to Bulstrode, what satisfaction could there be to Raffles's tormenting, self-magnifying vein in telling old scandalous stories about a Middlemarch banker? And what harm if he did talk? The chief point now was to keep watch over him as long as there was any danger of that intelligible raving, that unaccountable impulse to tell, which seemed to have acted towards Caleb Garth; and Bulstrode felt much anxiety lest some such impulse should come over him at the sight of Lydgate. He sat up alone with him through the night, only ordering the housekeeper to lie down in her clothes, so as to be ready when he called her, alleging his own indisposition to sleep, and his anxiety to carry out the doctor's orders. He did carry them out faithfully, although Raffles was incessantly asking for brandy, and declaring that he was sinking away--that the earth was sinking away from under him. He was restless and sleepless, but still quailing and manageable. On the offer of the food ordered by Lydgate, which he refused, and the denial of other things which he demanded, he seemed to concentrate all his terror on Bulstrode, imploringly deprecating his anger, his revenge on him by starvation, and declaring with strong oaths that he had never told any mortal a word against him. Even this Bulstrode felt that he would not have liked Lydgate to hear; but a more alarming sign of fitful alternation in his delirium was, that in-the morning twilight Raffles suddenly seemed to imagine a doctor present, addressing him and declaring that Bulstrode wanted to starve him to death out of revenge for telling, when he never had told. Bulstrode's native imperiousness and strength of determination served him well. This delicate-looking man, himself nervously perturbed, found the needed stimulus in his strenuous circumstances, and through that difficult night and morning, while he had the air of an animated corpse returned to movement without warmth, holding the mastery by its chill impassibility his mind was intensely at work thinking of what he had to guard against and what would win him security. Whatever prayers he might lift up, whatever statements he might inwardly make of this man's wretched spiritual condition, and the duty he himself was under to submit to the punishment divinely appointed for him rather than to wish for evil to another--through all this effort to condense words into a solid mental state, there pierced and spread with irresistible vividness the images of the events he desired. And in the train of those images came their apology. He could not but see the death of Raffles, and see in it his own deliverance. What was the removal of this wretched creature? He was impenitent--but were not public criminals impenitent?--yet the law decided on their fate. Should Providence in this case award death, there was no sin in contemplating death as the desirable issue--if he kept his hands from hastening it--if he scrupulously did what was prescribed. Even here there might be a mistake: human prescriptions were fallible things: Lydgate had said that treatment had hastened death,--why not his own method of treatment? But of course intention was everything in the question of right and wrong. And Bulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from his desire. He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders. Why should he have got into any argument about the validity of these orders? It was only the common trick of desire--which avails itself of any irrelevant scepticism, finding larger room for itself in all uncertainty about effects, in every obscurity that looks like the absence of law. Still, he did obey the orders. His anxieties continually glanced towards Lydgate, and his remembrance of what had taken place between them the morning before was accompanied with sensibilities which had not been roused at all during the actual scene. He had then cared but little about Lydgate's painful impressions with regard to the suggested change in the Hospital, or about the disposition towards himself which what he held to be his justifiable refusal of a rather exorbitant request might call forth. He recurred to the scene now with a perception that he had probably made Lydgate his enemy, and with an awakened desire to propitiate him, or rather to create in him a strong sense of personal obligation. He regretted that he had not at once made even an unreasonable money-sacrifice. For in case of unpleasant suspicions, or even knowledge gathered from the raving of Raffles, Bulstrode would have felt that he had a defence in Lydgate's mind by having conferred a momentous benefit on him. But the regret had perhaps come too late. Strange, piteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy man, who had longed for years to be better than he was--who had taken his selfish passions into discipline and clad them in severe robes, so that he had walked with them as a devout choir, till now that a terror had risen among them, and they could chant no longer, but threw out their common cries for safety. It was nearly the middle of the day before Lydgate arrived: he had meant to come earlier, but had been detained, he said; and his shattered looks were noticed by Balstrode. But he immediately threw himself into the consideration of the patient, and inquired strictly into all that had occurred. Raffles was worse, would take hardly any food, was persistently wakeful and restlessly raving; but still not violent. Contrary to Bulstrode's alarmed expectation, he took little notice of Lydgate's presence, and continued to talk or murmur incoherently. "What do you think of him?" said Bulstrode, in private. "The symptoms are worse." "You are less hopeful?" "No; I still think he may come round. Are you going to stay here yourself?" said Lydgate, looking at Bulstrode with an abrupt question, which made him uneasy, though in reality it was not due to any suspicious conjecture. "Yes, I think so," said Bulstrode, governing himself and speaking with deliberation. "Mrs. Bulstrode is advised of the reasons which detain me. Mrs. Abel and her husband are not experienced enough to be left quite alone, and this kind of responsibility is scarcely included in their service of me. You have some fresh instructions, I presume." The chief new instruction that Lydgate had to give was on the administration of extremely moderate doses of opium, in case of the sleeplessness continuing after several hours. He had taken the precaution of bringing opium in his pocket, and he gave minute directions to Bulstrode as to the doses, and the point at which they should cease. He insisted on the risk of not ceasing; and repeated his order that no alcohol should be given. "From what I see of the case," he ended, "narcotism is the only thing I should be much afraid of. He may wear through even without much food. There's a good deal of strength in him." "You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate--a most unusual, I may say unprecedented thing in my knowledge of you," said Bulstrode, showing a solicitude as unlike his indifference the day before, as his present recklessness about his own fatigue was unlike his habitual self-cherishing anxiety. "I fear you are harassed." "Yes, I am," said Lydgate, brusquely, holding his hat, and ready to go. "Something new, I fear," said Bulstrode, inquiringly. "Pray be seated." "No, thank you," said Lydgate, with some hauteur. "I mentioned to you yesterday what was the state of my affairs. There is nothing to add, except that the execution has since then been actually put into my house. One can tell a good deal of trouble in a short sentence. I will say good morning." "Stay, Mr. Lydgate, stay," said Bulstrode; "I have been reconsidering this subject. I was yesterday taken by surprise, and saw it superficially. Mrs. Bulstrode is anxious for her niece, and I myself should grieve at a calamitous change in your position. Claims on me are numerous, but on reconsideration, I esteem it right that I should incur a small sacrifice rather than leave you unaided. You said, I think, that a thousand pounds would suffice entirely to free you from your burthens, and enable you to recover a firm stand?" "Yes," said Lydgate, a great leap of joy within him surmounting every other feeling; "that would pay all my debts, and leave me a little on hand. I could set about economizing in our way of living. And by-and-by my practice might look up." "If you will wait a moment, Mr. Lydgate, I will draw a check to that amount. I am aware that help, to be effectual in these cases, should be thorough." While Bulstrode wrote, Lydgate turned to the window thinking of his home--thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustration, its good purposes still unbroken. "You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate," said the banker, advancing towards him with the check. "And by-and-by, I hope, you may be in circumstances gradually to repay me. Meanwhile, I have pleasure in thinking that you will be released from further difficulty." "I am deeply obliged to you," said Lydgate. "You have restored to me the prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good." It appeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that he should have reconsidered his refusal: it corresponded with the more munificent side of his character. But as he put his hack into a canter, that he might get the sooner home, and tell the good news to Rosamond, and get cash at the bank to pay over to Dover's agent, there crossed his mind, with an unpleasant impression, as from a dark-winged flight of evil augury across his vision, the thought of that contrast in himself which a few months had brought--that he should be overjoyed at being under a strong personal obligation--that he should be overjoyed at getting money for himself from Bulstrode. The banker felt that he had done something to nullify one cause of uneasiness, and yet he was scarcely the easier. He did not measure the quantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate's good-will, but the quantity was none the less actively there, like an irritating agent in his blood. A man vows, and yet will not cast away the means of breaking his vow. Is it that he distinctly means to break it? Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work in him dimly, and make their way into his imagination, and relax his muscles in the very moments when he is telling himself over again the reasons for his vow. Raffles, recovering quickly, returning to the free use of his odious powers--how could Bulstrode wish for that? Raffles dead was the image that brought release, and indirectly he prayed for that way of release, beseeching that, if it were possible, the rest of his days here below might be freed from the threat of an ignominy which would break him utterly as an instrument of God's service. Lydgate's opinion was not on the side of promise that this prayer would be fulfilled; and as the day advanced, Bulstrode felt himself getting irritated at the persistent life in this man, whom he would fain have seen sinking into the silence of death: imperious will stirred murderous impulses towards this brute life, over which will, by itself, had no power. He said inwardly that he was getting too much worn; he would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leave him to Mrs. Abel, who, if necessary, could call her husband. At six o'clock, Raffles, having had only fitful perturbed snatches of sleep, from which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual cries that he was sinking away, Bulstrode began to administer the opium according to Lydgate's directions. At the end of half an hour or more he called Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit for further watching. He must now consign the patient to her care; and he proceeded to repeat to her Lydgate's directions as to the quantity of each dose. Mrs. Abel had not before known anything of Lydgate's prescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whatever Bulstrode ordered, and had done what he pointed out to her. She began now to ask what else she should do besides administering the opium. "Nothing at present, except the offer of the soup or the soda-water: you can come to me for further directions. Unless there is any important change, I shall not come into the room again to-night. You will ask your husband for help if necessary. I must go to bed early." "You've much need, sir, I'm sure," said Mrs. Abel, "and to take something more strengthening than what you've done." Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say in his raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely to create any dangerous belief. At any rate he must risk this. He went down into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether he would not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, and give up caring for earthly consequences. Then, he wished that he had begged Lydgate to come again that evening. Perhaps he might deliver a different opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a less hopeful state. Should he send for Lydgate? If Raffles were really getting worse, and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bed and sleep in gratitude to Providence. But was he worse? Lydgate might come and simply say that he was going on as he expected, and predict that he would by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well. What was the use of sending for him? Bulstrode shrank from that result. No ideas or opinions could hinder him from seeing the one probability to be, that Raffles recovered would be just the same man as before, with his strength as a tormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wife to spend her years apart from her friends and native place, carrying an alienating suspicion against him in her heart. He had sat an hour and a half in this conflict by the firelight only, when a sudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candle, which he had brought down with him. The thought was, that he had not told Mrs. Abel when the doses of opium must cease. He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while. She might already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed. But it was excusable in him, that he should forget part of an order, in his present wearied condition. He walked up-stairs, candle in hand, not knowing whether he should straightway enter his own room and go to bed, or turn to the patient's room and rectify his omission. He paused in the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles's room, and he could hear him moaning and murmuring. He was not asleep, then. Who could know that Lydgate's prescription would not be better disobeyed than followed, since there was still no sleep? He turned into his own room. Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel rapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear her speak low. "If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the poor creetur? He feels sinking away, and nothing else will he swaller--and but little strength in it, if he did--only the opium. And he says more and more he's sinking down through the earth." To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer. A struggle was going on within him. "I think he must die for want o' support, if he goes on in that way. When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time," added Mrs. Abel, with a touch of remonstrance in her tone. But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued, "It's not a time to spare when people are at death's door, nor would you wish it, sir, I'm sure. Else I should give him our own bottle o' rum as we keep by us. But a sitter-up so as you've been, and doing everything as laid in your power--" Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode said huskily, "That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty of brandy there." Early in the morning--about six--Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time in prayer. Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarily candid--necessarily goes to the roots of action? Private prayer is inaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can represent himself just as he is, even in his own reflections? Bulstrode had not yet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the last four-and-twenty hours. He listened in the passage, and could hear hard stertorous breathing. Then he walked out in the garden, and looked at the early rime on the grass and fresh spring leaves. When he re-entered the house, he felt startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel. "How is your patient--asleep, I think?" he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness in his tone. "He's gone very deep, sir," said Mrs. Abel. "He went off gradual between three and four o'clock. Would you please to go and look at him? I thought it no harm to leave him. My man's gone afield, and the little girl's seeing to the kettles." Bulstrode went up. At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the sleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper and deeper into the gulf of death. He looked round the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in it, and the almost empty opium phial. He put the phial out of sight, and carried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in the wine-cooler. While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch at once, or wait for Lydgate's arrival. He decided to wait, and told Mrs. Abel that she might go about her work--he could watch in the bed-chamber. As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably into silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months. His conscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, which seemed just then like an angel sent down for his relief. He drew out his pocket-book to review various memoranda there as to the arrangements he had projected and partly carried out in the prospect of quitting Middlemarch, and considered how far he would let them stand or recall them, now that his absence would be brief. Some economies which he felt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporary withdrawal from management, and he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubon would take a large share in the expenses of the Hospital. In that way the moments passed, until a change in the stertorous breathing was marked enough to draw his attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to think of the departing life, which had once been subservient to his own--which he had once been glad to find base enough for him to act on as he would. It was his gladness then which impelled him now to be glad that the life was at an end. And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened? Who knew what would have saved him? Lydgate arrived at half-past ten, in time to witness the final pause of the breath. When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a sudden expression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognition that he had not judged correctly. He stood by the bed in silence for some time, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subdued activity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inward debate. "When did this change begin?" said he, looking at Bulstrode. "I did not watch by him last night," said Bulstrode. "I was over-worn, and left him under Mrs. Abel's care. She said that he sank into sleep between three and four o'clock. When I came in before eight he was nearly in this condition." Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he said, "It's all over." This morning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom. He had set out on his work with all his old animation, and felt himself strong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life. And he was conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him. But he was uneasy about this case. He had not expected it to terminate as it had done. Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject to Bulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined the housekeeper--why, the man was dead. There seemed to be no use in implying that somebody's ignorance or imprudence had killed him. And after all, he himself might be wrong. He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking of many things--chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in the House of Lords, and the firm resolve of the political Unions. Nothing was said about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity of having a grave for him in Lowick churchyard, and observed that, so far as he knew, the poor man had no connections, except Rigg, whom he had stated to be unfriendly towards him. On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother. The Vicar had not been in the town the day before, but the news that there was an execution in Lydgate's house had got to Lowick by the evening, having been carried by Mr. Spicer, shoemaker and parish-clerk, who had it from his brother, the respectable bell-hanger in Lowick Gate. Since that evening when Lydgate had come down from the billiard room with Fred Vincy, Mr. Farebrother's thoughts about him had been rather gloomy. Playing at the Green Dragon once or oftener might have been a trifle in another man; but in Lydgate it was one of several signs that he was getting unlike his former self. He was beginning to do things for which he had formerly even an excessive scorn. Whatever certain dissatisfactions in marriage, which some silly tinklings of gossip had given him hints of, might have to do with this change, Mr. Farebrother felt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were being more and more distinctly reported, and he began to fear that any notion of Lydgate's having resources or friends in the background must be quite illusory. The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to win Lydgate's confidence, disinclined him to a second; but this news of the execution being actually in the house, determined the Vicar to overcome his reluctance. Lydgate had just dismissed a poor patient, in whom he was much interested, and he came forward to put out his hand--with an open cheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother. Could this too be a proud rejection of sympathy and help? Never mind; the sympathy and help should be offered. "How are you, Lydgate? I came to see you because I had heard something which made me anxious about you," said the Vicar, in the tone of a good brother, only that there was no reproach in it. They were both seated by this time, and Lydgate answered immediately-- "I think I know what you mean. You had heard that there was an execution in the house?" "Yes; is it true?" "It was true," said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did not mind talking about the affair now. "But the danger is over; the debt is paid. I am out of my difficulties now: I shall be freed from debts, and able, I hope, to start afresh on a better plan." "I am very thankful to hear it," said the Vicar, falling back in his chair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often follows the removal of a load. "I like that better than all the news in the 'Times.' I confess I came to you with a heavy heart." "Thank you for coming," said Lydgate, cordially. "I can enjoy the kindness all the more because I am happier. I have certainly been a good deal crushed. I'm afraid I shall find the bruises still painful by-and by," he added, smiling rather sadly; "but just now I can only feel that the torture-screw is off." Mr. Farebrother was silent for a moment, and then said earnestly, "My dear fellow, let me ask you one question. Forgive me if I take a liberty." "I don't believe you will ask anything that ought to offend me." "Then--this is necessary to set my heart quite at rest--you have not--have you?--in order to pay your debts, incurred another debt which may harass you worse hereafter?" "No," said Lydgate, coloring slightly. "There is no reason why I should not tell you--since the fact is so--that the person to whom I am indebted is Bulstrode. He has made me a very handsome advance--a thousand pounds--and he can afford to wait for repayment." "Well, that is generous," said Mr. Farebrother, compelling himself to approve of the man whom he disliked. His delicate feeling shrank from dwelling even in his thought on the fact that he had always urged Lydgate to avoid any personal entanglement with Bulstrode. He added immediately, "And Bulstrode must naturally feel an interest in your welfare, after you have worked with him in a way which has probably reduced your income instead of adding to it. I am glad to think that he has acted accordingly." Lydgate felt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions. They made more distinct within him the uneasy consciousness which had shown its first dim stirrings only a few hours before, that Bulstrode's motives for his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillest indifference might be merely selfish. He let the kindly suppositions pass. He could not tell the history of the loan, but it was more vividly present with him than ever, as well as the fact which the Vicar delicately ignored--that this relation of personal indebtedness to Bulstrode was what he had once been most resolved to avoid. He began, instead of answering, to speak of his projected economies, and of his having come to look at his life from a different point of view. "I shall set up a surgery," he said. "I really think I made a mistaken effort in that respect. And if Rosamond will not mind, I shall take an apprentice. I don't like these things, but if one carries them out faithfully they are not really lowering. I have had a severe galling to begin with: that will make the small rubs seem easy." Poor Lydgate! the "if Rosamond will not mind," which had fallen from him involuntarily as part of his thought, was a significant mark of the yoke he bore. But Mr. Farebrother, whose hopes entered strongly into the same current with Lydgate's, and who knew nothing about him that could now raise a melancholy presentiment, left him with affectionate congratulation. Clown. . . . 'Twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not? Froth. I have so: because it is an open room, and good for winter. Clo. Why, very well then: I hope here be truths. --Measure for Measure. Five days after the death of Raffles, Mr. Bambridge was standing at his leisure under the large archway leading into the yard of the Green Dragon. He was not fond of solitary contemplation, but he had only just come out of the house, and any human figure standing at ease under the archway in the early afternoon was as certain to attract companionship as a pigeon which has found something worth pecking at. In this case there was no material object to feed upon, but the eye of reason saw a probability of mental sustenance in the shape of gossip. Mr. Hopkins, the meek-mannered draper opposite, was the first to act on this inward vision, being the more ambitious of a little masculine talk because his customers were chiefly women. Mr. Bambridge was rather curt to the draper, feeling that Hopkins was of course glad to talk to _him_, but that he was not going to waste much of his talk on Hopkins. Soon, however, there was a small cluster of more important listeners, who were either deposited from the passers-by, or had sauntered to the spot expressly to see if there were anything going on at the Green Dragon; and Mr. Bambridge was finding it worth his while to say many impressive things about the fine studs he had been seeing and the purchases he had made on a journey in the north from which he had just returned. Gentlemen present were assured that when they could show him anything to cut out a blood mare, a bay, rising four, which was to be seen at Doncaster if they chose to go and look at it, Mr. Bambridge would gratify them by being shot "from here to Hereford." Also, a pair of blacks which he was going to put into the break recalled vividly to his mind a pair which he had sold to Faulkner in '19, for a hundred guineas, and which Faulkner had sold for a hundred and sixty two months later--any gent who could disprove this statement being offered the privilege of calling Mr. Bambridge by a very ugly name until the exercise made his throat dry. When the discourse was at this point of animation, came up Mr. Frank Hawley. He was not a man to compromise his dignity by lounging at the Green Dragon, but happening to pass along the High Street and seeing Bambridge on the other side, he took some of his long strides across to ask the horsedealer whether he had found the first-rate gig-horse which he had engaged to look for. Mr. Hawley was requested to wait until he had seen a gray selected at Bilkley: if that did not meet his wishes to a hair, Bambridge did not know a horse when he saw it, which seemed to be the highest conceivable unlikelihood. Mr. Hawley, standing with his back to the street, was fixing a time for looking at the gray and seeing it tried, when a horseman passed slowly by. "Bulstrode!" said two or three voices at once in a low tone, one of them, which was the draper's, respectfully prefixing the "Mr.;" but nobody having more intention in this interjectural naming than if they had said "the Riverston coach" when that vehicle appeared in the distance. Mr. Hawley gave a careless glance round at Bulstrode's back, but as Bambridge's eyes followed it he made a sarcastic grimace. "By jingo! that reminds me," he began, lowering his voice a little, "I picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horse, Mr. Hawley. I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode. Do you know how he came by his fortune? Any gentleman wanting a bit of curious information, I can give it him free of expense. If everybody got their deserts, Bulstrode might have had to say his prayers at Botany Bay." "What do you mean?" said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and pushing a little forward under the archway. If Bulstrode should turn out to be a rascal, Frank Hawley had a prophetic soul. "I had it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode's. I'll tell you where I first picked him up," said Bambridge, with a sudden gesture of his fore-finger. "He was at Larcher's sale, but I knew nothing of him then--he slipped through my fingers--was after Bulstrode, no doubt. He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to any amount, knows all his secrets. However, he blabbed to me at Bilkley: he takes a stiff glass. Damme if I think he meant to turn king's evidence; but he's that sort of bragging fellow, the bragging runs over hedge and ditch with him, till he'd brag of a spavin as if it 'ud fetch money. A man should know when to pull up." Mr. Bambridge made this remark with an air of disgust, satisfied that his own bragging showed a fine sense of the marketable. "What's the man's name? Where can he be found?" said Mr. Hawley. "As to where he is to be found, I left him to it at the Saracen's Head; but his name is Raffles." "Raffles!" exclaimed Mr. Hopkins. "I furnished his funeral yesterday. He was buried at Lowick. Mr. Bulstrode followed him. A very decent funeral." There was a strong sensation among the listeners. Mr. Bambridge gave an ejaculation in which "brimstone" was the mildest word, and Mr. Hawley, knitting his brows and bending his head forward, exclaimed, "What?--where did the man die?" "At Stone Court," said the draper. "The housekeeper said he was a relation of the master's. He came there ill on Friday." "Why, it was on Wednesday I took a glass with him," interposed Bambridge. "Did any doctor attend him?" said Mr. Hawley "Yes. Mr. Lydgate. Mr. Bulstrode sat up with him one night. He died the third morning." "Go on, Bambridge," said Mr. Hawley, insistently. "What did this fellow say about Bulstrode?" The group had already become larger, the town-clerk's presence being a guarantee that something worth listening to was going on there; and Mr. Bambridge delivered his narrative in the hearing of seven. It was mainly what we know, including the fact about Will Ladislaw, with some local color and circumstance added: it was what Bulstrode had dreaded the betrayal of--and hoped to have buried forever with the corpse of Raffles--it was that haunting ghost of his earlier life which as he rode past the archway of the Green Dragon he was trusting that Providence had delivered him from. Yes, Providence. He had not confessed to himself yet that he had done anything in the way of contrivance to this end; he had accepted what seemed to have been offered. It was impossible to prove that he had done anything which hastened the departure of that man's soul. But this gossip about Bulstrode spread through Middlemarch like the smell of fire. Mr. Frank Hawley followed up his information by sending a clerk whom he could trust to Stone Court on a pretext of inquiring about hay, but really to gather all that could be learned about Raffles and his illness from Mrs. Abel. In this way it came to his knowledge that Mr. Garth had carried the man to Stone Court in his gig; and Mr. Hawley in consequence took an opportunity of seeing Caleb, calling at his office to ask whether he had time to undertake an arbitration if it were required, and then asking him incidentally about Raffles. Caleb was betrayed into no word injurious to Bulstrode beyond the fact which he was forced to admit, that he had given up acting for him within the last week. Mr Hawley drew his inferences, and feeling convinced that Raffles had told his story to Garth, and that Garth had given up Bulstrode's affairs in consequence, said so a few hours later to Mr. Toller. The statement was passed on until it had quite lost the stamp of an inference, and was taken as information coming straight from Garth, so that even a diligent historian might have concluded Caleb to be the chief publisher of Bulstrode's misdemeanors. Mr. Hawley was not slow to perceive that there was no handle for the law either in the revelations made by Raffles or in the circumstances of his death. He had himself ridden to Lowick village that he might look at the register and talk over the whole matter with Mr. Farebrother, who was not more surprised than the lawyer that an ugly secret should have come to light about Bulstrode, though he had always had justice enough in him to hinder his antipathy from turning into conclusions. But while they were talking another combination was silently going forward in Mr. Farebrother's mind, which foreshadowed what was soon to be loudly spoken of in Middlemarch as a necessary "putting of two and two together." With the reasons which kept Bulstrode in dread of Raffles there flashed the thought that the dread might have something to do with his munificence towards his medical man; and though he resisted the suggestion that it had been consciously accepted in any way as a bribe, he had a foreboding that this complication of things might be of malignant effect on Lydgate's reputation. He perceived that Mr. Hawley knew nothing at present of the sudden relief from debt, and he himself was careful to glide away from all approaches towards the subject. "Well," he said, with a deep breath, wanting to wind up the illimitable discussion of what might have been, though nothing could be legally proven, "it is a strange story. So our mercurial Ladislaw has a queer genealogy! A high-spirited young lady and a musical Polish patriot made a likely enough stock for him to spring from, but I should never have suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker. However, there's no knowing what a mixture will turn out beforehand. Some sorts of dirt serve to clarify." "It's just what I should have expected," said Mr. Hawley, mounting his horse. "Any cursed alien blood, Jew, Corsican, or Gypsy." "I know he's one of your black sheep, Hawley. But he is really a disinterested, unworldly fellow," said Mr. Farebrother, smiling. "Ay, ay, that is your Whiggish twist," said Mr. Hawley, who had been in the habit of saying apologetically that Farebrother was such a damned pleasant good-hearted fellow you would mistake him for a Tory. Mr. Hawley rode home without thinking of Lydgate's attendance on Raffles in any other light than as a piece of evidence on the side of Bulstrode. But the news that Lydgate had all at once become able not only to get rid of the execution in his house but to pay all his debts in Middlemarch was spreading fast, gathering round it conjectures and comments which gave it new body and impetus, and soon filling the ears of other persons besides Mr. Hawley, who were not slow to see a significant relation between this sudden command of money and Bulstrode's desire to stifle the scandal of Raffles. That the money came from Bulstrode would infallibly have been guessed even if there had been no direct evidence of it; for it had beforehand entered into the gossip about Lydgate's affairs, that neither his father-in-law nor his own family would do anything for him, and direct evidence was furnished not only by a clerk at the Bank, but by innocent Mrs. Bulstrode herself, who mentioned the loan to Mrs. Plymdale, who mentioned it to her daughter-in-law of the house of Toller, who mentioned it generally. The business was felt to be so public and important that it required dinners to feed it, and many invitations were just then issued and accepted on the strength of this scandal concerning Bulstrode and Lydgate; wives, widows, and single ladies took their work and went out to tea oftener than usual; and all public conviviality, from the Green Dragon to Dollop's, gathered a zest which could not be won from the question whether the Lords would throw out the Reform Bill. For hardly anybody doubted that some scandalous reason or other was at the bottom of Bulstrode's liberality to Lydgate. Mr. Hawley indeed, in the first instance, invited a select party, including the two physicians, with Mr Toller and Mr. Wrench, expressly to hold a close discussion as to the probabilities of Raffles's illness, reciting to them all the particulars which had been gathered from Mrs. Abel in connection with Lydgate's certificate, that the death was due to delirium tremens; and the medical gentlemen, who all stood undisturbedly on the old paths in relation to this disease, declared that they could see nothing in these particulars which could be transformed into a positive ground of suspicion. But the moral grounds of suspicion remained: the strong motives Bulstrode clearly had for wishing to be rid of Raffles, and the fact that at this critical moment he had given Lydgate the help which he must for some time have known the need for; the disposition, moreover, to believe that Bulstrode would be unscrupulous, and the absence of any indisposition to believe that Lydgate might be as easily bribed as other haughty-minded men when they have found themselves in want of money. Even if the money had been given merely to make him hold his tongue about the scandal of Bulstrode's earlier life, the fact threw an odious light on Lydgate, who had long been sneered at as making himself subservient to the banker for the sake of working himself into predominance, and discrediting the elder members of his profession. Hence, in spite of the negative as to any direct sign of guilt in relation to the death at Stone Court, Mr. Hawley's select party broke up with the sense that the affair had "an ugly look." But this vague conviction of indeterminable guilt, which was enough to keep up much head-shaking and biting innuendo even among substantial professional seniors, had for the general mind all the superior power of mystery over fact. Everybody liked better to conjecture how the thing was, than simply to know it; for conjecture soon became more confident than knowledge, and had a more liberal allowance for the incompatible. Even the more definite scandal concerning Bulstrode's earlier life was, for some minds, melted into the mass of mystery, as so much lively metal to be poured out in dialogue, and to take such fantastic shapes as heaven pleased. This was the tone of thought chiefly sanctioned by Mrs. Dollop, the spirited landlady of the Tankard in Slaughter Lane, who had often to resist the shallow pragmatism of customers disposed to think that their reports from the outer world were of equal force with what had "come up" in her mind. How it had been brought to her she didn't know, but it was there before her as if it had been "scored with the chalk on the chimney-board--" as Bulstrode should say, "his inside was _that black_ as if the hairs of his head knowed the thoughts of his heart, he'd tear 'em up by the roots." "That's odd," said Mr. Limp, a meditative shoemaker, with weak eyes and a piping voice. "Why, I read in the 'Trumpet' that was what the Duke of Wellington said when he turned his coat and went over to the Romans." "Very like," said Mrs. Dollop. "If one raskill said it, it's more reason why another should. But hypo_crite_ as he's been, and holding things with that high hand, as there was no parson i' the country good enough for him, he was forced to take Old Harry into his counsel, and Old Harry's been too many for him." "Ay, ay, he's a 'complice you can't send out o' the country," said Mr. Crabbe, the glazier, who gathered much news and groped among it dimly. "But by what I can make out, there's them says Bulstrode was for running away, for fear o' being found out, before now." "He'll be drove away, whether or no," said Mr. Dill, the barber, who had just dropped in. "I shaved Fletcher, Hawley's clerk, this morning--he's got a bad finger--and he says they're all of one mind to get rid of Bulstrode. Mr. Thesiger is turned against him, and wants him out o' the parish. And there's gentlemen in this town says they'd as soon dine with a fellow from the hulks. 'And a deal sooner I would,' says Fletcher; 'for what's more against one's stomach than a man coming and making himself bad company with his religion, and giving out as the Ten Commandments are not enough for him, and all the while he's worse than half the men at the tread-mill?' Fletcher said so himself." "It'll be a bad thing for the town though, if Bulstrode's money goes out of it," said Mr. Limp, quaveringly. "Ah, there's better folks spend their money worse," said a firm-voiced dyer, whose crimson hands looked out of keeping with his good-natured face. "But he won't keep his money, by what I can make out," said the glazier. "Don't they say as there's somebody can strip it off him? By what I can understan', they could take every penny off him, if they went to lawing." "No such thing!" said the barber, who felt himself a little above his company at Dollop's, but liked it none the worse. "Fletcher says it's no such thing. He says they might prove over and over again whose child this young Ladislaw was, and they'd do no more than if they proved I came out of the Fens--he couldn't touch a penny." "Look you there now!" said Mrs. Dollop, indignantly. "I thank the Lord he took my children to Himself, if that's all the law can do for the motherless. Then by that, it's o' no use who your father and mother is. But as to listening to what one lawyer says without asking another--I wonder at a man o' your cleverness, Mr. Dill. It's well known there's always two sides, if no more; else who'd go to law, I should like to know? It's a poor tale, with all the law as there is up and down, if it's no use proving whose child you are. Fletcher may say that if he likes, but I say, don't Fletcher _me_!" Mr. Dill affected to laugh in a complimentary way at Mrs. Dollop, as a woman who was more than a match for the lawyers; being disposed to submit to much twitting from a landlady who had a long score against him. "If they come to lawing, and it's all true as folks say, there's more to be looked to nor money," said the glazier. "There's this poor creetur as is dead and gone; by what I can make out, he'd seen the day when he was a deal finer gentleman nor Bulstrode." "Finer gentleman! I'll warrant him," said Mrs. Dollop; "and a far personabler man, by what I can hear. As I said when Mr. Baldwin, the tax-gatherer, comes in, a-standing where you sit, and says, 'Bulstrode got all his money as he brought into this town by thieving and swindling,'--I said, 'You don't make me no wiser, Mr. Baldwin: it's set my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin' here he came into Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head: folks don't look the color o' the dough-tub and stare at you as if they wanted to see into your backbone for nothingk.' That was what I said, and Mr. Baldwin can bear me witness." "And in the rights of it too," said Mr. Crabbe. "For by what I can make out, this Raffles, as they call him, was a lusty, fresh-colored man as you'd wish to see, and the best o' company--though dead he lies in Lowick churchyard sure enough; and by what I can understan', there's them knows more than they _should_ know about how he got there." "I'll believe you!" said Mrs. Dallop, with a touch of scorn at Mr. Crabbe's apparent dimness. "When a man's been 'ticed to a lone house, and there's them can pay for hospitals and nurses for half the country-side choose to be sitters-up night and day, and nobody to come near but a doctor as is known to stick at nothingk, and as poor as he can hang together, and after that so flush o' money as he can pay off Mr. Byles the butcher as his bill has been running on for the best o' joints since last Michaelmas was a twelvemonth--I don't want anybody to come and tell me as there's been more going on nor the Prayer-book's got a service for--I don't want to stand winking and blinking and thinking." Mrs. Dollop looked round with the air of a landlady accustomed to dominate her company. There was a chorus of adhesion from the more courageous; but Mr. Limp, after taking a draught, placed his flat hands together and pressed them hard between his knees, looking down at them with blear-eyed contemplation, as if the scorching power of Mrs. Dollop's speech had quite dried up and nullified his wits until they could be brought round again by further moisture. "Why shouldn't they dig the man up and have the Crowner?" said the dyer. "It's been done many and many's the time. If there's been foul play they might find it out." "Not they, Mr. Jonas!" said Mrs Dollop, emphatically. "I know what doctors are. They're a deal too cunning to be found out. And this Doctor Lydgate that's been for cutting up everybody before the breath was well out o' their body--it's plain enough what use he wanted to make o' looking into respectable people's insides. He knows drugs, you may be sure, as you can neither smell nor see, neither before they're swallowed nor after. Why, I've seen drops myself ordered by Doctor Gambit, as is our club doctor and a good charikter, and has brought more live children into the world nor ever another i' Middlemarch--I say I've seen drops myself as made no difference whether they was in the glass or out, and yet have griped you the next day. So I'll leave your own sense to judge. Don't tell me! All I say is, it's a mercy they didn't take this Doctor Lydgate on to our club. There's many a mother's child might ha' rued it." The heads of this discussion at "Dollop's" had been the common theme among all classes in the town, had been carried to Lowick Parsonage on one side and to Tipton Grange on the other, had come fully to the ears of the Vincy family, and had been discussed with sad reference to "poor Harriet" by all Mrs. Bulstrode's friends, before Lydgate knew distinctly why people were looking strangely at him, and before Bulstrode himself suspected the betrayal of his secrets. He had not been accustomed to very cordial relations with his neighbors, and hence he could not miss the signs of cordiality; moreover, he had been taking journeys on business of various kinds, having now made up his mind that he need not quit Middlemarch, and feeling able consequently to determine on matters which he had before left in suspense. "We will make a journey to Cheltenham in the course of a month or two," he had said to his wife. "There are great spiritual advantages to be had in that town along with the air and the waters, and six weeks there will be eminently refreshing to us." He really believed in the spiritual advantages, and meant that his life henceforth should be the more devoted because of those later sins which he represented to himself as hypothetic, praying hypothetically for their pardon:--"if I have herein transgressed." As to the Hospital, he avoided saying anything further to Lydgate, fearing to manifest a too sudden change of plans immediately on the death of Raffles. In his secret soul he believed that Lydgate suspected his orders to have been intentionally disobeyed, and suspecting this he must also suspect a motive. But nothing had been betrayed to him as to the history of Raffles, and Bulstrode was anxious not to do anything which would give emphasis to his undefined suspicions. As to any certainty that a particular method of treatment would either save or kill, Lydgate himself was constantly arguing against such dogmatism; he had no right to speak, and he had every motive for being silent. Hence Bulstrode felt himself providentially secured. The only incident he had strongly winced under had been an occasional encounter with Caleb Garth, who, however, had raised his hat with mild gravity. Meanwhile, on the part of the principal townsmen a strong determination was growing against him. A meeting was to be held in the Town-Hall on a sanitary question which had risen into pressing importance by the occurrence of a cholera case in the town. Since the Act of Parliament, which had been hurriedly passed, authorizing assessments for sanitary measures, there had been a Board for the superintendence of such measures appointed in Middlemarch, and much cleansing and preparation had been concurred in by Whigs and Tories. The question now was, whether a piece of ground outside the town should be secured as a burial-ground by means of assessment or by private subscription. The meeting was to be open, and almost everybody of importance in the town was expected to be there. Mr. Bulstrode was a member of the Board, and just before twelve o'clock he started from the Bank with the intention of urging the plan of private subscription. Under the hesitation of his projects, he had for some time kept himself in the background, and he felt that he should this morning resume his old position as a man of action and influence in the public affairs of the town where he expected to end his days. Among the various persons going in the same direction, he saw Lydgate; they joined, talked over the object of the meeting, and entered it together. It seemed that everybody of mark had been earlier than they. But there were still spaces left near the head of the large central table, and they made their way thither. Mr. Farebrother sat opposite, not far from Mr. Hawley; all the medical men were there; Mr. Thesiger was in the chair, and Mr. Brooke of Tipton was on his right hand. Lydgate noticed a peculiar interchange of glances when he and Bulstrode took their seats. After the business had been fully opened by the chairman, who pointed out the advantages of purchasing by subscription a piece of ground large enough to be ultimately used as a general cemetery, Mr. Bulstrode, whose rather high-pitched but subdued and fluent voice the town was used to at meetings of this sort, rose and asked leave to deliver his opinion. Lydgate could see again the peculiar interchange of glances before Mr. Hawley started up, and said in his firm resonant voice, "Mr. Chairman, I request that before any one delivers his opinion on this point I may be permitted to speak on a question of public feeling, which not only by myself, but by many gentlemen present, is regarded as preliminary." Mr. Hawley's mode of speech, even when public decorum repressed his "awful language," was formidable in its curtness and self-possession. Mr. Thesiger sanctioned the request, Mr. Bulstrode sat down, and Mr. Hawley continued. "In what I have to say, Mr. Chairman, I am not speaking simply on my own behalf: I am speaking with the concurrence and at the express request of no fewer than eight of my fellow-townsmen, who are immediately around us. It is our united sentiment that Mr. Bulstrode should be called upon--and I do now call upon him--to resign public positions which he holds not simply as a tax-payer, but as a gentleman among gentlemen. There are practices and there are acts which, owing to circumstances, the law cannot visit, though they may be worse than many things which are legally punishable. Honest men and gentlemen, if they don't want the company of people who perpetrate such acts, have got to defend themselves as they best can, and that is what I and the friends whom I may call my clients in this affair are determined to do. I don't say that Mr. Bulstrode has been guilty of shameful acts, but I call upon him either publicly to deny and confute the scandalous statements made against him by a man now dead, and who died in his house--the statement that he was for many years engaged in nefarious practices, and that he won his fortune by dishonest procedures--or else to withdraw from positions which could only have been allowed him as a gentleman among gentlemen." All eyes in the room were turned on Mr. Bulstrode, who, since the first mention of his name, had been going through a crisis of feeling almost too violent for his delicate frame to support. Lydgate, who himself was undergoing a shock as from the terrible practical interpretation of some faint augury, felt, nevertheless, that his own movement of resentful hatred was checked by that instinct of the Healer which thinks first of bringing rescue or relief to the sufferer, when he looked at the shrunken misery of Bulstrode's livid face. The quick vision that his life was after all a failure, that he was a dishonored man, and must quail before the glance of those towards whom he had habitually assumed the attitude of a reprover--that God had disowned him before men and left him unscreened to the triumphant scorn of those who were glad to have their hatred justified--the sense of utter futility in that equivocation with his conscience in dealing with the life of his accomplice, an equivocation which now turned venomously upon him with the full-grown fang of a discovered lie:--all this rushed through him like the agony of terror which fails to kill, and leaves the ears still open to the returning wave of execration. The sudden sense of exposure after the re-established sense of safety came--not to the coarse organization of a criminal but to--the susceptible nerve of a man whose intensest being lay in such mastery and predominance as the conditions of his life had shaped for him. But in that intense being lay the strength of reaction. Through all his bodily infirmity there ran a tenacious nerve of ambitious self-preserving will, which had continually leaped out like a flame, scattering all doctrinal fears, and which, even while he sat an object of compassion for the merciful, was beginning to stir and glow under his ashy paleness. Before the last words were out of Mr. Hawley's mouth, Bulstrode felt that he should answer, and that his answer would be a retort. He dared not get up and say, "I am not guilty, the whole story is false"--even if he had dared this, it would have seemed to him, under his present keen sense of betrayal, as vain as to pull, for covering to his nakedness, a frail rag which would rend at every little strain. For a few moments there was total silence, while every man in the room was looking at Bulstrode. He sat perfectly still, leaning hard against the back of his chair; he could not venture to rise, and when he began to speak he pressed his hands upon the seat on each side of him. But his voice was perfectly audible, though hoarser than usual, and his words were distinctly pronounced, though he paused between sentence as if short of breath. He said, turning first toward Mr. Thesiger, and then looking at Mr. Hawley-- "I protest before you, sir, as a Christian minister, against the sanction of proceedings towards me which are dictated by virulent hatred. Those who are hostile to me are glad to believe any libel uttered by a loose tongue against me. And their consciences become strict against me. Say that the evil-speaking of which I am to be made the victim accuses me of malpractices--" here Bulstrode's voice rose and took on a more biting accent, till it seemed a low cry--"who shall be my accuser? Not men whose own lives are unchristian, nay, scandalous--not men who themselves use low instruments to carry out their ends--whose profession is a tissue of chicanery--who have been spending their income on their own sensual enjoyments, while I have been devoting mine to advance the best objects with regard to this life and the next." After the word chicanery there was a growing noise, half of murmurs and half of hisses, while four persons started up at once--Mr. Hawley, Mr. Toller, Mr. Chichely, and Mr. Hackbutt; but Mr. Hawley's outburst was instantaneous, and left the others behind in silence. "If you mean me, sir, I call you and every one else to the inspection of my professional life. As to Christian or unchristian, I repudiate your canting palavering Christianity; and as to the way in which I spend my income, it is not my principle to maintain thieves and cheat offspring of their due inheritance in order to support religion and set myself up as a saintly Killjoy. I affect no niceness of conscience--I have not found any nice standards necessary yet to measure your actions by, sir. And I again call upon you to enter into satisfactory explanations concerning the scandals against you, or else to withdraw from posts in which we at any rate decline you as a colleague. I say, sir, we decline to co-operate with a man whose character is not cleared from infamous lights cast upon it, not only by reports but by recent actions." "Allow me, Mr. Hawley," said the chairman; and Mr. Hawley, still fuming, bowed half impatiently, and sat down with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. "Mr. Bulstrode, it is not desirable, I think, to prolong the present discussion," said Mr. Thesiger, turning to the pallid trembling man; "I must so far concur with what has fallen from Mr. Hawley in expression of a general feeling, as to think it due to your Christian profession that you should clear yourself, if possible, from unhappy aspersions. I for my part should be willing to give you full opportunity and hearing. But I must say that your present attitude is painfully inconsistent with those principles which you have sought to identify yourself with, and for the honor of which I am bound to care. I recommend you at present, as your clergyman, and one who hopes for your reinstatement in respect, to quit the room, and avoid further hindrance to business." Bulstrode, after a moment's hesitation, took his hat from the floor and slowly rose, but he grasped the corner of the chair so totteringly that Lydgate felt sure there was not strength enough in him to walk away without support. What could he do? He could not see a man sink close to him for want of help. He rose and gave his arm to Bulstrode, and in that way led him out of the room; yet this act, which might have been one of gentle duty and pure compassion, was at this moment unspeakably bitter to him. It seemed as if he were putting his sign-manual to that association of himself with Bulstrode, of which he now saw the full meaning as it must have presented itself to other minds. He now felt the conviction that this man who was leaning tremblingly on his arm, had given him the thousand pounds as a bribe, and that somehow the treatment of Raffles had been tampered with from an evil motive. The inferences were closely linked enough; the town knew of the loan, believed it to be a bribe, and believed that he took it as a bribe. Poor Lydgate, his mind struggling under the terrible clutch of this revelation, was all the while morally forced to take Mr. Bulstrode to the Bank, send a man off for his carriage, and wait to accompany him home. Meanwhile the business of the meeting was despatched, and fringed off into eager discussion among various groups concerning this affair of Bulstrode--and Lydgate. Mr. Brooke, who had before heard only imperfect hints of it, and was very uneasy that he had "gone a little too far" in countenancing Bulstrode, now got himself fully informed, and felt some benevolent sadness in talking to Mr. Farebrother about the ugly light in which Lydgate had come to be regarded. Mr. Farebrother was going to walk back to Lowick. "Step into my carriage," said Mr. Brooke. "I am going round to see Mrs. Casaubon. She was to come back from Yorkshire last night. She will like to see me, you know." So they drove along, Mr. Brooke chatting with good-natured hope that there had not really been anything black in Lydgate's behavior--a young fellow whom he had seen to be quite above the common mark, when he brought a letter from his uncle Sir Godwin. Mr. Farebrother said little: he was deeply mournful: with a keen perception of human weakness, he could not be confident that under the pressure of humiliating needs Lydgate had not fallen below himself. When the carriage drove up to the gate of the Manor, Dorothea was out on the gravel, and came to greet them. "Well, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, "we have just come from a meeting--a sanitary meeting, you know." "Was Mr. Lydgate there?" said Dorothea, who looked full of health and animation, and stood with her head bare under the gleaming April lights. "I want to see him and have a great consultation with him about the Hospital. I have engaged with Mr. Bulstrode to do so." "Oh, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, "we have been hearing bad news--bad news, you know." They walked through the garden towards the churchyard gate, Mr. Farebrother wanting to go on to the parsonage; and Dorothea heard the whole sad story. She listened with deep interest, and begged to hear twice over the facts and impressions concerning Lydgate. After a short silence, pausing at the churchyard gate, and addressing Mr. Farebrother, she said energetically-- "You don't believe that Mr. Lydgate is guilty of anything base? I will not believe it. Let us find out the truth and clear him!" BOOK VIII. SUNSET AND SUNRISE. Kannst du 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.

Raffles wirkt eher kränklich, als er an Heiligabend bei Bulstrode zu Hause auftaucht und dort übernachtet. Am nächsten Morgen schickt Bulstrode ihn mit hundert Pfund weg. Bulstrodes Frau ist besorgt, also erzählt er ihr, dass er sich nur um das "erbärmliche Geschöpf" kümmert. Bulstrode arrangiert die Übergabe der Bank- und Krankenhausverwaltung. Er spricht mit Caleb Garth und bittet ihn, Stone Court in seiner Abwesenheit zu verwalten. Garth möchte die Verwaltung an Fred übertragen. Um Garths kompetente Dienste zu sichern, stimmt Bulstrode zu. Seine Frau ist verärgert, dass er Lydgate keinen Kredit gegeben hat. Sie fragt sich, warum er so geizig mit der Familie ihres Bruders ist, also stimmt er zu, Fred zu helfen, um sie zu besänftigen. Garth untersucht das Anwesen und bereitet sich darauf vor, Fred die gute Nachricht zu überbringen. Garth besucht Bulstrode in der Bank und berichtet, dass er Raffles in Stone Court gefunden hat. Er rät Bulstrode, sich die Dienste eines Arztes zu sichern, da Raffles sehr krank ist. Bulstrode fürchtet, dass Raffles Garth alles erzählt hat. Garth bestätigt seinen Verdacht, als er Bulstrode mitteilt, dass er sich doch entschlossen hat, kein Geschäft mit ihm zu machen. Allerdings verspricht Garth, Raffles' Anschuldigungen nicht zu wiederholen. Lydgate trifft Bulstrode in Stone Court. Raffles leidet unter den Folgen des Alkoholismus. Lydgate verschreibt Bettruhe und weist Bulstrode an, Raffles' Wünsche nach Alkohol abzulehnen. Der Fall ist ernst, aber Raffles, der stark ist, könnte noch weiterleben. Bulstrode entdeckt ein Flugblatt über einen Pferdemarkt in Raffles' Sachen. Er folgt getreu Lydgates Anweisungen. Er hofft, dass Raffles stirbt, und erwägt, Lydgates Rat zu ignorieren. Lydgate besucht erneut und verschreibt kleine Dosen Opium, um Raffles beim Schlafen zu helfen. Lydgate ist embittert, dass Bulstrode einem Taugenichts wie Raffles hilft, obwohl er ihm bei seinen Schulden nicht geholfen hat. Die Versteigerung seines Mobiliars wurde in den Zeitungen angekündigt. Er äußert Optimismus für Raffles' Genesung. In dem Bemühen, Lydgates Wohlwollen zu gewinnen, teilt Bulstrode ihm mit, dass er seine Meinung geändert hat und Lydgate das Geld leihen möchte. Lydgate ist enorm erleichtert und geht mit einem Scheck über tausend Pfund fort. Erschöpft bittet Bulstrode die Haushälterin, ihn zu vertreten. Die Haushälterin klopft an seine Tür und sagt ihm, dass Raffles um Brandy bettelt. Nach einem Moment des Zögerns gibt Bulstrode ihr den Schlüssel zum Spirituosenkabinett. Lydgate kommt am Morgen zurück, um Raffles letzten Atemzug zu beobachten. Lydgate ist verwirrt über die Veränderung, aber er ist so glücklich, vor dem Bankrott gerettet zu sein, dass er nichts davon hält. Bulstrode ist verdammt. Raffles traf Bambridge auf dem Pferdemarkt und erzählte ihm alles. Bambridge wiederholt den Skandal über Bulstrodes Verfehlungen jedem im Green Dragon. Alle wissen nun, dass Raffles in Stone Court gestorben ist, während er unter Bulstrodes Obhut stand. Sie wissen auch, dass die Versteigerung von Lydgates Möbeln plötzlich abgesagt wurde. Es entstehen Verdächtigungen über die Umstände von Raffles' Tod und Lydgates plötzliche Schuldenfreiheit. Das Gerede verbreitet sich wie ein Lauffeuer. Bulstrode ahnt nichts. Bulstrode nimmt an einer Bürgerversammlung teil, um Maßnahmen zur Abwasserentsorgung zu diskutieren. Jeder wichtige Bürger von Middlemarch nimmt an der Versammlung teil. Lydgate bemerkt seltsame Blicke, als er und Bulstrode ihre Plätze einnehmen. Ein Mitglied des Gremiums, Mr. Hawley, verkündet, dass es skandalöse Anschuldigungen gegen Bulstrode gibt. Er verlangt, dass Bulstrode sie leugnet oder von allen öffentlichen Ämtern zurücktritt. Lydgate bemerkt, wie Bulstrode vor Elend schrumpft. Die anderen Männer bitten Bulstrode, die Versammlung zu verlassen. Erschüttert kommt er dieser Bitte nach. Lydgate steht auf, um ihm beim Verlassen des Raumes zu helfen und verbindet sich so mit Bulstrodes Schande. Er vermutet, dass seine Anweisungen in Bezug auf Raffles missachtet wurden. Er weiß, dass die Stadt glaubt, er habe das Darlehen von Bulstrode als Bestechung angenommen. Dorothea erfährt die ganze traurige Geschichte von Farebrother und Mr. Brooke, nachdem sie von der Versammlung zurückgekehrt sind. Sie fragt, wie sie glauben konnten, dass Lydgate schuldig sein könnte. Sie fordert sie auf, die Wahrheit zu erfahren und ihn zu entlasten.

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: XIV. HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN. Hester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the water, and play with the shells and tangled sea-weed, until she should have talked awhile with yonder gatherer of herbs. So the child flew away like a bird, and, making bare her small white feet, went pattering along the moist margin of the sea. Here and there she came to a full stop, and peeped curiously into a pool, left by the retiring tide as a mirror for Pearl to see her face in. Forth peeped at her, out of the pool, with dark, glistening curls around her head, and an elf-smile in her eyes, the image of a little maid, whom Pearl, having no other playmate, invited to take her hand, and run a race with her. But the visionary little maid, on her part, beckoned likewise, as if to say,--"This is a better place! Come thou into the pool!" And Pearl, stepping in, mid-leg deep, beheld her own white feet at the bottom; while, out of a still lower depth, came the gleam of a kind of fragmentary smile, floating to and fro in the agitated water. Meanwhile, her mother had accosted the physician. "I would speak a word with you," said she,--"a word that concerns us much." "Aha! and is it Mistress Hester that has a word for old Roger Chillingworth?" answered he, raising himself from his stooping posture. "With all my heart! Why, Mistress, I hear good tidings of you on all hands! No longer ago than yester-eve, a magistrate, a wise and godly man, was discoursing of your affairs, Mistress Hester, and whispered me that there had been question concerning you in the council. It was debated whether or no, with safety to the common weal, yonder scarlet letter might be taken off your bosom. On my life, Hester, I made my entreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might be done forthwith!" "It lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off this badge," calmly replied Hester. "Were I worthy to be quit of it, it would fall away of its own nature, or be transformed into something that should speak a different purport." "Nay, then, wear it, if it suit you better," rejoined he. "A woman must needs follow her own fancy, touching the adornment of her person. The letter is gayly embroidered, and shows right bravely on your bosom!" All this while, Hester had been looking steadily at the old man, and was shocked, as well as wonder-smitten, to discern what a change had been wrought upon him within the past seven years. It was not so much that he had grown older; for though the traces of advancing life were visible, he bore his age well, and seemed to retain a wiry vigor and alertness. But the former aspect of an intellectual and studious man, calm and quiet, which was what she best remembered in him, had altogether vanished, and been succeeded by an eager, searching, almost fierce, yet carefully guarded look. It seemed to be his wish and purpose to mask this expression with a smile; but the latter played him false, and flickered over his visage so derisively, that the spectator could see his blackness all the better for it. Ever and anon, too, there came a glare of red light out of his eyes; as if the old man's soul were on fire, and kept on smouldering duskily within his breast, until, by some casual puff of passion, it was blown into a momentary flame. This he repressed, as speedily as possible, and strove to look as if nothing of the kind had happened. In a word, old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's office. This unhappy person had effected such a transformation, by devoting himself, for seven years, to the constant analysis of a heart full of torture, and deriving his enjoyment thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortures which he analyzed and gloated over. The scarlet letter burned on Hester Prynne's bosom. Here was another ruin, the responsibility of which came partly home to her. "What see you in my face," asked the physician, "that you look at it so earnestly?" "Something that would make me weep, if there were any tears bitter enough for it," answered she. "But let it pass! It is of yonder miserable man that I would speak." "And what of him?" cried Roger Chillingworth, eagerly, as if he loved the topic, and were glad of an opportunity to discuss it with the only person of whom he could make a confidant. "Not to hide the truth, Mistress Hester, my thoughts happen just now to be busy with the gentleman. So speak freely; and I will make answer." "When we last spake together," said Hester, "now seven years ago, it was your pleasure to extort a promise of secrecy, as touching the former relation betwixt yourself and me. As the life and good fame of yonder man were in your hands, there seemed no choice to me, save to be silent, in accordance with your behest. Yet it was not without heavy misgivings that I thus bound myself; for, having cast off all duty towards other human beings, there remained a duty towards him; and something whispered me that I was betraying it, in pledging myself to keep your counsel. Since that day, no man is so near to him as you. You tread behind his every footstep. You are beside him, sleeping and waking. You search his thoughts. You burrow and rankle in his heart! Your clutch is on his life, and you cause him to die daily a living death; and still he knows you not. In permitting this, I have surely acted a false part by the only man to whom the power was left me to be true!" "What choice had you?" asked Roger Chillingworth. "My finger, pointed at this man, would have hurled him from his pulpit into a dungeon,--thence, peradventure, to the gallows!" "It had been better so!" said Hester Prynne. "What evil have I done the man?" asked Roger Chillingworth again. "I tell thee, Hester Prynne, the richest fee that ever physician earned from monarch could not have bought such care as I have wasted on this miserable priest! But for my aid, his life would have burned away in torments, within the first two years after the perpetration of his crime and thine. For, Hester, his spirit lacked the strength that could have borne up, as thine has, beneath a burden like thy scarlet letter. O, I could reveal a goodly secret! But enough! What art can do, I have exhausted on him. That he now breathes, and creeps about on earth, is owing all to me!" "Better he had died at once!" said Hester Prynne. "Yea, woman, thou sayest truly!" cried old Roger Chillingworth, letting the lurid fire of his heart blaze out before her eyes. "Better had he died at once! Never did mortal suffer what this man has suffered. And all, all, in the sight of his worst enemy! He has been conscious of me. He has felt an influence dwelling always upon him like a curse. He knew, by some spiritual sense,--for the Creator never made another being so sensitive as this,--he knew that no friendly hand was pulling at his heart-strings, and that an eye was looking curiously into him, which sought only evil, and found it. But he knew not that the eye and hand were mine! With the superstition common to his brotherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured with frightful dreams, and desperate thoughts, the sting of remorse, and despair of pardon; as a foretaste of what awaits him beyond the grave. But it was the constant shadow of my presence!--the closest propinquity of the man whom he had most vilely wronged!--and who had grown to exist only by this perpetual poison of the direst revenge! Yea, indeed!--he did not err!--there was a fiend at his elbow! A mortal man, with once a human heart, has become a fiend for his especial torment!" The unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, lifted his hands with a look of horror, as if he had beheld some frightful shape, which he could not recognize, usurping the place of his own image in a glass. It was one of those moments--which sometimes occur only at the interval of years--when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his mind's eye. Not improbably, he had never before viewed himself as he did now. "Hast thou not tortured him enough?" said Hester, noticing the old man's look. "Has he not paid thee all?" "No!--no!--He has but increased the debt!" answered the physician; and as he proceeded his manner lost its fiercer characteristics, and subsided into gloom. "Dost thou remember me, Hester, as I was nine years agone? Even then, I was in the autumn of my days, nor was it the early autumn. But all my life had been made up of earnest, studious, thoughtful, quiet years, bestowed faithfully for the increase of mine own knowledge, and faithfully, too, though this latter object was but casual to the other,--faithfully for the advancement of human welfare. No life had been more peaceful and innocent than mine; few lives so rich with benefits conferred. Dost thou remember me? Was I not, though you might deem me cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for others, craving little for himself,--kind, true, just, and of constant, if not warm affections? Was I not all this?" "All this, and more," said Hester. "And what am I now?" demanded he, looking into her face, and permitting the whole evil within him to be written on his features. "I have already told thee what I am! A fiend! Who made me so?" "It was myself!" cried Hester, shuddering. "It was I, not less than he. Why hast thou not avenged thyself on me?" "I have left thee to the scarlet letter," replied Roger Chillingworth. "If that have not avenged me, I can do no more!" He laid his finger on it, with a smile. "It has avenged thee!" answered Hester Prynne. "I judged no less," said the physician. "And now, what wouldst thou with me touching this man?" "I must reveal the secret," answered Hester, firmly. "He must discern thee in thy true character. What may be the result, I know not. But this long debt of confidence, due from me to him, whose bane and ruin I have been, shall at length be paid. So far as concerns the overthrow or preservation of his fair fame and his earthly state, and perchance his life, he is in thy hands. Nor do I,--whom the scarlet letter has disciplined to truth, though it be the truth of red-hot iron, entering into the soul,--nor do I perceive such advantage in his living any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that I shall stoop to implore thy mercy. Do with him as thou wilt! There is no good for him,--no good for me,--no good for thee! There is no good for little Pearl! There is no path to guide us out of this dismal maze!" "Woman, I could wellnigh pity thee!" said Roger Chillingworth, unable to restrain a thrill of admiration too; for there was a quality almost majestic in the despair which she expressed. "Thou hadst great elements. Peradventure, hadst thou met earlier with a better love than mine, this evil had not been. I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature!" "And I thee," answered Hester Prynne, "for the hatred that has transformed a wise and just man to a fiend! Wilt thou yet purge it out of thee, and be once more human? If not for his sake, then doubly for thine own! Forgive, and leave his further retribution to the Power that claims it! I said, but now, that there could be no good event for him, or thee, or me, who are here wandering together in this gloomy maze of evil, and stumbling, at every step, over the guilt wherewith we have strewn our path. It is not so! There might be good for thee, and thee alone, since thou hast been deeply wronged, and hast it at thy will to pardon. Wilt thou give up that only privilege? Wilt thou reject that priceless benefit?" "Peace, Hester, peace!" replied the old man, with gloomy sternness. "It is not granted me to pardon. I have no such power as thou tellest me of. My old faith, long forgotten, comes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all we suffer. By thy first step awry thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since that moment, it has all been a dark necessity. Ye that have wronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion; neither am I fiend-like, who have snatched a fiend's office from his hands. It is our fate. Let the black flower blossom as it may! Now go thy ways, and deal as thou wilt with yonder man." He waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employment of gathering herbs. [Illustration: Mandrake] [Illustration] Kannst du eine passende 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.

Beim Spaziergang auf der Halbinsel mit Pearl sieht Hester Chillingworth und schickt Pearl hinunter, um am Strand zu spielen, während sie mit ihrem Ehemann spricht. Sie ist überrascht von den Veränderungen an Chillingworth, genauso wie sie von Dimmesdales geistigem Leiden und Altern schockiert war. Als Hester erkennt, dass Chillingworth vom Teufel beherrscht wird, fühlt sie sich verantwortlich für "eine weitere Ruine". Laut Hester hat ihr Versprechen dazu geführt, dass Chillingworth dem Minister Böses antut, aber Chillingworth leugnet zunächst seine Rolle. Dann gibt er zu, dass er zwar früher nett, sanftmütig und liebevoll war, er nun jedoch zulässt, dass das Böse ihn benutzt. Der Arzt glaubt, dass es sein Schicksal ist, ein Ungeheuer zu werden. Er entbindet Hester von ihrem Versprechen des Schweigens.

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: _23. September_. - Jonathan geht es nach einer schlechten Nacht besser. Ich bin so froh, dass er genug Arbeit hat, denn das hält ihn von den schrecklichen Dingen ab; und oh, ich bin erfreut, dass er nicht mehr mit der Verantwortung seiner neuen Position belastet ist. Ich wusste, dass er sich selbst treu bleiben würde, und jetzt bin ich stolz darauf, meinen Jonathan aufsteigen zu sehen und in jeder Hinsicht mit den Aufgaben Schritt zu halten, die auf ihn zukommen. Er wird den ganzen Tag weg sein, bis spät, denn er sagte, er könne nicht zu Hause zu Mittag essen. Meine Hausarbeit ist erledigt, also werde ich seine Auslandspublikation nehmen und mich in meinem Zimmer einschließen und sie lesen.... _24. September_. - Ich hatte gestern Abend nicht den Mut zu schreiben; diese schreckliche Aufzeichnung von Jonathans hat mich durcheinander gebracht. Armer Lieber! Wie er gelitten haben muss, ob es nun wahr ist oder nur Einbildung. Ich frage mich, ob darin überhaupt etwas Wahres steckt. Hatte er ein Gehirnfieber und schrieb dann all diese schrecklichen Dinge oder hatte er irgendeinen Grund dafür? Ich werde es wohl nie erfahren, denn ich wage es nicht, das Thema bei ihm anzusprechen.... Und doch dieser Mann, den wir gestern gesehen haben! Er schien ziemlich sicher zu sein.... Armer Kerl! Ich nehme an, die Beerdigung hat ihn durcheinander gebracht und seine Gedanken zurück auf eine bestimmte Spur gebracht.... Er glaubt selbst daran. Ich erinnere mich, wie er an unserem Hochzeitstag sagte: "Es sei denn, eine ernste Pflicht erfordert es von mir, zu den bitteren Stunden zurückzukehren, sei es im Schlaf oder im Wachen, verrückt oder bei Verstand." Es scheint durchgehend einen roten Faden zu geben.... Der furchtbare Graf kam nach London.... Wenn es so sein sollte und er nach London kommen würde, mit seinen zahlreichen Millionen.... Es könnte eine ernsthafte Pflicht geben, und wenn sie kommt, dürfen wir nicht zurückschrecken.... Ich werde vorbereitet sein. Ich werde mir jetzt gleich meine Schreibmaschine holen und anfangen abzuschreiben. Dann sind wir bereit für andere Augen, falls nötig. Und wenn es gewünscht wird, dann vielleicht wird Jonathan sich bei mir melden wollen und mir alles erzählen wollen, und dann kann ich ihn fragen und Dinge herausfinden und sehen, wie ich ihn trösten kann. _Brief, Van Helsing an Mrs. Harker._ "_24. September._ (Vertraulich) "Sehr geehrte Frau,-- "Ich bitte Sie um Verzeihung für meine Schreibweise, da ich so weit Ihr Freund bin, dass ich Ihnen traurige Nachrichten über den Tod von Miss Lucy Westenra gesandt habe. Mit der Freundlichkeit von Lord Godalming bin ich befugt, ihre Briefe und Papiere zu lesen, denn ich bin zutiefst besorgt über bestimmte äußerst wichtige Angelegenheiten. In ihnen finde ich einige Briefe von Ihnen, die zeigen, wie gute Freunde Sie waren und wie sehr Sie sie lieben. Oh, Frau Mina, aus dieser Liebe flehe ich Sie an, helfen Sie mir. Es ist zum Wohle anderer, dass ich frage - um großes Unrecht wiedergutzumachen und schreckliche Probleme zu lösen, die vielleicht größer sind, als Sie wissen können. Vielleicht kann ich Sie sehen? Sie können mir vertrauen. Ich bin ein Freund von Dr. John Seward und Lord Godalming (der Arthur von Miss Lucy war). Ich muss es vorerst vor allen geheim halten. Wenn Sie mir sagen, dass ich das Recht habe zu kommen, werde ich sofort nach Exeter kommen und Sie sehen, und wo und wann. Ich flehe um Entschuldigung, gnädige Frau. Ich habe Ihre Briefe an die arme Lucy gelesen und weiß, wie gut Sie sind und wie sehr Ihr Mann leidet; daher bitte ich Sie, wenn es möglich ist, ihn nicht einzuweihen, damit es ihm nicht schadet. Nochmals Ihre Entschuldigung, und verzeihen Sie mir. "VAN HELSING." _Telegramm, Mrs. Harker an Van Helsing._ "_25. September._ - Kommen Sie heute um Viertel nach zehn Uhr, wenn Sie es schaffen. Ich kann Sie jederzeit empfangen. "WILHELMINA HARKER." MINA HARKERS TAGEBUCH. _25. September._ - Ich kann nicht anders, als mich furchtbar aufgeregt zu fühlen, je näher die Zeit für den Besuch von Dr. Van Helsing rückt, denn irgendwie erwarte ich, dass dies etwas Licht in Jonathans traurige Erfahrungen bringt; und da er bei der letzten Krankheit der armen lieben Lucy dabei war, kann er mir alles über sie erzählen. Das ist der Grund seines Kommens; es geht um Lucy und ihr Schlafwandeln und nicht um Jonathan. Dann werde ich die Wahrheit nie erfahren! Wie albern ich doch bin. Dieses schreckliche Tagebuch hat mich in seinen Bann gezogen und färbt alles mit etwas von seiner eigenen Farbe ein. Natürlich geht es um Lucy. Diese Gewohnheit ist zurückerkehrt bei der armen Lieben, und diese schreckliche Nacht auf den Klippen muss sie krank gemacht haben. Ich hatte in meinen eigenen Angelegenheiten fast vergessen, wie krank sie danach war. Sie muss ihm von ihrem Abenteuer mit dem Schlafwandeln auf den Klippen erzählt haben und dass ich alles darüber wusste; und jetzt möchte er, dass ich ihm erzähle, was sie weiß, damit er es verstehen kann. Ich hoffe, ich habe das Richtige getan, indem ich Mrs. Westenra nichts davon gesagt habe; ich würde es mir nie verzeihen, wenn auch eine meiner Handlungen, selbst wenn sie negativ wäre, der armen lieben Lucy Schaden zufügen würde. Ich hoffe auch, Dr. Van Helsing wird mich nicht tadeln; ich hatte in letzter Zeit so viele Probleme und Sorgen, dass ich glaube, dass ich im Moment nicht noch mehr ertragen kann. Ich denke, ein Schrei tut uns allen manchmal gut - erfrischt die Luft wie anderer Regen es tut. Vielleicht hat mich das Lesen des Tagebuchs gestern durcheinander gebracht, und dann ist Jonathan heute Morgen gegangen, um einen ganzen Tag und eine Nacht von mir getrennt zu sein, das erste Mal seit unserer Hochzeit. Ich hoffe, der liebe Kerl wird auf sich aufpassen, und dass ihm nichts zustößt, was ihn durcheinander bringen könnte. Es ist zwei Uhr, und der Arzt wird jetzt bald hier sein. Ich werde nichts von Jonathans Tagebuch sagen, es sei denn, er fragt danach. Ich bin so froh, dass ich mein eigenes Tagebuch abgetippt habe, damit ich es ihm geben kann, falls er nach Lucy fragt; das wird viele Fragen ersparen. * * * * * _Später._ - Er ist gekommen und gegangen. Oh, was für eine seltsame Begegnung, und wie alles meinen Kopf wirbelt! Ich fühle mich wie in einem Traum. Kann das alles überhaupt möglich sein, oder auch nur ein Teil davon? Hätte ich Jonathans Tagebuch nicht zuerst gelesen, hätte ich nicht einmal die Möglichkeit akzeptiert. Armer, armer lieber Jonathan! Wie er gelitten haben muss. Wenn es Gott gefallen möge, dieses alles nicht wieder durcheinander bringt. Ich werde versuchen, ihn davor zu bewahren; aber es könnte sogar eine Trost und eine Hilfe für ihn sein - so schrecklich es auch ist und furchtbare Konsequenzen hat - zu wissen, dass seine Augen, Ohren und sein Gehirn ihn nicht getäuscht haben und dass alles wahr ist. Es könnte sein, dass es gerade die Zweifel sind, die ihm zu schaffen machen; dass wenn der Zweifel beseitigt ist, egal welcher - ob wachend oder träumend - die Wahrheit beweisen kann, er zufriedener sein wird und besser in der Lage, mit dem Schock umzugehen. Dr. Van Helsing muss ein guter Mensch "Mrs. Harker, nicht wahr?" Ich bejahte mit einer Verbeugung. "Das war Miss Mina Murray?" Wieder bejahte ich. "Ich komme, um Mina Murray zu sehen, die eine Freundin des armen Kindes Lucy Westenra war. Madam Mina, ich komme wegen der Toten." "Herr", sagte ich, "Sie könnten keinen besseren Anspruch auf mich haben, als dass Sie ein Freund und Helfer von Lucy Westenra waren." Und ich reichte ihm meine Hand. Er nahm sie und sagte zärtlich:-- "Oh, Madam Mina, ich wusste, dass der Freund dieses armen Lilienmädchens gut sein müsste, aber ich musste noch lernen--" Er beendete seine Rede mit einer höflichen Verbeugung. Ich fragte ihn worum es ging, also fing er sofort an:-- "Ich habe Ihre Briefe an Miss Lucy gelesen. Verzeihen Sie, aber ich musste irgendwo anfangen zu fragen, und es gab niemanden, den ich hätte fragen können. Ich weiß, dass Sie bei ihr in Whitby waren. Sie führte manchmal ein Tagebuch--Sie brauchen nicht überrascht zu sein, Madam Mina; es begann, nachdem Sie gegangen waren, und war eine Nachahmung von Ihnen--und in diesem Tagebuch verfolgt sie durch Schlussfolgerungen bestimmte Dinge, die sie einem Schlafwandeln zuschreibt, bei dem sie aufschreibt, dass Sie sie gerettet haben. In großer Verwirrung komme ich also zu Ihnen und bitte Sie aus Ihrer so großen Freundlichkeit, mir alles zu erzählen, woran Sie sich erinnern können." "Ich kann Ihnen, glaube ich, Dr. Van Helsing, alles darüber erzählen." "Ach, dann haben Sie ein gutes Gedächtnis für Fakten, für Details? Das ist nicht immer so bei jungen Damen." "Nein, Doktor, aber ich habe es damals alles aufgeschrieben. Ich kann es Ihnen zeigen, wenn Sie möchten." "Oh, Madam Mina, ich wäre dankbar; Sie würden mir einen großen Gefallen tun." Ich konnte der Versuchung nicht widerstehen, ihn ein wenig zu verwirren -- ich vermute, es ist noch etwas vom Geschmack des ursprünglichen Apfels, der in unserem Mund bleibt -- also übergab ich ihm das stenografische Tagebuch. Er nahm es dankbar an und sagte:-- "Darf ich es lesen?" "Wenn Sie möchten", antwortete ich so demütig wie möglich. Er öffnete es, und für einen Moment fiel sein Gesicht herab. Dann stand er auf und verneigte sich. "Oh, du so kluge Frau!" sagte er. "Ich wusste schon lange, dass Mr. Jonathan ein Mann großer Dankbarkeit ist; aber sieh, seine Frau hat all die guten Dinge. Und werden Sie mir nicht so viel Ehre erweisen und mich unterstützen, es für mich zu lesen? Ach! Ich kenne die Stenografie nicht." Inzwischen war mein kleiner Scherz vorbei, und ich schämte mich fast; also nahm ich die Maschinenabschrift aus meinem Arbeitskorb und gab sie ihm. "Vergeben Sie", sagte ich: "ich konnte nicht anders; aber ich hatte daran gedacht, dass es um die liebe Lucy ging, über die Sie fragen wollten, und damit Sie nicht warten müssten--nicht wegen mir, sondern weil ich weiß, dass Ihre Zeit kostbar ist--habe ich es für Sie auf der Schreibmaschine ausgeschrieben." Er nahm es und seine Augen leuchteten. "Sie sind so gut", sagte er. "Und darf ich es jetzt lesen? Ich möchte Ihnen später einige Fragen stellen, wenn ich es gelesen habe." "Aber selbstverständlich", sagte ich, "lesen Sie es, während ich das Mittagessen bestelle; und dann können Sie mir Fragen stellen, während wir essen." Er neigte den Kopf und setzte sich auf einen Stuhl mit dem Rücken zum Licht und vertiefte sich in die Papiere, während ich zum Mittagessen ging, hauptsächlich, um sicherzustellen, dass er nicht gestört wird. Als ich zurückkam, fand ich ihn eilig im Raum auf und ab gehen, sein Gesicht voller Aufregung. Er stürzte auf mich zu und nahm mich an beiden Händen. "Oh, Madam Mina", sagte er, "wie kann ich Ihnen sagen, was ich Ihnen schulde? Dieses Dokument ist wie Sonnenschein. Es öffnet mir das Tor. Ich bin verwirrt, ich bin geblendet von so viel Licht, und doch rollen Wolken hinter dem Licht immer wieder herein. Aber das können Sie nicht, können Sie nicht verstehen. Oh, aber ich danke Ihnen, Sie so kluge Frau. Madam", sagte er sehr feierlich, "wenn je Abraham Van Helsing etwas für Sie oder Ihre Angehörigen tun kann, vertrauen Sie mir, lassen Sie es mich wissen. Es wird mir eine Freude und Freude sein, wenn ich Ihnen als Freund dienen kann; als Freund, aber alles, was ich je gelernt habe, alles, was ich je tun kann, wird für Sie und diejenigen, die Sie lieben, sein. Es gibt Dunkelheiten im Leben und es gibt Lichter; Sie sind eine der Lichter. Sie werden ein glückliches und gutes Leben haben, und Ihr Ehemann wird in Ihnen gesegnet sein." "Aber Doktor, Sie loben mich zu sehr, und--und Sie kennen mich nicht." "Sie nicht kennen--ich, der alt ist und der sein ganzes Leben lang Männer und Frauen studiert hat; ich, der das Gehirn und alles, was dazu gehört und alles, was daraus folgt, zu meiner Spezialität gemacht hat! Und ich habe Ihr Tagebuch gelesen, das Sie so gut für mich geschrieben haben und das in jeder Zeile Wahrheit atmet. Ich, der Ihren so süßen Brief an die arme Lucy über Ihre Ehe und Ihr Vertrauen gelesen habe, kenne Sie nicht? Oh, Madam Mina, gute Frauen erzählen ihr ganzes Leben, und bei Tag und bei Stunde und bei Minute solche Dinge, dass Engel es lesen können; und wir Männer, die es wissen wollen, haben in uns etwas von den Augen der Engel. Ihr Ehemann ist von edler Natur, und auch Sie sind edel, denn Sie vertrauen, und Vertrauen kann nicht existieren, wo es eine gemeine Art gibt. Und Ihr Ehemann--erzählen Sie mir von ihm. Geht es ihm gut? Ist das ganze Fieber weg und ist er stark und gesund?" Hier sah ich eine Gelegenheit, ihn nach Jonathan zu fragen, also sagte ich:-- "Er hat sich fast erholt, aber er wurde sehr aufgewühlt durch den Tod von Mr. Hawkins." Er unterbrach mich:-- "Oh ja, ich weiß, ich weiß. Ich habe Ihre letzten beiden Briefe gelesen." Ich fuhr fort:-- "Ich nehme an, dass ihn das durcheinander gebracht hat, denn als wir am letzten Donnerstag in der Stadt waren, hatte er eine Art Schock." "Einen Schock und das so kurz nach dem Gehirnfieber! Das war nicht gut. Was für ein Schock war es?" "Er dachte, er habe jemanden gesehen, der etwas Schreckliches zurückrief, etwas, das zu seinem Gehirnfieber führte." Und hier überwältigte mich das Ganze in einem Ansturm. Das Mitleid für Jonathan, der Horror, den er erlebte, das ganze furchtbare Geheimnis seines Tagebuchs und die Furcht, die mich seitdem beschäftigt hat, das alles kam in einem Tumult auf mich zu. Ich vermute, ich war hysterisch, denn ich warf mich auf die Knie, streckte die Hände zu ihm und flehte ihn an, meinen Ehemann wieder gesund zu machen. Er nahm meine Hände und erhob mich, und ließ mich auf dem Sofa sitzen und setzte sich neben mich; er hielt meine Hand in seiner und sagte zu mir mit, oh, solch unendlicher Freundlichkeit:-- "Mein Leben ist trostlos und einsam und so voller Arbeit, dass ich nicht viel Zeit für Freundschaften hatte; aber seitdem ich von meinem Freund John Seward hierher gerufen wurde, habe ich so viele gute Menschen kennengelernt und solche Edelmut gesehen, dass ich mehr denn je--und es ist mit meinen fortschreitenden Jahren gewachsen--die Einsamkeit meines Lebens spüre. Glauben Sie mir also, dass "Dr. Van Helsing, was ich Ihnen zu berichten habe, ist so seltsam, dass Sie mich oder meinen Mann nicht auslachen dürfen. Seit gestern bin ich in einem Zweifelsfieber; Sie müssen freundlich zu mir sein und mich nicht für dumm halten, dass ich einige sehr merkwürdige Dinge sogar halb geglaubt habe." Er beruhigte mich durch seine Art und seine Worte, als er sagte:-- "Oh, meine Liebe, wenn Sie nur wüssten, wie seltsam die Angelegenheit ist, wegen der ich hier bin, würden Sie lachen. Ich habe gelernt, die Überzeugungen anderer nicht geringzuschätzen, egal wie seltsam sie sind. Ich habe versucht, meinen Geist offen zu halten; und es sind nicht die gewöhnlichen Dinge des Lebens, die ihn zuziehen könnten, sondern die merkwürdigen Dinge, die außergewöhnlichen Dinge, die Dinge, die einen daran zweifeln lassen, ob sie verrückt oder gesund sind." "Danke, danke, tausendmal! Sie haben mir eine Last von meinem Geist genommen. Wenn Sie mir erlauben, werde ich Ihnen ein Papier zum Lesen geben. Es ist lang, aber ich habe es abgetippt. Es wird Ihnen von meinem Problem und Jonathans erzählen. Es ist eine Kopie seines Tagebuchs aus der Zeit im Ausland und alles, was passiert ist. Ich darf nichts darüber sagen; Sie werden selbst lesen und urteilen. Und dann, wenn ich Sie sehe, werden Sie vielleicht sehr nett sein und mir sagen, was Sie denken." "Ich verspreche es", sagte er, als ich ihm die Papiere gab, "ich werde so bald wie möglich, am Morgen, zu Ihnen und Ihrem Mann kommen, wenn es mir erlaubt ist." "Jonathan wird um halb zwölf hier sein, und Sie müssen zum Mittagessen zu uns kommen und ihn dann sehen; Sie könnten den schnellen Zug um 3:34 nehmen, der Sie vor acht Uhr nach Paddington bringt." Er war überrascht von meinem Zugwissen aus dem Stegreif, aber er weiß nicht, dass ich alle Züge von und nach Exeter erdacht habe, um Jonathan zu helfen, falls er es eilig hat. Also nahm er die Papiere mit und ging weg, und ich sitze hier und denke nach - ich weiß nicht, worüber. * * * * * _Brief (von Hand), Van Helsing an Mrs. Harker._ "_25. September, 6 Uhr._ "Liebe Frau Mina,-- "Ich habe das wunderbare Tagebuch Ihres Mannes gelesen. Sie können beruhigt schlafen. So seltsam und schrecklich es auch ist, es ist _wahr_! Ich setze mein Leben darauf. Es mag für andere schlimmer sein, aber für ihn und Sie besteht keine Furcht. Er ist ein edler Kerl, und lassen Sie mich Ihnen aus meiner Erfahrung mit Männern sagen, dass jemand, der das getan hat, was er getan hat, als er diese Mauer hinabstieg und in diesen Raum ging - ja, und ein zweites Mal ging - nicht dauerhaft durch einen Schock geschädigt werden kann. Sein Gehirn und sein Herz sind in Ordnung; das schwöre ich, noch ehe ich ihn überhaupt gesehen habe; also seien Sie beruhigt. Ich werde noch vieles von ihm erfahren. Ich fühle mich gesegnet, dass ich heute zu Ihnen kommen kann, denn ich habe auf einmal so viel gelernt, dass ich wieder geblendet bin - stärker geblendet als je zuvor, und ich muss nachdenken. "Ihr getreuester, "ABRAHAM VAN HELSING." _Brief, Mrs. Harker an Van Helsing._ "_25. September, 18:30 Uhr._ "Mein lieber Dr. Van Helsing,-- "Tausend Dank für Ihren lieben Brief, der mir eine große Last von meinem Geist genommen hat. Und dennoch, wenn es wahr ist, was für schreckliche Dinge es in der Welt gibt, und was für eine furchtbare Sache, wenn dieser Mann, dieses Monster, wirklich in London ist! Es ängstigt mich zu denken. Gerade eben habe ich eine Telegramm von Jonathan erhalten, in dem steht, dass er heute um 18:25 Uhr von Launceston abreist und um 22:18 Uhr hier sein wird, also werde ich heute Nacht keine Angst haben. Werden Sie daher bitte nicht mit uns zu Mittag essen, sondern kommen Sie um acht Uhr zum Frühstück, wenn dies für Sie nicht zu früh ist? Sie können, wenn Sie es eilig haben, mit dem Zug um 10:30 Uhr fahren, der Sie um 14:35 Uhr nach Paddington bringt. Antworten Sie nicht darauf, denn ich werde davon ausgehen, dass Sie zum Frühstück kommen, wenn ich nichts höre. "Glauben Sie mir, "Ihre treue und dankbare Freundin, "MINA HARKER." _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ _26. September._--Ich dachte, ich würde niemals wieder in dieses Tagebuch schreiben, aber die Zeit ist gekommen. Als ich gestern Abend nach Hause kam, hatte Mina das Abendessen fertig, und nach dem Essen erzählte sie mir von Van Helsings Besuch und davon, dass sie ihm die beiden abgeschriebenen Tagebücher gegeben hatte, und wie besorgt sie um mich gewesen war. Sie zeigte mir in dem Brief des Arztes, dass alles, was ich aufgeschrieben hatte, wahr war. Es scheint, dass es mich zu einem neuen Menschen gemacht hat. Es war der Zweifel an der Realität der ganzen Sache, der mich umgehauen hat. Ich fühlte mich machtlos und im Dunkeln und misstrauisch. Aber jetzt, da ich _weiß_, habe ich keine Angst mehr, nicht einmal vor dem Grafen. Es ist ihm schließlich gelungen, sein Vorhaben zu verwirklichen und nach London zu kommen, und ich habe ihn gesehen. Er ist jünger geworden, und wie? Van Helsing ist der Mann, der ihn entlarven und aufspüren wird, wenn er auch nur annähernd dem entspricht, was Mina sagt. Wir saßen lange zusammen und sprachen über alles. Mina zieht sich gerade um, und in wenigen Minuten werde ich ihn im Hotel abholen und ihn mitbringen.... Er schien überrascht, mich zu sehen. Als ich in den Raum kam, wo er war, und mich vorstellte, nahm er mich am Arm, drehte mein Gesicht zum Licht und sagte nach einer scharfen Prüfung:-- "Aber Frau Mina hat mir gesagt, dass Sie krank sind, dass Sie einen Schock hatten." Es war so lustig, meine Frau von diesem freundlichen, starken alten Mann "Frau Mina" genannt zu hören. Ich lächelte und sagte:-- "Ich war krank, ich hatte einen Schock; aber Sie haben mich schon geheilt." "Und wie?" "Durch Ihren Brief an Mina letzte Nacht. Ich war im Zweifel, und dann nahm alles einen Hauch von Unwirklichkeit an, und ich wusste nicht, wem ich vertrauen sollte, nicht einmal den Beweisen meiner eigenen Sinne. Ohne zu wissen, wem ich vertrauen sollte, wusste ich nicht, was zu tun war; und so musste ich weiterarbeiten, wie bisher in meinem Leben. Doch der gewohnte Weg half mir nicht mehr, und ich misstraute mir selbst. Doktor, Sie wissen nicht, wie es ist, an allem zu zweifeln, selbst an sich selbst. Nein, das wissen Sie nicht; Sie könnten es nicht wissen, mit Augenbrauen wie Ihren." Er schien erfreut und lachte, als er sagte:-- "So! Sie sind Physiognom. Ich lerne hier mit jeder Stunde mehr. Es ist mir eine große Freude, Ihnen zum Frühstück zu kommen; und, oh, Herr, Sie werden mir die Lobeshymnen eines alten Mannes verzeihen, aber Sie sind gesegnet mit Ihrer Frau." Ich würde ihm einen ganzen Tag lang zuhören, wie er Mina lobt, also nickte ich einfach und blieb schweigsam stehen. "Sie ist eine der Frauen Gottes, von Seiner eigenen Hand geformt, um uns Männern und anderen Frauen zu zeigen, dass es einen Himmel gibt, in den wir eintreten können, und dass sein Licht hier auf Erden sein kann. So wahr, so süß, so edel, so wenig egozentrisch - und das, lassen Sie mich Ihnen sagen, ist in diesem skeptischen und egoistischen Zeitalter viel wert. Und Sie, Herr - ich Ich hatte ihm die Morgenzeitungen und die Londoner Zeitungen vom vorherigen Abend besorgt, und während wir am Fenster des Wagens warteten, dass der Zug losfuhr, blätterte er darin. Plötzlich schienen seine Augen etwas in einem davon zu entdecken, "The Westminster Gazette" - ich erkannte es an der Farbe - und er wurde ganz bleich. Er las etwas aufmerksam und stöhnte vor sich hin: "Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So schnell! so schnell!" Ich glaube, er erinnerte sich in dem Moment nicht an mich. Gerade in dem Moment ertönte die Pfeife und der Zug setzte sich in Bewegung. Das brachte ihn wieder zu sich und er lehnte sich aus dem Fenster und winkte mit der Hand und rief: "Grüße an Madam Mina; ich werde so bald wie möglich schreiben." _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch_ _26. September._ - Wahrlich, es gibt keine Endgültigkeit. Noch keine Woche ist vergangen, seitdem ich "Finis" sagte und trotzdem fange ich wieder von vorne an oder besser gesagt, führe den gleichen Bericht weiter. Bis heute Nachmittag hatte ich keinen Grund, über das Geschehene nachzudenken. Renfield war, allem Anschein nach, so vernünftig geworden, wie er es jemals war. Er war bereits gut vorangeschritten mit seinem Fliegen-Geschäft; und er hatte gerade erst mit der Spinnen-Zucht angefangen; daher hatte er mir keine Mühe bereitet. Ich erhielt einen Brief von Arthur, der am Sonntag geschrieben wurde, und aus ihm schließe ich, dass er sich wunderbar gut hält. Quincey Morris ist bei ihm, und das ist eine große Hilfe, denn er selbst sprüht vor guter Laune. Quincey schrieb mir auch ein paar Zeilen, und von ihm hörte ich, dass Arthur langsam wieder etwas von seiner früheren Heiterkeit zurückgewinnt; sodass mein Geist diesbezüglich beruhigt ist. Was mich betrifft, war ich voller Enthusiasmus dabei, mich wieder meiner Arbeit zu widmen, so dass ich durchaus sagen könnte, dass die Wunde, die die arme Lucy in mir hinterlassen hatte, am Verheilen war. Alles ist jedoch nun wieder offen; und wie es enden wird, weiß nur Gott. Ich habe das Gefühl, dass Van Helsing glaubt, er wisse es, aber er lässt immer nur so viel durchblicken, um die Neugier zu wecken. Gestern ist er nach Exeter gereist und hat dort übernachtet. Heute ist er zurückgekommen und ist gegen halb sechs Uhr abends fast ins Zimmer gestürmt und hat mir das "Westminster Gazette" von gestern Nacht in die Hand gedrückt. "Was hältst du von dem?" fragte er, als er zurücktrat und seine Arme verschränkte. Ich überflog die Zeitung, denn ich wusste wirklich nicht, was er meinte; aber er nahm sie mir ab und zeigte auf eine Passage, in der davon die Rede war, dass Kinder in Hampstead in Versuchung geführt wurden. Es sagte mir nicht viel, bis ich eine Passage erreichte, in der kleinste stichförmige Wunden an ihren Hälsern beschrieben wurden. Eine Idee kam mir und ich schaute auf. "Nun?" sagte er. "Das ist wie bei der armen Lucy." "Und was schließt du daraus?" "Einfach, dass es einen gemeinsamen Grund gibt. Was auch immer ihr geschadet hat, hat auch ihnen geschadet." Ich verstand seine Antwort nicht ganz: "Indirekt ist das wahr, aber nicht direkt." "Wie meinst du das, Professor?" fragte ich. Ich war etwas geneigt, seine Ernsthaftigkeit nicht allzu ernst zu nehmen - denn schließlich helfen einem vier Tage Ruhe und Freiheit von brennender, quälender Angst dabei, seine Stimmung wiederherzustellen - aber als ich sein Gesicht sah, nahm er mich ernst. Niemals, selbst inmitten unserer Verzweiflung wegen der armen Lucy, hatte er ernster ausgesehen. "Sag mir!" sagte ich. "Ich kann keine Vermutung anstellen. Ich weiß nicht, was ich denken soll, und mir fehlen die Daten, um eine Vermutung anzustellen." "Willst du mir wirklich sagen, lieber John, dass du keine Vermutung darüber hast, woran die arme Lucy gestorben ist? Nicht nach all den Andeutungen, nicht nur durch Ereignisse, sondern auch durch mich?" "An Nervenzusammenbruch infolge eines großen Blutverlusts oder einer großen Blutentnahme." "Und wie kam es zum Blutverlust oder zur Blutentnahme?" Ich schüttelte den Kopf. Er trat näher an mich heran, setzte sich neben mich und fuhr fort: "Du bist ein kluger Mann, lieber John; du denkst gut und dein Geist ist kühn; aber du bist zu voreingenommen. Du lässt deine Augen nicht sehen und deine Ohren nicht hören, und das, was außerhalb deines täglichen Lebens liegt, bedeutet dir nichts. Glaubst du nicht, dass es Dinge gibt, die du nicht verstehen kannst, und doch existieren sie; dass manche Menschen Dinge sehen, die andere nicht sehen? Aber es gibt alte und neue Dinge, die von den Augen der Menschen nicht betrachtet werden sollen, weil sie etwas wissen - oder denken zu wissen -, was ihnen andere Menschen erzählt haben. Ah, es ist der Fehler unserer Wissenschaft, dass sie alles erklären will; und wenn sie es nicht erklären kann, dann sagt sie, dass es nichts zu erklären gibt. Aber wir sehen jeden Tag um uns herum das Aufkommen neuer Überzeugungen, die sich für neu halten; und doch sind es nur die alten Dinge, die vorgeben, jung zu sein - wie die feinen Damen in der Oper. Ich nehme an, du glaubst nicht an körperliche Übertragung. Nein? Auch nicht an Materialisierung. Nein? Auch nicht an Astralkörper. Nein? Auch nicht an Gedankenlesen. Nein? Auch nicht an Hypnose----" "Ja," sagte ich. "Charcot hat das ziemlich gut bewiesen." Er lächelte, als er fortfuhr: "Dann bist du zufrieden damit. Ja? Und natürlich verstehst du, wie es wirkt, und kannst den Gedanken des großen Charcot folgen - ach, dass er nicht mehr lebt! - bis in die Seele des Patienten, auf den er Einfluss nimmt. Nein? Dann, lieber John, soll ich das so verstehen, dass du einfach die Tatsache akzeptierst und zufrieden bist, dass von Voraussetzung bis Schlussfolgerung eine Leerstelle bleibt? Nein? Dann sag mir - denn ich bin ein Student des Gehirns - wie nimmst du die Hypnose an und lehnst das Gedankenlesen ab. Lass mich dir sagen, mein Freund, dass es heute in der elektrischen Wissenschaft Dinge gibt, die von den Männern, die die Elektrizität entdeckt haben, als unheilig angesehen worden wären - die selbst noch nicht lange zuvor als Hexen verbrannt worden wären. Es gibt immer Mysterien im Leben. Warum hat Methusalem neunhundert Jahre gelebt und 'Old Parr' einhundertneunundsechzig, und dennoch konnte die arme Lucy, mit dem Blut von vier Männern in ihren armen Adern, nicht einmal einen Tag leben? Denn hätte sie noch einen Tag gelebt, hätten wir sie retten können. Weißt du alles über das Geheimnis von Leben und Tod? Weißt du alles über den vollständigen Vergleich der Anatomie und kannst sagen, warum die Eigenschaften der Tiere bei manchen Menschen, und bei anderen nicht vorhanden sind? Kannst du mir sagen, warum, wenn andere Spinnen klein und schnell sterben, eine große Spinne jahrhundertelang im Turm der alten spanischen Kirche lebte und wuchs und wuchs, bis sie hinunterkam und das Öl aller Kirchenlampen trinken konnte? Kannst du mir sagen, warum es auf den Pampas und anderswo Fledermäuse gibt, die nachts kommen und den Tieren die Adern öffnen und sie leer saugen; wie es auf einigen Inseln "Professor, lass mich wieder dein Haustier-Student sein. Sag mir die These, damit ich dein Wissen anwenden kann, während du weitermachst. Momentan springe ich in meinem Geist von Punkt zu Punkt wie ein Verrückter und nicht wie ein Vernünftiger, der einer Idee folgt. Ich fühle mich wie ein Neuling, der durch einen Sumpf im Nebel stapft und von einem Grasbüschel zum nächsten springt, nur in dem vagen Versuch, weiterzukommen, ohne zu wissen, wohin ich gehe." "Das ist ein gutes Bild", sagte er. "Nun, ich werde es dir sagen. Meine These ist diese: Ich möchte, dass du glaubst." "Woran soll ich glauben?" "Glaube an Dinge, die du nicht kannst. Lass mich es veranschaulichen. Ich habe einmal von einem Amerikaner gehört, der den Glauben so definierte: 'Die Fähigkeit, Dinge zu glauben, von denen wir wissen, dass sie nicht wahr sind.' Ich folge diesem Mann. Er meinte, dass wir einen offenen Geist haben sollten und nicht zulassen sollten, dass ein kleines Stückchen Wahrheit den Strom einer großen Wahrheit aufhält, ähnlich wie ein kleiner Stein einen Eisenbahnwaggon aufhält. Wir bekommen zuerst die kleine Wahrheit. Gut! Wir behalten sie und schätzen sie; aber wir dürfen sie nicht für die einzige Wahrheit im Universum halten." "Dann wollen Sie, dass ich nicht zulasse, dass eine frühere Überzeugung die Aufnahmefähigkeit meines Geistes in Bezug auf eine seltsame Angelegenheit beeinflusst. Verstehe ich Ihre Lektion richtig?" "Ah, du bist immer noch mein Lieblingsschüler. Es lohnt sich, dich zu unterrichten. Jetzt, da du bereit bist zu verstehen, hast du den ersten Schritt zum Verständnis gemacht. Du glaubst also, dass die so kleinen Löcher in den Kehlen der Kinder von derselben Person gemacht wurden, die das Loch bei Miss Lucy gemacht hat?" "Ich nehme an." Er stand auf und sagte feierlich:-- "Dann liegst du falsch. Oh, wäre es so! Aber leider nein. Es ist schlimmer, weitaus schlimmer." "In Gottes Namen, Professor Van Helsing, was meinen Sie?" rief ich. Er warf sich mit einer verzweifelten Geste auf einen Stuhl und legte seine Ellbogen auf den Tisch, während er sein Gesicht in den Händen vergrub, als er sprach:-- "Sie wurden von Miss Lucy gemacht!" Für eine Weile beherrschte mich reine Wut; es war, als hätte er Lucy zu Lebzeiten ins Gesicht geschlagen. Ich schlug fest auf den Tisch und stand auf, als ich zu ihm sagte:-- "Dr. Van Helsing, sind Sie verrückt?" Er hob den Kopf und sah mich an, und irgendwie beruhigte mich die Zärtlichkeit in seinem Gesicht sofort. "Wäre ich es doch!" sagte er. "Verrücktsein wäre einfach zu ertragen im Vergleich zu einer Wahrheit wie dieser. Oh, mein Freund, warum denkst du, bin ich so einen weiten Umweg gegangen, warum habe ich so lange gebraucht, um dir eine so einfache Sache zu sagen? War es, weil ich dich hasse und dich mein ganzes Leben lang gehasst habe? War es, weil ich dir Schmerzen zufügen wollte? War es, weil ich, so spät, Rache für die Zeit wollte, als du mein Leben gerettet hast, und vor einem furchtbaren Tod? Ach nein!" "Verzeih mir", sagte ich. Er fuhr fort:-- "Mein Freund, es war, weil ich sanft sein wollte, als ich dir diese Wahrheit offenbare, denn ich weiß, dass du diese liebenswerte Dame geliebt hast. Aber selbst jetzt erwarte ich nicht, dass du es glaubst. Es ist so schwer, eine abstrakte Wahrheit sofort zu akzeptieren, dass wir zweifeln können, dass sie möglich ist, wenn wir immer das "nein" davon geglaubt haben; es ist noch schwieriger, eine so traurige konkrete Wahrheit, und eine wie Miss Lucy, zu akzeptieren. Heute Nacht gehe ich, um es zu beweisen. Wagst du es, mitzukommen?" Das brachte mich ins Wanken. Ein Mensch möchte eine solche Wahrheit nicht beweisen; Byron ausgenommen von der Kategorie, Eifersucht. "Und die Wahrheit zu beweisen, die er am meisten verabscheute." Er sah meine Zögern und sprach:-- "Die Logik ist einfach, kein Wahnsinn diesmal, der von Grasbüschel zu Grasbüschel in einem nebligen Sumpf springt. Wenn es nicht wahr ist, wird der Beweis Erleichterung sein; im schlimmsten Fall wird er keinen Schaden anrichten. Wenn es wahr ist! Ah, da ist die Furcht; und doch sollte die Furcht meiner Sache helfen, denn darin liegt etwas Glaube. Komm, ich sage dir, was ich vorschlage: Erstens, dass wir jetzt losziehen und dieses Kind im Krankenhaus besuchen. Dr. Vincent vom Nordkrankenhaus, wo die Zeitung sagt, dass das Kind ist, ist ein Freund von mir und, denke ich, von dir, seit du in Amsterdam im Kurs warst. Er wird zwei Wissenschaftler seinen Fall sehen lassen, wenn er zwei Freunde nicht sehen lässt. Wir werden ihm nichts sagen, sondern nur, dass wir lernen wollen. Und dann----" "Und dann?" Er nahm einen Schlüssel aus seiner Tasche und hielt ihn hoch. "Und dann verbringen wir die Nacht, du und ich, auf dem Friedhof, wo Lucy liegt. Das ist der Schlüssel, der das Grab verschließt. Ich habe ihn vom Sargmann bekommen, um ihn Arthur zu geben." Mein Herz sank, denn ich spürte, dass uns eine schreckliche Prüfung bevorstand. Ich konnte jedoch nichts tun, also fasste ich soviel Mut wie möglich und sagte, dass wir uns beeilen sollten, da der Nachmittag voranschritt... Wir fanden das Kind wach. Es hatte geschlafen und etwas gegessen und insgesamt ging es ihm gut. Dr. Vincent nahm den Verband von seinem Hals ab und zeigte uns die Einstiche. Es war kein Fehler, die Ähnlichkeit zu denen zu erkennen, die an Lucys Hals waren. Sie waren kleiner und die Ränder sahen frischer aus; das war alles. Wir fragten Vincent, worauf er sie zurückführte, und er antwortete, dass es wohl von einem Biss eines Tieres stammen müsse, vielleicht von einer Ratte; aber er selbst neigte dazu zu glauben, dass es eine der Fledermäuse war, die auf den nördlichen Höhen von London so zahlreich sind. "Von so vielen harmlosen", sagte er, "kann es einige wilde Exemplare aus dem Süden einer bösartigeren Art geben. Ein Seemann könnte eines mitgebracht haben, und es ist ihm entkommen; oder sogar aus dem Zoo könnte ein junges entwischt sein oder dort eines aus einem Vampir gezüchtet worden sein. So etwas kommt vor, wissen Sie. Vor nur zehn Tagen ist ein Wolf entkommen und wurde, glaube ich, in unsere Richtung verfolgt. Eine Woche lang haben die Kinder danach nichts anderes als Rotkäppchen auf der Heide und in jeder Gasse gespielt, bis diese 'blufer Lady'-Panik auftauchte, seitdem ist es eine regelrechte Feier mit ihnen. Selbst dieses arme kleine Wesen hat heute, als es aufwachte, die Krankenschwester gefragt, ob es weggehen dürfe. Als sie es fragte, warum es gehen wolle, sagte es, es wolle mit der 'blufer Lady' spielen." "Ich hoffe", sagte Van Helsing, "dass Sie, wenn Sie das Kind nach Hause schicken, seine Eltern darauf hinweisen werden, es sorgfältig zu beobachten. Diese Tendenzen zum Weglaufen sind sehr gefährlich; und wenn das Kind eine weitere Nacht draußen bleiben würde, wäre es wahrscheinlich tödlich. Aber in jedem Fall werden Sie es wahrscheinlich nicht ein paar Tage gehen lassen?" "Auf keinen Fall, nicht für eine Woche zumindest; länger, wenn die Wunde nicht verheilt ist." Unser Besuch im Krankenhaus dauerte länger als erwartet, und die Sonne war bereits untergegangen, als wir herauskamen. Als Van Helsing sah, wie dunkel es war, sagte er:-- "Es besteht keine Eile. Es ist später, als ich dachte. Komm, lass uns einen Ort suchen, an dem wir essen können, und dann werden wir weitermachen." Wir speisten im "Jack Straw's Castle" zusammen mit einer kleinen Gruppe von Radfahrern und anderen, die fröhlich laut waren. Gegen zehn Uhr starteten wir von der Gaststätte. Es war sehr dunkel und die vereinzelten Lampen machten die Dunkelheit noch größer, als wir einmal außerhalb ihres individuellen Radius waren. Der Professor hatte offenbar die Straße bemerkt, die wir nehmen sollten, denn er ging unzweifelhaft weiter; aber ich war ziemlich durcheinander, was die genaue Lage betraf. Je weiter wir gingen, desto weniger Menschen trafen wir, bis wir schließlich etwas überrascht waren, als wir sogar auf die Streife der Pferdepolizei trafen, die ihre übliche Runde in den Vororten drehten. Schließlich erreichten wir die Mauer des Friedhofs, über die wir kletterten. Mit einiger Schwierigkeit - es war sehr dunkel und der ganze Ort schien uns so fremd - fanden wir das Westenra-Grab. Der Professor nahm den Schlüssel, öffnete die quietschende Tür und trat höflich und völlig unbewusst zurück und gab mir Zeichen, vor ihm zu gehen. Das Angebot hatte eine köstliche Ironie, die Höflichkeit, bei solch einer schrecklichen Gelegenheit den Vorrang zu geben. Mein Begleiter folgte mir schnell und zog vorsichtig die Tür zu, nachdem er genau festgestellt hatte, dass das Schloss ein Fall- und kein Federmechanismus war. In letzterem Fall wären wir in einer schlechten Lage gewesen. Dann stocherte er in seiner Tasche herum, holte eine Streichholzschachtel und ein Stück Kerze heraus und machte Licht. Das Grab hatte am Tag und wenn es von frischen Blumen umrankt war, schaurig genug ausgesehen; aber jetzt, einige Tage später, als die Blumen schlaff und tot herabhingen, ihr Weiß zu Rost und ihr Grün zu Braun wurde; als Spinne und Käfer ihre gewohnte Dominanz wieder erlangt hatten; als vergilbter Stein, staubbedeckter Mörtel, rostiges, feuchtes Eisen, angelaufene Bronze und getrübtes Silber eine schwache Lichtspur einer Kerze zurückgaben, wirkte es elender und schäbiger, als man es sich vorstellen konnte. Es vermittelte unwiderstehlich die Vorstellung, dass das Leben - das Tierleben - nicht das einzige war, was vergehen konnte. Van Helsing ging systematisch vor. Er hielt seine Kerze so, dass er die Sargplatten lesen konnte und dabei so, dass das Sperma in weißen Flecken abtropfte, die sich festsetzten, sobald sie das Metall berührten; er vergewisserte sich des Sarges von Lucy. Eine weitere Suche in seiner Tasche und er holte einen Schraubendreher heraus. "Was hast du vor?" fragte ich. "Ich werde den Sarg öffnen. Du wirst noch überzeugt sein." Sofort begann er, die Schrauben herauszudrehen und hob schließlich den Deckel ab, der die Bleihülle darunter zeigte. Der Anblick war fast zu viel für mich. Es schien ebenso eine Beleidigung für die Toten zu sein, als hätte man ihr in ihrem Schlaf die Kleider ausgestreift; Ich packte tatsächlich seine Hand, um ihn aufzuhalten. Er sagte nur: "Du wirst sehen", und stocherte erneut in seiner Tasche, holte eine winzige Laubsäge heraus. Indem er den Schraubendreher mit einem schnellen, nach unten gerichteten Stich durch das Blei schlug, der mich zusammenzucken ließ, machte er ein kleines Loch, das jedoch groß genug war, um die Spitze der Säge einzulassen. Ich hatte einen Gasausbruch von der eine Woche alten Leiche erwartet. Wir Ärzte, die unsere Gefahren studieren mussten, haben uns an solche Dinge gewöhnen müssen, und ich bewegte mich in Richtung Tür zurück. Aber der Professor hielt nicht einen Moment inne; er sägte etwa zwei Fuß entlang einer Seite des Bleisarges und dann quer über und die andere Seite hinunter. Er bog den Rand der losen Kante zurück in Richtung des Fußes des Sarges und hielt die Kerze in die Öffnung und bedeutete mir, zu schauen. Ich näherte mich und schaute. Der Sarg war leer. Es war sicherlich eine Überraschung für mich und hat mich ziemlich erschüttert, aber Van Helsing war unbewegt. Er war nun mehr denn je von seinem Standpunkt überzeugt und so ermutigt, seine Aufgabe fortzusetzen. "Bist du jetzt zufrieden, Freund John?", fragte er. Ich fühlte all die verbohrte Streitsucht in mir aufkommen, als ich ihm antwortete:-- "Ich bin zufrieden, dass Lucys Körper nicht in diesem Sarg ist; aber das beweist nur eine Sache." "Und was ist das, Freund John?" "Dass er nicht da ist." "Das ist gute Logik", sagte er, "soweit sie reicht. Aber wie kannst du - wie kannst du das erklären, dass er nicht da ist?" "Vielleicht ein Leichendieb", schlug ich vor. "Einige Leute des Bestatters könnten ihn gestohlen haben." Ich fühlte, dass ich Unsinn sprach, aber das war die einzige wirkliche Ursache, die ich vorschlagen konnte. Der Professor seufzte. "Ach, gut!" sagte er, "wir müssen mehr Beweise haben. Komm mit mir." Er legte den Sargdeckel wieder auf, sammelte all seine Sachen und steckte sie in die Tasche, blies das Licht aus und legte die Kerze ebenfalls in die Tasche. Wir öffneten die Tür und gingen hinaus. Er schloss die Tür hinter uns und schloss sie ab. Er reichte mir den Schlüssel und sagte: "Behältst du ihn? Du solltest sicher sein." Ich lachte - es war kein sehr fröhliches Lachen, muss ich sagen -, als ich ihn bat, ihn zu behalten. "Ein Schlüssel ist nichts", sagte ich, "es könnte Duplikate geben, und ohnehin ist es nicht schwer, ein Schloss dieser Art zu öffnen." Er sagte nichts, steckte den Schlüssel aber in seine Tasche. Dann sagte er mir, ich solle auf einer Seite des Friedhofs Wache halten, während er auf der anderen Wache halten würde. Ich nahm meinen Platz hinter einer Eibe ein und sah seine dunkle Gestalt sich bewegen, bis die dazwischengestellten Grabsteine und Bäume sie vor meinem Blick versteckten. Es war eine einsame Wache. Kurz nachdem ich meinen Platz eingenommen hatte, hörte ich eine entfernte Uhr zwölf schlagen, und es kam eins und zwei. Mir war kalt und unruhig, und ich war zornig auf den Professor, dass er mich auf so einen Auftrag mitgenommen hatte und auf mich selbst, dass ich gekommen war. Ich war zu kalt und zu schläfrig, um besonders aufmerksam zu sein und nicht schlafend genug, um mein Vertrauen zu verraten. Insgesamt hatte ich eine trostlose, elendige Zeit. Plötzlich, als ich mich umdrehte, meinte ich etwas Weißes zu sehen, das zwischen zwei dunklen Eibenbäumen an der Seite des Friedhofs, die am weitesten vom Grab entfernt waren, dahingleitete; zur gleichen Zeit bewegte sich eine dunkle Masse von der Seite des Professors des Geländes und eilte in eiliger Hast dorthin. Dann bewegte auch ich mich; aber ich musste um Grabsteine und abgesperrte Gräber herumgehen und stolperte über Gräber. Der Himmel war bedeckt und irgendwo in der Ferne krähte ein Hahn. Ein Stück weiter, hinter einer Reihe verstreuter Wacholderbäume, die den Weg zur Kirche markierten, huschte eine weiße, düstere Gestalt in Richtung des Grabes. Das Grab selbst war von Bäumen verdeckt und ich konnte nicht sehen, wohin die Gestalt verschwand. Ich hörte das Rascheln einer tatsächlichen Bewegung, wo ich zuerst die 27. September. - Es war zwei Uhr, bevor wir eine passende Gelegenheit für unseren Versuch fanden. Die um zwölf Uhr mittags abgehaltene Beerdigung war abgeschlossen und die letzten Nachzügler der Trauernden hatten sich faul entfernt, als wir vorsichtig hinter einem Busch aus Erle sahen, wie der Grabmeister das Tor hinter sich abschloss. Wir wussten dann, dass wir sicher waren, bis der Morgen anbrach, falls wir es wünschten. Aber der Professor sagte mir, dass wir höchstens eine Stunde brauchen würden. Wieder fühlte ich diese schreckliche Realität der Dinge, in der jede Vorstellungskraft fehl am Platz schien, und ich erkannte deutlich die Gefahren des Gesetzes, denen wir uns bei unserer verbotenen Arbeit aussetzten. Außerdem fand ich es alles so sinnlos. Auch wenn es eine Ungeheuerlichkeit war, einen bleiernen Sarg zu öffnen, um zu sehen, ob eine vor fast einer Woche gestorbene Frau wirklich tot war, schien es nun der Gipfel der Torheit zu sein, das Grab erneut zu öffnen, wenn wir doch durch unsere eigene Augenscheinlichkeit wussten, dass der Sarg leer war. Aber ich zuckte nur mit den Schultern und schwieg, denn Van Helsing ging immer seinen eigenen Weg, egal wer Einwände erhob. Er nahm den Schlüssel, öffnete die Gruft und wies mir erneut höflich den Vortritt. Der Ort war nicht so gruselig wie letzte Nacht, aber oh, wie unsagbar armselig er wirkte, als das Sonnenlicht hineinschien. Van Helsing ging zu Lucys Sarg und ich folgte ihm. Er beugte sich hinunter und zwang erneut den bleiernen Rand zurück und dann durchfuhr mich ein Schock der Überraschung und Bestürzung. Dort lag Lucy, scheinbar genau so wie wir sie in der Nacht vor ihrer Beerdigung gesehen hatten. Sie war, wenn möglich, noch strahlender schön als je zuvor, und ich konnte nicht glauben, dass sie tot war. Die Lippen waren rot, ja röter als zuvor, und auf den Wangen war ein zarter Rosaton. "Ist das ein Zaubertrick?" sagte ich zu ihm. "Bist du jetzt überzeugt?" erwiderte der Professor und zog dabei über seine Hand, und auf eine Weise, die mich erschaudern ließ, die toten Lippen zurück und zeigte die weißen Zähne. "Siehst du", fuhr er fort, "sie sind sogar schärfer als zuvor. Mit diesem und diesem" - und er berührte einen der Eckzähne und den darunterliegenden - "kann man Kinder beißen. Glaubst du jetzt, mein Freund John?" Noch einmal erwachte in mir argumentative Feindseligkeit. Ich _konnte_ eine so überwältigende Idee, wie er sie vorschlug, nicht akzeptieren; also sagte ich mit einem Versuch zu argumentieren, wofür ich mich in diesem Moment sogar schämte: "Vielleicht wurde sie seit gestern Abend hier hingelegt." "Wirklich? Und von wem?" "Ich weiß es nicht. Jemand hat es getan." "Und doch ist sie seit einer Woche tot. Die meisten Menschen in dieser Zeit würden nicht so aussehen." Darauf hatte ich keine Antwort, also schwieg ich. Van Helsing schien mein Schweigen nicht zu bemerken; zumindest zeigte er weder Ärger noch Triumph. Er betrachtete aufmerksam das Gesicht der Toten, hob die Augenlider an und betrachtete die Augen und öffnete erneut die Lippen und untersuchte die Zähne. Dann wandte er sich mir zu und sagte: "Hier gibt es etwas, das sich von allem Aufgezeichneten unterscheidet; hier gibt es ein doppeltes Leben, das nicht dem gängigen entspricht. Sie wurde vom Vampir gebissen, als sie in Trance war, Schlafwandelte - oh, du erschrickst; du weißt das nicht, mein Freund John, aber du wirst es später alles erfahren - und in der Trance konnte er am besten mehr Blut nehmen. In Trance ist sie gestorben und in Trance ist sie auch Un-Tot. So unterscheidet sie sich von allen anderen. In der Regel, wenn sich die Un-Toten zu Hause schlafen legen" - während er sprach, machte er eine umfassende Geste mit seinem Arm, um zu kennzeichnen, was für einen Vampir "zu Hause" war - "zeigt ihr Gesicht, was sie sind, aber das hier ist so süß, dass es war, als sie noch nicht Un-Tot war, zurückkehrt zu der Nichtexistenz der gewöhnlichen Toten. Da ist kein Böswillen dabei, siehst du, und deshalb ist es schwer für mich, sie im Schlaf zu töten." Mir lief ein eisiger Schauer über den Rücken und mir dämmerte, dass ich Van Helsing Theorien akzeptierte. Aber wenn sie wirklich tot war, was war dann so erschreckend an der Idee, sie zu töten? Er sah mich an und sah offensichtlich die Veränderung in meinem Gesicht, denn er sagte fast freudig: "Ah, glaubst du jetzt?" Ich antwortete: "Dränge mich nicht zu sehr auf einmal. Ich bin bereit zu glauben. Wie wirst du dieses blutige Werk durchführen?" "Ich werde ihr den Kopf abschneiden und ihr den Mund mit Knoblauch füllen, und ich werde einen Pfahl durch ihren Körper treiben." Es ließ mich erschaudern, an den Körper der Frau zu denken, die ich geliebt hatte, der so verstümmelt wurde. Und doch war das Gefühl nicht so stark, wie ich es erwartet hatte. Tatsächlich begann ich, in Anwesenheit dieses Wesens, dieses Un-Toten, wie Van Helsing es nannte, eine Abscheu zu empfinden. Ist es möglich, dass Liebe ganz subjektiv oder ganz objektiv ist? Ich wartete eine beträchtliche Zeit darauf, dass Van Helsing anfing, aber er stand da, als wäre er in Gedanken versunken. Schließlich schloss er den Verschluss seines Koffers mit einem Knall und sagte: "Ich habe nachgedacht und mich entschieden, was am besten ist. Wenn ich einfach meinem Neigung folgen würde, würde ich jetzt, in diesem Moment, das tun, was getan werden muss. Aber es gibt noch andere Dinge zu beachten, und Dinge, die tausendmal schwieriger sind, weil wir sie nicht kennen. Das hier ist einfach. Sie hat noch kein Leben genommen, obwohl das nur eine Frage der Zeit ist; und jetzt zu handeln würde ihr für immer Gefahr nehmen. Aber dann müssen wir vielleicht Arthur brauchen, und wie sollen wir ihm das sagen? Wenn du, der du die Wunden an Lucys Hals sah und die ähnlichen Wunden an dem Kind im Krankenhaus sah; wenn du, der du den gestrigen leeren Sarg und den heute mit einer Frau, die nur sich solange sie verändert hat, aber in einer ganzen Woche nachdem sie gestorben war noch rosiger und schöner geworden ist, gesehen hast - wenn du das alles weißt und auch von der weißen Gestalt gestern Nacht, die das Kind auf den Friedhof brachte, weißt, und trotzdem nicht glaubst, wie kann ich dann von Arthur erwarten, der nichts davon weiß, um so etwas zu glauben? Er hat mir misstraut, als ich ihn von ihrem Kuss weggenommen habe, als sie starb. Ich weiß, dass er mir vergeben hat, weil ich in einigen irrtümlichen Vorstellungen Dinge getan habe, die ihn daran hindern, sich richtig zu verabschieden, und er mag denken, dass diese Frau in irgendeinem noch größeren Irrtum lebendig begraben wurde; und dass wir in einem noch größeren Irrtum sie getötet haben. Dann wird er zu dem Schluss kommen, dass wir, die irrtümlichen, sie durch unsere Vorstellungen getötet haben; und so wird er immer unglücklich sein. Doch er wird niemals sicher sein; und das ist das Schlimmste von allem. Und er wird manchmal denken, dass die Frau, die er geliebt hat, lebendig begraben wurde, und das wird seine Träume mit Schrecken darüber malen, was sie gelitten haben muss; und wieder wird er denken, dass wir recht haben könnten und dass seine so sehr geliebte Frau letztendlich doch Un-Tot war. Nein! Ich habe es ihm einmal gesagt, und seitdem habe ich viel gelernt. Jetzt, da ich weiß, dass alles wahr ist, weiß ich hunderttausendmal mehr, dass er die bitteren Gewässer durchqueren muss, um zu dem Süßen zu gel Ich schreibe dies für den Fall, dass etwas passieren sollte. Ich gehe alleine, um auf dem Friedhof zu beobachten. Es gefällt mir, dass die Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, heute Nacht nicht weggehen wird, damit sie morgen Nacht noch gieriger sein kann. Deshalb werde ich einige Dinge anbringen, die ihr nicht gefallen - Knoblauch und ein Kreuz - und damit die Tür des Grabes versiegeln. Sie ist so jung wie die Un-Dead und wird gehorchen. Außerdem sind diese nur dazu da, um zu verhindern, dass sie herauskommt; sie könnten sie nicht davon abhalten, hineinzukommen; denn dann ist die Un-Dead verzweifelt und muss den Weg des geringsten Widerstands finden, egal was es ist. Ich werde die ganze Nacht von Sonnenuntergang bis nach dem Sonnenaufgang bereit sein, und wenn es etwas gibt, das man lernen kann, werde ich es lernen. Vor Miss Lucy oder von ihr habe ich keine Angst; aber für den anderen, für denjenigen, der weiß, dass sie Un-Dead ist, hat er jetzt die Macht, ihr Grab zu suchen und Schutz zu finden. Er ist schlau, wie ich von Mr. Jonathan weiß und von der Art und Weise, wie er uns die ganze Zeit belogen hat, als er für Miss Lucys Leben mit uns gespielt hat, und wir verloren haben; und auf viele Arten sind die Un-Dead stark. Er hat immer die Stärke von zwanzig Männern in seiner Hand; selbst wir vier, die unsere Kraft an Miss Lucy gegeben haben, gehört alles ihm. Außerdem kann er seinen Wolf rufen und ich weiß nicht was noch. Also, wenn es sein sollte, dass er heute Nacht dorthin kommt, wird er mich finden; aber kein anderer wird es tun - bis es zu spät ist. Aber es könnte sein, dass er den Ort nicht angreift. Es gibt keinen Grund, warum er es tun sollte; sein Jagdgebiet ist mehr mit Beute gefüllt als der Friedhof, auf dem die Un-Dead-Frau schläft, und der alte Mann wacht. "Deswegen schreibe ich dies für den Fall... Nimm die Papiere, die hierbei sind, die Tagebücher von Harker und den anderen, und lies sie und finde dann diese große Un-Dead und schneide ihm den Kopf ab und verbrenne sein Herz oder treibe einen Pflock hinein, damit die Welt von ihm befreit wird. "Wenn es so ist, lebe wohl. VAN HELSING." _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _28. September._ - Es ist erstaunlich, was eine gute Nachtruhe bewirken kann. Gestern war ich fast bereit, Van Helsings monströse Ideen zu akzeptieren; aber jetzt erscheinen sie mir vor mir leuchtend als Angriffe auf den gesunden Menschenverstand. Ich habe keinen Zweifel daran, dass er das alles glaubt. Ich frage mich, ob sein Verstand in irgendeiner Weise durcheinander geraten sein kann. Sicherlich muss es irgendeine vernünftige Erklärung für all diese mysteriösen Dinge geben. Ist es möglich, dass der Professor es selbst getan haben könnte? Er ist so abnorm intellig… ␤Ich bin unentschlossen, was das betrifft, und es wäre tatsächlich fast so ein großes Wunder wie das andere, herauszufinden, dass Van Helsing verrückt ist; aber jedenfalls werde ich ihn genau beobachten. Vielleicht kann ich etwas Licht ins Dunkel bringen. * * * * * _29. September, morgens._.... Gestern Abend kurz vor zehn Uhr kamen Arthur und Quincey in Van Helsings Zimmer; er erklärte uns alles, was er von uns verlangte, aber er richtete sich besonders an Arthur, als ob unsere Willen alle in ihm vereint wären. Er begann damit, dass er hoffe, dass wir alle mit ihm kommen würden, "denn", sagte er, "es gibt eine wichtige Pflicht zu erfüllen. Ihr wart sicherlich überrascht von meinem Brief?" Diese Frage richtete er direkt an Lord Godalming. "Ich war es. Es hat mich eine Weile aus der Fassung gebracht. In letzter Zeit gab es so viele Probleme um mein Haus, dass ich gut auf weitere verzichten könnte. Ich war auch neugierig, was du meinst. Quincey und ich haben darüber gesprochen; aber je mehr wir geredet haben, desto mehr haben wir uns gewundert, bis ich jetzt für mich sagen kann, dass ich so gut wie nichts mehr verstehe." "Ich auch nicht", sagte Quincey Morris lakonisch. "Oh", sagte der Professor, "dann seid ihr beide näher am Anfang als Freund John hier, der eine lange Zeit zurückgehen muss, bevor er überhaupt so weit kommen kann, um anzufangen." Es war offensichtlich, dass er meine Rückkehr zu meinem alten zweifelnden Gemütszustand erkannte, ohne dass ich ein Wort sagen musste. Dann wandte er sich an die beiden anderen und sagte mit großer Ernsthaftigkeit:-- "Ich möchte um eure Erlaubnis bitten, heute Nacht das zu tun, was ich für gut halte. Es ist, das weiß ich, viel verlangt; und wenn ihr wisst, was ich vorhabe zu tun, werdet ihr wissen, und erst dann, wie viel. Daher darf ich euch bitten, dass ihr mir im Dunkeln versprecht, damit ihr danach, auch wenn ihr vielleicht eine Zeit lang böse auf mich sein werdet - ich darf mir nicht die Möglichkeit verschließen, dass dies der Fall sein könnte -, euch selbst für nichts die Schuld gebt." "Das ist jedenfalls offen", mischte sich Quincey ein. "Ich antworte für den Professor. Ich sehe nicht ganz, worauf er hinaus will, aber ich schwöre, er ist ehrlich; und das reicht mir." "Ich danke Ihnen, Sir", sagte Van Helsing stolz. "Ich habe es mir zur Ehre gemacht, Sie als vertrauenden Freund zu zählen, und eine solche Unterstützung ist mir viel wert." Er streckte eine Hand aus, die Quincey ergriff. Dann sprach Arthur:-- "Dr. Van Helsing, ich mag es nicht ganz, die Katze im Sack zu kaufen, wie man in Schottland sagt, und wenn es um meine Ehre als Gentleman oder meinen Glauben als Christ geht, kann ich ein solches Versprechen nicht geben. Wenn Sie mir versichern können, dass das, was Sie vorhaben, keines dieser beiden verletzt, dann gebe ich sofort meine Zustimmung; obwohl ich mir um alles im Leben nicht erklären kann, worauf Sie hinauswollen." "Ich akzeptiere Ihre Einschränkung", sagte Van Helsing, "und alles, was ich von Ihnen verlange, ist, dass Sie, wenn Sie es für notwendig halten, irgendeine meiner Handlungen zu verurteilen, diese gut überdenken und sicherstellen, dass sie nicht gegen Ihre Vorbehalte verstoßen." "Einverstanden!" sagte Arthur, "das ist nur fair. Und jetzt, da die Verhandlungen vorbei sind, darf ich fragen, was wir tun sollen?" "Ich möchte, dass ihr mit mir kommt, und zwar heimlich, auf den Friedhof in Kingstead." Arthurs Gesicht verzog sich, als er auf überraschte Art sagte:-- "Wo die arme Lucy begraben ist?" Der Professor verbeugte sich. Arthur fuhr fort: "Und dann?" "In das Grab hineingehen!" Arthur stand auf. "Professor, meinen Sie das ernst; oder ist es irgendein monströser Scherz? Verzeihen Sie, ich sehe, dass Sie es ernst meinen." Er setzte sich wieder, aber ich konnte sehen, dass er fest und stolz saß, wie einer, der auf seine Würde bedacht ist. Es herrschte Stille, bis er wieder fragte:-- "Und wenn wir im Grab sind?" "Den Sarg öffnen." "Das geht zu weit!" rief er, wieder wütend aufspringend. "In allem, was vernünftig ist, bin ich bereit, geduldig zu sein; aber nicht bei dieser - dieser Entweihung des Grabes - von jemandem, der----" Er erstickte förmlich vor Empörung. Der Professor betrachtete ihn mitleidig. "Wenn ich dir nur einen Schmerz ersparen könnte, mein armer Freund", sagte er, "Gott weiß, ich würde es tun. Aber heute Nacht müssen wir auf dornigen Pfaden wandeln, oder später und für immer werden die Füße, die du liebst, in Flammen treten!" Arthur schaute mit starrem, weißem Gesicht hoch und sagte:-- "Vorsicht, Herr, Vorsicht!" "Wäre es nicht gut, zu hören, was ich zu sagen habe?" sagte Van Helsing. "Und dann werdet "Himmel und Erde, nein!" rief Arthur in einer Leidenschaft. "Niemals werde ich der Verstümmelung ihres toten Körpers zustimmen, nicht für die ganze Welt. Dr. Van Helsing, du treibst mich zu weit. Was habe ich dir getan, dass du mich so quälst? Was hat dieses arme, süße Mädchen getan, dass du ihre Grabstätte entehren willst? Bist du verrückt, solche Dinge zu sagen, oder bin ich verrückt, sie anzuhören? Wag es nicht, weiter über solch eine Schändung nachzudenken; ich werde meiner Zustimmung zu nichts geben, was du tust. Ich habe die Pflicht, ihr Grab vor Schändung zu schützen, und bei Gott, ich werde es tun!" Van Helsing erhob sich von seinem Sitz und sagte ernst und streng: "Mein Herr Godalming, auch ich habe eine Pflicht zu erfüllen, eine Pflicht anderen gegenüber, eine Pflicht Ihnen gegenüber, eine Pflicht den Toten gegenüber; und bei Gott, ich werde es tun! Alles, was ich jetzt von Ihnen verlange, ist, dass Sie mit mir kommen, dass Sie schauen und zuhören; und wenn ich später dieselbe Bitte äußere und Sie nicht noch mehr darauf drängen, sie zu erfüllen als ich selbst, dann - dann werde ich meine Pflicht tun, wie es mir auch erscheinen mag. Und dann werde ich mich gemäß Ihren Wünschen Ihnen zur Verfügung stellen, um Ihnen Rechenschaft abzulegen, wann und wo immer Sie es wünschen." Seine Stimme brach ein wenig, und er fuhr mit voller Mitleid in der Stimme fort: "Aber, ich bitte Sie, gehen Sie nicht in Wut mit mir fort. In einem langen Leben, in dem ich oft unangenehme Aufgaben zu erfüllen hatte, die manchmal mein Herz zerrissen haben, hatte ich noch nie eine so schwere Aufgabe wie jetzt. Glauben Sie mir, wenn die Zeit kommt, dass Sie Ihre Meinung über mich ändern, wird ein einziger Blick von Ihnen all diese traurige Stunde ausradieren, denn ich würde alles tun, um Sie vor Kummer zu bewahren. Denken Sie nur. Warum sollte ich mir so viel Mühe und so viel Kummer geben? Ich bin hierher gekommen, aus meinem eigenen Land, um Gutes zu tun; zunächst um meinem Freund John einen Gefallen zu tun und dann um einer süßen jungen Dame zu helfen, die ich auch liebgewonnen habe. Für sie - ich schäme mich, so viel zu sagen, aber ich sage es in Güte - gab ich alles, was Sie gaben; das Blut meiner Adern; ich gab es, ich, der nicht, wie Sie, ihr Geliebter war, sondern nur ihr Arzt und ihr Freund. Ihr gab ich meine Nächte und Tage - vor dem Tod, nach dem Tod; und wenn mein Tod ihr auch jetzt nützen kann, wenn sie die tote Untote ist, soll sie ihn frei haben." Dies sagte er mit einem sehr ernsten, süßen Stolz, und Arthur war sehr betroffen davon. Er nahm die Hand des alten Mannes und sagte mit gebrochener Stimme: "Oh, es ist schwer, daran zu denken, und ich kann es nicht verstehen; aber zumindest werde ich mit dir gehen und warten." Es war kurz vor zwölf Uhr, als wir über die niedrige Mauer in den Friedhof gelangten. Die Nacht war dunkel, mit gelegentlichen Lichtstrahlen des Monds zwischen den Rissen der schweren Wolken, die über den Himmel jagten. Wir blieben alle irgendwie dicht beieinander, mit Van Helsing leicht voraus, da er den Weg führte. Als wir dem Grab näher kamen, schaute ich Arthur gut an, denn ich fürchtete, dass die Nähe zu einem Ort, der mit so traurigen Erinnerungen beladen war, ihn aus der Fassung bringen könnte; aber er verhielt sich gut. Ich nahm an, dass das Geheimnis des Vorgehens auf irgendeine Weise eine Gegenwirkung zu seinem Schmerz war. Der Professor öffnete die Tür und sah eine natürliche Zögernheit unter uns aus verschiedenen Gründen; er löste das Problem, indem er selbst als erster hineinging. Wir anderen folgten, und er schloss die Tür. Er zündete dann eine dunkle Laterne an und zeigte auf den Sarg. Arthur trat zögernd vor; Van Helsing sagte zu mir: "Du warst gestern mit mir hier. War der Körper von Miss Lucy in diesem Sarg?" "Ja, war er." Der Professor wandte sich an den Rest und sagte: "Ihr hört es; und dennoch gibt es niemanden, der nicht mit mir daran glaubt." Er nahm seinen Schraubenzieher und nahm wieder den Deckel des Sargs ab. Arthur sah zu, sehr blass, aber schweigend; als der Deckel entfernt wurde, trat er vor. Offensichtlich wusste er nicht, dass es einen Bleisarg gab oder zumindest nicht daran gedacht hatte. Als er den Riss im Blei sah, schoss ihm für einen Moment Blut in das Gesicht, aber es wich genauso schnell wieder zurück, so dass er immer noch schrecklich blass war; er schwieg immer noch. Van Helsing drückte den Bleirand zurück, und wir alle schauten hinein und wichen zurück. Der Sarg war leer! Für mehrere Minuten sprach niemand ein Wort. Die Stille wurde von Quincey Morris gebrochen: "Professor, für Sie habe ich gebürgt. Ihr Wort ist alles, was ich will. Normalerweise würde ich so etwas nicht fragen - ich würde Sie nicht so entehren, um Zweifel zu implizieren; aber das ist ein Mysterium, das über jegliche Ehre oder Schande hinausgeht. Sind Sie der Verantwortliche dafür?" "Ich schwöre Ihnen bei allem, was mir heilig ist, dass ich sie nicht entfernt oder angerührt habe. Was passiert ist, war folgendes: Vor zwei Nächten sind mein Freund Seward und ich hierher gekommen - mit gutem Zweck, glauben Sie mir. Ich habe diesen Sarg geöffnet, der damals versiegelt war, und wir fanden ihn, wie jetzt, leer. Wir haben dann gewartet und etwas Weißes durch die Bäume kommen sehen. Am nächsten Tag kamen wir hierher bei Tageslicht, und sie lag dort. Nicht wahr, Freund John?" "Ja." "In jener Nacht waren wir gerade noch rechtzeitig. Ein weiteres so kleines Kind fehlte, und wir fanden es, Gott sei Dank, unversehrt unter den Gräbern. Gestern kam ich noch vor dem Sonnenuntergang hierher, denn beim Sonnenuntergang können die Untoten sich bewegen. Ich wartete hier die ganze Nacht, bis die Sonne aufging, aber ich sah nichts. Es war wahrscheinlich, dass es daran lag, dass ich über die Schellen dieser Türen Knoblauch gelegt hatte, das die Untoten nicht vertragen können, und andere Dinge, vor denen sie sich scheuen. Letzte Nacht gab es keinen Auszug, also nahm ich heute vor dem Sonnenuntergang meinen Knoblauch und andere Dinge weg. Und so finden wir diesen Sarg leer. Aber seid nachsichtig mit mir. Es gibt bisher viel, was seltsam ist. Wartet mit mir draußen, unsichtbar und unhörbar, und noch viel seltsamere Dinge werden passieren. Also" - hier schloss er die Blende seiner Laterne - "nun nach draußen." Er öffnete die Tür, und wir gingen hinaus, er kam als Letzter und schloss die Tür hinter sich ab. Oh! Aber es schien frisch und rein in der Nachtluft nach dem Schrecken dieser Gruft. Wie schön war es, die Wolken vorbeirauschen zu sehen und die vorbeiziehenden Lichtstreifen des Mondes zwischen den dahinjagenden Wolken zu sehen - wie die Freuden und Leiden des Lebens eines Menschen; wie schön war es, die frische Luft zu atmen, die keinen Hauch von Tod und Verfall hatte; wie menschlich war es, das rote Leuchten am Himmel jenseits des Hügels zu sehen und in der Ferne das gedämpfte Rauschen zu hören, das das Leben einer großen Stadt kennzeichnete. Jeder von uns war auf seine eigene Weise feierlich und überwältigt. Arthur schwieg und versuchte, den Zweck und die innere Bedeutung des Ge Der Gastgeber. Ich habe es aus Amsterdam mitgebracht. Ich habe einen Nachlass." Es war eine Antwort, die den skeptischsten von uns entsetzte, und wir fühlten einzeln, dass es in Anbetracht einer so ernsthaften Absicht wie der des Professors, einer Absicht, die die für ihn heiligsten Dinge benutzen konnte, unmöglich war, Misstrauen zu hegen. In respektvollem Schweigen nahmen wir unsere Plätze ein, die uns in der Nähe des Grabes zugewiesen wurden, aber vor den Blicken derer, die sich näherten, verborgen waren. Ich hatte Mitleid mit den anderen, besonders mit Arthur. Ich selbst hatte durch meine früheren Besuche Horror erfahren, der da lauerte; und doch, ich, der bis vor einer Stunde die Beweise abgelehnt hatte, spürte, wie mein Herz in mir versank. Gräber hatten noch nie so schrecklich weiß ausgesehen; Zypressen oder Eiben oder Wacholder hatten noch nie so das Embodiment von Bestattungstrauer dargestellt; Bäume oder Gras hatten noch nie so ominös gewogen oder geraschelt; Zweige hatten noch nie so mysteriös geknarrt; und noch nie hatte das ferne Heulen der Hunde so eine traurige Ahnung durch die Nacht geschickt. Es folgte eine lange Phase des Schweigens, eine große, schmerzhafte Leere, und dann hörten wir vom Professor ein scharfes "S-s-s-s!" Er deutete; und weit unten in der Allee der Eiben sahen wir eine weiße Gestalt auftauchen - eine verschwommene weiße Gestalt, die etwas Dunkles an ihrer Brust hielt. Die Gestalt blieb stehen, und in dem Moment fiel ein Strahl Mondlicht auf die Massen von treibenden Wolken und zeigte in auffallender Deutlichkeit eine dunkelhaarige Frau, gekleidet in die Leichentücher des Grabes. Wir konnten das Gesicht nicht sehen, denn es war nach unten über das, was wir als ein blondes Kind sahen, gebeugt. Es gab eine Pause und einen scharfen kleinen Schrei, wie ihn ein Kind im Schlaf gibt oder ein Hund, wenn er vor dem Feuer liegt und träumt. Wir wollten gerade vorgehen, aber die warnende Hand des Professors, als er hinter einem Wacholderbaum stand, hielt uns zurück; und dann, als wir schauten, bewegte sich die weiße Gestalt wieder vorwärts. Sie war jetzt nahe genug, dass wir deutlich sehen konnten, und das Mondlicht hielt noch an. Mein eigenes Herz wurde eiskalt, und ich konnte das Keuchen von Arthur hören, als wir die Gesichtszüge von Lucy Westenra erkannten. Lucy Westenra, aber doch wie verändert. Die Sanftheit wurde zu adamanter, herzloser Grausamkeit, und die Reinheit zu wollüstiger Zügellosigkeit. Van Helsing trat vor, und gehorsam seinem Wink gingen auch wir alle voran; die vier von uns reihten sich vor der Tür des Grabes auf. Van Helsing hob seine Laterne und zog den Schieber zurück; im konzentrierten Licht, das auf Lucys Gesicht fiel, konnten wir sehen, dass die Lippen mit frischem Blut rot waren und dass der Strom über ihr Kinn getropft und die Reinheit ihrer Leinen-Todeskutte befleckt hatte. Wir schauderten vor Horror. Ich konnte am zitternden Licht sehen, dass selbst Van Helsings eisernes Nervensystem versagte. Arthur stand neben mir, und wenn ich seinen Arm nicht ergriffen und ihn gestützt hätte, wäre er hingefallen. Als Lucy - ich nenne das Ding, das vor uns war, Lucy, weil es ihre Gestalt trug - uns sah, wich sie mit einem wütenden Knurren zurück, wie es eine Katze gibt, wenn sie unerwartet erwischt wird; dann glitten ihre Augen über uns. Lucys Augen in Form und Farbe; aber Lucys Augen unrein und voller Höllenfeuer, anstatt der reinen, sanften Erbsen, die wir kannten. In diesem Moment verwandelte sich der Rest meiner Liebe in Hass und Abscheu; wenn sie damals getötet werden musste, hätte ich es mit wilder Freude getan. Als sie schaute, leuchteten ihre Augen vor heillosem Licht, und ihr Gesicht wurde von einem wollüstigen Lächeln umspielt. Oh Gott, wie ließ es mich erschaudern, es zu sehen! Mit einer nachlässigen Bewegung warf sie das Kind, das sie bisher fest an ihrer Brust gehalten hatte, gleichgültig wie ein Teufel auf den Boden und knurrte darüber, wie ein Hund über einen Knochen knurrt. Das Kind gab einen scharfen Schrei und blieb dort stöhnend liegen. Es lag eine Kaltblütigkeit in der Tat, die Arthur einen Seufzer entlockte; als sie sich ihm mit ausgestreckten Armen und einem wollüstigen Lächeln näherte, wich er zurück und versteckte sein Gesicht in seinen Händen. Sie kam jedoch immer noch näher und sagte mit einer trägen, wollüstigen Grazie: "Komm zu mir, Arthur. Lass diese anderen hier und komm zu mir. Meine Arme hungern nach dir. Komm, und wir können zusammen ruhen. Komm, mein Ehemann, komm!" Es war etwas teuflisch Süßes in ihrer Stimme - etwas von dem Klingen von Glas, wenn man es schlägt -, das selbst uns in den Ohren klang, die die Worte an einen anderen gerichtet hörten. Was Arthur betraf, schien er wie verzaubert zu sein; er zog seine Hände von seinem Gesicht und öffnete weit seine Arme. Sie sprang danach, als Van Helsing vorstürzte und sein kleines goldenes Kruzifix zwischen sie hielt. Sie wich zurück und mit einem plötzlich entstellten Gesicht, voller Wut, stürmte sie an ihm vorbei, als würde sie in das Grab eintreten wollen. Als sie jedoch ein oder zwei Schritte von der Tür entfernt war, blieb sie stehen, als ob sie von einer unwiderstehlichen Kraft aufgehalten würde. Dann drehte sie sich um, und ihr Gesicht wurde im klaren Mondlicht und durch die Lampe gezeigt, die nun keine Zitterbewegung mehr von Van Helsings Eisennerven hatte. Nie zuvor sah ich eine derart vereitelte Bosheit auf einem Gesicht; und nie, so hoffe ich, wird jemandem Sterblichen jemals wieder eine solche angesehen werden. Die schöne Farbe wurde leichenblass, die Augen schienen Funken aus Höllenfeuer auszustrahlen, die Brauen waren gerunzelt, als wären die Falten des Fleisches die Wickel der Schlangen der Medusa, und die wunderschönen, blutbeschmierten Lippen öffneten sich zu einem offenen Quadrat, wie in den Leidensmasken der Griechen und Japaner. Wenn jemals ein Gesicht den Tod bedeutete - wenn Blicke töten könnten - sahen wir es in diesem Moment. Und so blieb sie volle halbe Minute, die sich wie eine Ewigkeit anfühlte, zwischen dem erhobenen Kreuz und dem heiligen Verschließen ihres Eintrittsweges stehen. Van Helsing brach das Schweigen, indem er Arthur fragte: "Antworte mir, oh mein Freund! Soll ich mit meiner Arbeit fortfahren?" Arthur warf sich auf die Knie und verbarg sein Gesicht in seinen Händen, als er antwortete: "Tu, wie du willst, mein Freund; tu, wie du willst. Es kann keinen Horror geben, der jemals noch schlimmer ist als dieser"; und er stöhnte im Geiste. Quincey und ich bewegten uns gleichzeitig auf ihn zu und nahmen seine Arme. Wir konnten das Klicken der sich schließenden Laterne hören, als Van Helsing sie hinunterhielt; als Van Helsing nah zu dem Grab kam, begann er, einige der heiligen Embleme, die er dort platziert hatte, aus den Ritzen zu entfernen. Als wir alleine waren und die letzten Schritte auf der Straße verstummt waren, folgten wir dem Professor schweigend und wie auf Befehl zum Grab. Er öffnete die Tür und wir betraten sie, schlossen sie hinter uns. Dann nahm er aus seiner Tasche die Laterne, die er anzündete, und auch zwei Wachskerzen, die er angezündet an anderen Särgen so platzierte, dass sie ausreichend Licht zum Arbeiten gaben. Als er den Deckel von Lucys Sarg hochhob, sahen wir alle – Arthur bebte vor Angst wie Espenlaub – und sahen, dass der Körper dort in seiner ganzen todesartigen Schönheit lag. Aber in meinem eigenen Herzen war keine Liebe, nur Abscheu gegen das widerliche Wesen, das Lucys Gestalt ohne ihre Seele angenommen hatte. Ich konnte sehen, wie sogar Arthurs Gesicht hart wurde, als er hinschaute. Schließlich sagte er zu Van Helsing: "Ist das wirklich Lucys Körper oder nur ein Dämon in ihrer Gestalt?" "Es ist ihr Körper und doch nicht. Aber wartet noch eine Weile und ihr werdet sie sehen, wie sie war und ist." Sie sah wie ein Albtraum von Lucy aus, wie sie da lag; die spitzen Zähne, der blutbefleckte, sinnliche Mund – allein der Anblick ließ einen erschaudern – das gesamte fleischliche und unspirituelle Erscheinungsbild, das einer teuflischen Verhöhnung von Lucys süßer Reinheit glich. Van Helsing fing mit seiner gewohnten Methodik an, die verschiedenen Inhalte aus seiner Tasche zu nehmen und sie bereitzulegen. Zuerst nahm er ein Löteisen und etwas Lötzinn und dann eine kleine Öllampe, die, wenn sie in einer Ecke des Grabes angezündet wurde, Gas abgab, das mit blauem Feuer heiß brannte. Dann seine Operationsmesser, die er griffbereit platzierte, und schließlich einen runden Holzpflock, etwa zweieinhalb bis drei Zoll dick und etwa drei Fuß lang. An einem Ende war er durch Hitzeeinwirkung verhärtet und zu einer feinen Spitze geschärft. Mit diesem Pflock kam ein schwerer Hammer, wie er in Haushalten im Kohlenkeller zum Zerkleinern von Klumpen verwendet wird. Für mich sind die Vorbereitungen eines Arztes für jede Art von Arbeit anregend und stärkend, aber die Wirkung dieser Dinge auf Arthur und Quincey war, dass sie sie gewissermaßen bestürzten. Sie behielten jedoch beide ihren Mut und blieben still und ruhig. Als alles bereit war, sagte Van Helsing: "Bevor wir etwas tun, lasst mich euch dies sagen: es stammt aus dem Wissen und der Erfahrung der Alten und all derer, die sich mit den Kräften der Untoten beschäftigt haben. Wenn sie zu solchen werden, kommt mit der Veränderung der Fluch der Unsterblichkeit; sie können nicht sterben, sondern müssen Zeitalter um Zeitalter weitergehen und neue Opfer hinzufügen und das Böse in der Welt vermehren. Denn alle, die vom Blutsaugen der Untoten sterben, werden selbst zu Untoten und saugen das Blut ihrer Artgenossen. Und so geht der Kreis immer weiter, wie die Wellen von einem ins Wasser geworfenen Stein. Freund Arthur, wenn du diesen Kuss erhalten hättest, von dem du weißt, bevor die arme Lucy starb, oder gestern Nacht, als du ihre Arme für sie geöffnet hast, wärst du im Laufe der Zeit, wenn du gestorben wärst, _nosferatu_ geworden, wie es in Osteuropa genannt wird, und hättest immerfort mehr von diesen Untoten gemacht, die uns so mit Horror erfüllen. Die Karriere dieser so unglücklichen lieben Dame hat gerade erst begonnen. Die Kinder, deren Blut sie saugt, sind noch nicht so sehr davon betroffen. Aber wenn sie als Untote weiterlebt, verlieren sie immer mehr ihr Blut und kommen durch ihre Macht über sie zu ihr. Und so zieht sie mit diesem so schlechten Mund ihr Blut. Aber wenn sie in Wahrheit stirbt, hört alles auf. Die winzigen Wunden an ihren Kehlen verschwinden und sie gehen zurück zu ihrem Spiel, unwissend, was gewesen ist. Aber das Glücklichste von allem ist, wenn dieser Untote zur wahren Toten gemacht wird, wird die Seele der armen Dame, die wir lieben, wieder frei sein. Statt des Bösen bei Nacht und der wachsenden Verderbtheit durch Assimilation wird sie ihren Platz bei den anderen Engeln einnehmen. Also, mein Freund, es wird eine gesegnete Hand für sie sein, die den Schlag ausführt, der sie befreit. Dazu bin ich bereit, aber gibt es keinen unter uns, der ein besseres Recht hat? Wird es keine Freude sein, daran zu denken, hier in der Stille der Nacht, wenn man nicht schläft: 'Es war meine Hand, die sie zu den Sternen geschickt hat, es war die Hand von dem, der sie am meisten liebte, die Hand, die sie selbst gewählt hätte, wenn es an ihr gewesen wäre, zu wählen?' Sagt mir, ob es einen solchen unter uns gibt?" Wir alle schauten Arthur an. Er sah auch, was wir alle sahen, die unendliche Güte, die darauf hinwies, dass seine Hand diejenige sein sollte, die Lucy uns als heilige, nicht als unheilige Erinnerung zurückbringen würde; er trat vor und sagte tapfer, obwohl seine Hand zitterte und sein Gesicht so bleich wie Schnee war: "Mein wahrer Freund, aus tiefstem Herzen danke ich dir. Sag mir, was ich tun soll, und ich werde nicht zögern!" Van Helsing legte eine Hand auf seine Schulter und sagte: "Tapferer Junge! Ein Augenblick des Mutes und es ist vollbracht. Dieser Pflock muss durch sie getrieben werden. Es wird eine furchtbare Prüfung sein - lasst euch davon nicht täuschen - aber es wird nur kurze Zeit dauern und dann werdet ihr euch mehr freuen, als der Schmerz groß war. Von diesem düsteren Grab werdet ihr auftauchen, als würdet ihr auf Luft gehen. Aber ihr müsst nicht schwanken, sobald ihr einmal begonnen habt. Denkt nur daran, dass wir, eure wahren Freunde, bei euch sind und dass wir die ganze Zeit für euch beten." "Los geht's", sagte Arthur heiser. "Sagt mir, was ich tun soll." "Nimm diesen Pflock in deine linke Hand, bereit, die Spitze über das Herz zu legen, und den Hammer in deine rechte. Wenn wir unser Gebet für die Toten beginnen - ich werde es lesen, ich habe hier das Buch, und die anderen werden folgen - schlag im Namen Gottes zu, damit alles gut werde bei den Toten, die wir lieben und damit die Untoten vergehen." Arthur nahm den Pflock und den Hammer und sobald sein Geist auf die Tat eingestellt war, zitterten seine Hände nie mehr, noch bebten sie überhaupt. Van Helsing öffnete sein Messbuch und begann zu lesen, und Quincey und ich folgten ihm so gut wie wir konnten. Arthur legte die Spitze über das Herz und als ich hinblickte, konnte ich ihre Delle im weißen Fleisch sehen. Dann schlug er mit aller Kraft zu. Das Ding im Sarg wand sich und ein abscheulicher, blutgerinnender Schrei kam aus den geöffneten roten Lippen. Der Körper zuckte und bebte und wand sich in wilden Verrenkungen; die scharfen weißen Zähne schlugen zusammen, bis die Lippen aufgeschnitten waren und der Mund mit einem blutroten Schaum bedeckt war. Aber Arthur wankte nie. Er sah wie eine Gestalt von Thor aus, als sein unerschütterlicher Arm sich erhob und fiel und den gnädigen Pflock immer tiefer trieb, während das Blut aus dem durchbohrten Herzen aufstieg und spritz "Und jetzt, Arthur mein Freund, lieber Junge, bin ich nicht vergeben?" Die Reaktion auf die schreckliche Anspannung kam, als er dem alten Mann die Hand gab in seiner und hob sie zu seinen Lippen, drückte sie und sagte: - "Vergeben! Gott segne Sie, dass Sie meiner Liebsten ihre Seele wiedergegeben haben, und mir Frieden schenkten." Er legte seine Hände auf die Schulter des Professors und legte seinen Kopf auf seine Brust und weinte eine Weile still, während wir reglos dastanden. Als er den Kopf hob, sagte Van Helsing zu ihm: - "Und jetzt, mein Kind, kannst du sie küssen. Küss ihre toten Lippen, wenn du willst, so wie sie es sich gewünscht hätte, wenn sie wählen könnte. Denn sie ist nicht länger ein grinsender Teufel - nicht mehr für alle Ewigkeit ein abscheuliches Wesen. Sie ist nicht mehr der untote Teufel. Sie ist Gottes wahre Tote, deren Seele bei ihm ist!" Arthur neigte sich und küsste sie, und dann schickten wir ihn und Quincey aus der Gruft heraus; der Professor und ich sägten die Spitze des Pfahls ab und ließen den Spitzenpunkt im Körper. Dann trennten wir den Kopf ab und füllten den Mund mit Knoblauch. Wir löten den bleiernen Sarg, schraubten den Sargdeckel auf und nahmen unsere Habseligkeiten zusammen und gingen weg. Als der Professor die Tür abschloss, gab er den Schlüssel an Arthur. Draußen war die Luft süß, die Sonne schien und die Vögel sangen, und es schien, als wäre die ganze Natur auf eine andere Tonhöhe gestimmt. Es gab Freude und Fröhlichkeit und Frieden überall, denn wir waren selbst aus einem bestimmten Grund zur Ruhe gekommen und waren froh, wenn auch mit einer gedämpften Freude. Bevor wir uns entfernten, sagte Van Helsing: - "Nun, meine Freunde, ein Schritt unserer Arbeit ist getan, einer der quälendsten für uns selbst. Aber es bleibt eine größere Aufgabe: den Urheber all unserer Trauer zu finden und ihn auszulöschen. Ich habe Hinweise, denen wir folgen können, aber es ist eine lange und schwierige Aufgabe, und es gibt Gefahr und Schmerz. Werden Sie mir nicht alle helfen? Wir haben gelernt zu glauben, alle von uns, nicht wahr? Und seitdem sehen wir nicht unsere Pflicht? Ja! Und versprechen wir nicht, bis zum bitteren Ende weiterzumachen?" Jeder von uns reichte ihm der Reihe nach die Hand, und das Versprechen wurde gegeben. Dann sagte der Professor, als wir uns entfernten: - "In zwei Nächten werdet ihr euch mit mir treffen und um sieben Uhr mit Freund John gemeinsam zu Abend essen. Ich werde zwei andere bitten, zwei, die ihr noch nicht kennt; und ich werde bereit sein, euch all unsere Arbeit zu zeigen und unsere Pläne zu enthüllen. Freund John, du kommst mit mir nach Hause, denn ich habe viel zu beraten und du kannst mir helfen. Heute Nacht fahre ich nach Amsterdam, aber ich werde morgen Nacht zurück sein. Und dann beginnt unsere große Suche. Aber zuerst habe ich viel zu sagen, damit ihr wisst, was zu tun und zu fürchten ist. Dann soll unser Versprechen erneuert werden; denn uns steht eine schreckliche Aufgabe bevor, und sobald unsere Füße auf dem Pflug sind, dürfen wir nicht zurückweichen." Kannst du eine passende 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.

Mina beschließt, das Tagebuch abzuschreiben, das Jonathan im Schloss Dracula in Transsylvanien geführt hat. Am 24. September erhält sie einen Brief von Dr. Van Helsing, in dem er sie fragt, ob er mit ihr über Lucys Krankheit sprechen darf. Mina stimmt zu, ihn zu treffen und am selben Tag trifft Van Helsing ein. Dies ist das erste Mal, dass Mina Van Helsing trifft, und sie gibt ihm Jonathans Tagebuch, das sie fertig abgeschrieben hat. Später an diesem Tag erhält Mina einen Brief von Van Helsing, in dem er einen intensiven Wunsch äußert, Jonathan zu treffen. Mina schlägt vor, dass Van Helsing am nächsten Tag zum Frühstück kommt. Zum ersten Mal seit mehreren Monaten beginnt Jonathan Harker wieder ein Tagebuch. In dem neuen Tagebuch schreibt er, dass er sicher ist, dass Graf Dracula London erreicht hat; tatsächlich war es der Graf, den er im Hyde Park gesehen hat. An diesem Tag trifft Jonathan Van Helsing und die beiden besprechen Jonathans Reise nach Transsylvanien. Kurz bevor Van Helsing geht, fällt ihm ein Artikel in der lokalen Zeitung auf und er wird sichtlich erschüttert. Dr. Seward beginnt ebenfalls wieder ein Tagebuch zu führen, obwohl er zuvor beschlossen hatte, es nie wieder zu tun. In seinem Tagebuch vermerkt Seward, dass Renfield wieder der Alte ist - das heißt, Renfield zählt wieder Fliegen und Spinnen. Seward bemerkt, dass es Arthur gut zu gehen scheint und dass Quincey Morris bei ihm ist. Tatsächlich zeigt Van Helsing ihm an diesem Tag den Artikel in der Zeitung über die "Bloofer Lady". Van Helsing weist darauf hin, dass die Verletzungen der Kinder ähnlich sind wie Lucys Halsverletzung; daher haben die Vorfälle etwas gemeinsam. Seward ist skeptisch, dass es einen Zusammenhang zwischen den Verletzungen gibt, aber Van Helsing schilt ihn und fragt ihn: "Glaubst du nicht, dass es Dinge gibt, die du nicht verstehen kannst und dennoch existieren; dass manche Leute Dinge sehen, die andere nicht sehen können?" Van Helsing drängt Seward weiterhin, an das Übernatürliche zu glauben, an Dinge, an die er bisher nicht glaubte. Verzweifelt gesteht Van Helsing schließlich Seward, dass die Spuren an den Kindern "von Miss Lucy stammen". Eine Weile lang muss Seward kämpfen, um seinen Ärger gegen Van Helsing zu beherrschen, und er hinterfragt den Verstand des guten Doktors. Van Helsing weist darauf hin, dass er weiß, wie schwer es ist, etwas Schreckliches zu glauben, besonders über jemanden, den man so liebt wie Lucy, aber er bietet an, seine Anklage noch in dieser Nacht zu beweisen. Die beiden Männer haben einen gemeinsamen Bekannten, der für eines der Kinder zuständig ist, das von der "Bloofer Lady" verletzt wurde. Sie planen, das Kind zu besuchen und dann Lucys Grab aufzusuchen. Das Kind ist wach, als Van Helsing und Seward eintreffen, und Dr. Vincent entfernt die Verbände um den Hals des Kindes, wodurch die Punktierungen sichtbar werden, die denen gleichen, die Lucys Hals aufweiste. Dr. Vincent schreibt die Spuren einem Tier zu, vielleicht einer Fledermaus. Als sie das Krankenhaus verlassen, ist es bereits dunkel und sie gehen sofort zum Friedhof und finden das Westenra-Grab. Sie betreten das Grab und zünden eine Kerze an. Zu Sewards Entsetzen beginnt Van Helsing den Sarg zu öffnen. Seward erwartet einen Gasausbruch von der eine Woche alten Leiche, aber als der Sarg schließlich geöffnet wird, stellen sie fest, dass er leer ist. Seward ist trotzdem nicht überzeugt; er glaubt, dass ein Leichendieb die Leiche gestohlen haben könnte. Die beiden verlassen das Grab, und Van Helsing und Seward halten Wache auf dem Friedhof in der Nähe des Westenra-Grabes. Nach einigen Stunden sieht Seward "etwas wie eine weiße Spur" und gleichzeitig bemerkt er etwas in der Nähe von Van Helsing. Als er sich Van Helsing nähert, entdeckt er, dass Van Helsing ein kleines Kind in den Armen hält. Doch auch das reicht Seward nicht als Beweis. Sie bringen das Kind dorthin, wo ein Polizist es sicher findet, und machen sich dann auf den Heimweg mit der Vereinbarung, sich am nächsten Tag um die Mittagszeit zu treffen. Am nächsten Tag kehren sie zum Friedhof zurück und öffnen so bald wie möglich erneut das Westenra-Grab und den Sarg. Zu Sewards Schock und Entsetzen liegt dort die schöne Lucy, "strahlend schöner als je zuvor". Dennoch ist Seward nicht überzeugt; er fragt sich erneut, ob jemand sie nicht dort platziert haben könnte, aber er kann nicht verstehen, warum sie so schön aussieht, nachdem sie eine ganze Woche tot war. Van Helsing teilt Seward dann mit, dass etwas Schreckliches getan werden muss: Sie müssen Lucys Kopf abschneiden, ihren Mund mit Knoblauch füllen und einen Pflock durch ihr Herz treiben. Doch bevor er es tut, hat Van Helsing Bedenken. Er fühlt, dass er die Tat nicht ausführen kann, ohne dass Arthur und Quincey davon wissen, da sie beide sie geliebt und ihr Blut gespendet haben. In dieser Nacht informiert Van Helsing Seward, dass er das Westenra-Grab überwachen möchte und versuchen will, zu verhindern, dass Lucy herumschleicht, indem er die Tür des Grabes mit Knoblauch und einem Kruzifix blockiert. Er hinterlässt Seward eine Anleitung, derer er folgen soll, falls ihm etwas zustößt. In der nächsten Nacht kommen Arthur und Quincey in Van Helsings Zimmer. Nachdem sie beide von Van Helsings guten Absichten überzeugt und seines Vertrauens würdig sind, informiert Van Helsing sie über die Dinge, die er vorhat zu tun. Zuerst wird er den Sarg öffnen, dann wird er den notwendigen "Dienst" durchführen. Arthur wird jedoch keiner Verstümmelung von Lucys Körper zustimmen. Van Helsing fleht, dass er diese Dinge für Lucys Wohl tun muss, damit ihre Seele in Frieden ruhen kann. Ein paar Stunden später gehen die vier Männer zum Friedhof. Im Grab wird der Sargdeckel entfernt, und alle sehen, dass der Sarg leer ist. Van Helsing bittet Seward um Bestätigung, dass der Körper gestern im Sarg war; Seward stimmt natürlich mit Van Helsing überein. Van Helsing beginnt dann eine aufwendige Zeremonie: Er nimmt aus seiner Tasche eine "dünne, waffelartige Keks" heraus und zerbröselt sie zu einem feinen Pulver; dann mischt er die Krümel mit einer Teigmasse und beginnt, das Material in die Spalten zwischen dem Türpfosten und der Mausoleumstür zu rollen. Van Helsing informiert sie, dass er das Grab versiegelt, damit die "Untoten" nicht eintreten können. Er teilt ihnen mit, dass die Waffel "die Hostie" war, die er aus Amsterdam mitgebracht hat. Die vier Männer verstecken sich unter einigen Bäumen in der Nähe des Grabes und fangen an zu warten. Bald sehen die Männer im Mondlicht eine geisterhafte weiße Gestalt durch den Friedhof schweben. Als sie sich ihnen nähert, wird allzu offensichtlich, dass das Geschöpf tatsächlich Lucy Westenra ist. Gemäß Sewards Tagebucheintrag wurde ihre "Sanftheit zu Adamant . . . und die Reinheit zu wollüstigem Verlangen." Die vier Männer umgeben sie vor dem Grab. Lucys Lippen sind mit frischem Blut bedeckt, und ihr Totenhemd ist mit Blut befleckt. Als sie feststellt, dass sie umzingelt ist, reagiert Lucy wie ein bedrängtes Tier. Das Kind, das sie hält, wird auf den Boden geworfen, und sie bewegt sich auf Arthur zu und sagt: "Komm, mein Ehemann, komm." Arthurs Liebe verwandelt sich in Hass und Ekel, aber er ist auch vor Angst erstarrt. Gerade als Lucy ihn angreifen will, wehrt Van Helsing sie mit einem Kruzifix ab. Sie stürmt auf das Grab zu, wird aber durch die Hostie, die Van Helsing zuvor um die Tür platziert hat, am Eintreten gehindert. Als Van Helsing Arthur fragt, ob er seinen Auftrag ausführen soll, antwortet Arthur: "Tue, was du willst . . . Es wird nie wieder einen Horror geben." Als er auf das Grab zugeht, entfernt Van Helsing den Siegel um die Tür, und sofort geht der geisterhafte Körper durch die Spalten und verschwindet im Inneren. Nachdem sie das gesehen haben, kehren die Männer nach Hause zurück, um eine Nacht zu ruhen. In der nächsten Nacht kehren die vier Männer zum Westenra-Grab zurück und führen die notwendigen Zeremonien durch, die den Vampir zerstören. Arthur selbst muss den Pflock durch das Herz seiner Verlobten treiben. Be

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: "Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!" Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human. During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody. As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet. It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen's shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen. At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. "That's good, that'll do," said Passepartout to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired. Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master's shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits. Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, "This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don't mind serving a machine." 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.

Passepartout hat seinen Wohnsitz bei Phileas Fogg genommen und ist von dem, was er sieht, irgendwie beeindruckt und irritiert zugleich. Passepartout beschreibt Phileas Fogg als etwa vierzig Jahre alt, attraktiv, groß und gut gebaut. Er scheint lieber zu handeln als zu reden und legt großen Wert auf ein einwandfreies Erscheinungsbild sowie eine schicke Garderobe. Passepartout vergleicht Fogg mit einer der Wachsfiguren bei Madame Tussaud's. Er ist ruhig und praktisch veranlagt, und Passepartout hält seinen Herrn für "typisch britisch". Passepartout ist ein Diener, aber er hat ein Gentleman-Herz und glaubt, dass er Fogg respektieren kann, auch wenn sein Herr einige wirklich seltsame Eigenheiten hat. Passepartout erfährt, dass alles im Fogg-Haus nach einem straffen Zeitplan abläuft, und er mag die Sauberkeit und Routine. Er denkt, dass er und Fogg gut miteinander auskommen werden.

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: The next day it was agreed that Alan should fend for himself till sunset; but as soon as it began to grow dark, he should lie in the fields by the roadside near to Newhalls, and stir for naught until he heard me whistling. At first I proposed I should give him for a signal the "Bonnie House of Airlie," which was a favourite of mine; but he objected that as the piece was very commonly known, any ploughman might whistle it by accident; and taught me instead a little fragment of a Highland air, which has run in my head from that day to this, and will likely run in my head when I lie dying. Every time it comes to me, it takes me off to that last day of my uncertainty, with Alan sitting up in the bottom of the den, whistling and beating the measure with a finger, and the grey of the dawn coming on his face. I was in the long street of Queensferry before the sun was up. It was a fairly built burgh, the houses of good stone, many slated; the town-hall not so fine, I thought, as that of Peebles, nor yet the street so noble; but take it altogether, it put me to shame for my foul tatters. As the morning went on, and the fires began to be kindled, and the windows to open, and the people to appear out of the houses, my concern and despondency grew ever the blacker. I saw now that I had no grounds to stand upon; and no clear proof of my rights, nor so much as of my own identity. If it was all a bubble, I was indeed sorely cheated and left in a sore pass. Even if things were as I conceived, it would in all likelihood take time to establish my contentions; and what time had I to spare with less than three shillings in my pocket, and a condemned, hunted man upon my hands to ship out of the country? Truly, if my hope broke with me, it might come to the gallows yet for both of us. And as I continued to walk up and down, and saw people looking askance at me upon the street or out of windows, and nudging or speaking one to another with smiles, I began to take a fresh apprehension: that it might be no easy matter even to come to speech of the lawyer, far less to convince him of my story. For the life of me I could not muster up the courage to address any of these reputable burghers; I thought shame even to speak with them in such a pickle of rags and dirt; and if I had asked for the house of such a man as Mr. Rankeillor, I suppose they would have burst out laughing in my face. So I went up and down, and through the street, and down to the harbour-side, like a dog that has lost its master, with a strange gnawing in my inwards, and every now and then a movement of despair. It grew to be high day at last, perhaps nine in the forenoon; and I was worn with these wanderings, and chanced to have stopped in front of a very good house on the landward side, a house with beautiful, clear glass windows, flowering knots upon the sills, the walls new-harled* and a chase-dog sitting yawning on the step like one that was at home. Well, I was even envying this dumb brute, when the door fell open and there issued forth a shrewd, ruddy, kindly, consequential man in a well-powdered wig and spectacles. I was in such a plight that no one set eyes on me once, but he looked at me again; and this gentleman, as it proved, was so much struck with my poor appearance that he came straight up to me and asked me what I did. * Newly rough-cast. I told him I was come to the Queensferry on business, and taking heart of grace, asked him to direct me to the house of Mr. Rankeillor. "Why," said he, "that is his house that I have just come out of; and for a rather singular chance, I am that very man." "Then, sir," said I, "I have to beg the favour of an interview." "I do not know your name," said he, "nor yet your face." "My name is David Balfour," said I. "David Balfour?" he repeated, in rather a high tone, like one surprised. "And where have you come from, Mr. David Balfour?" he asked, looking me pretty drily in the face. "I have come from a great many strange places, sir," said I; "but I think it would be as well to tell you where and how in a more private manner." He seemed to muse awhile, holding his lip in his hand, and looking now at me and now upon the causeway of the street. "Yes," says he, "that will be the best, no doubt." And he led me back with him into his house, cried out to some one whom I could not see that he would be engaged all morning, and brought me into a little dusty chamber full of books and documents. Here he sate down, and bade me be seated; though I thought he looked a little ruefully from his clean chair to my muddy rags. "And now," says he, "if you have any business, pray be brief and come swiftly to the point. Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo--do you understand that?" says he, with a keen look. "I will even do as Horace says, sir," I answered, smiling, "and carry you in medias res." He nodded as if he was well pleased, and indeed his scrap of Latin had been set to test me. For all that, and though I was somewhat encouraged, the blood came in my face when I added: "I have reason to believe myself some rights on the estate of Shaws." He got a paper book out of a drawer and set it before him open. "Well?" said he. But I had shot my bolt and sat speechless. "Come, come, Mr. Balfour," said he, "you must continue. Where were you born?" "In Essendean, sir," said I, "the year 1733, the 12th of March." He seemed to follow this statement in his paper book; but what that meant I knew not. "Your father and mother?" said he. "My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster of that place," said I, "and my mother Grace Pitarrow; I think her people were from Angus." "Have you any papers proving your identity?" asked Mr. Rankeillor. "No, sir," said I, "but they are in the hands of Mr. Campbell, the minister, and could be readily produced. Mr. Campbell, too, would give me his word; and for that matter, I do not think my uncle would deny me." "Meaning Mr. Ebenezer Balfour?" says he. "The same," said I. "Whom you have seen?" he asked. "By whom I was received into his own house," I answered. "Did you ever meet a man of the name of Hoseason?" asked Mr. Rankeillor. "I did so, sir, for my sins," said I; "for it was by his means and the procurement of my uncle, that I was kidnapped within sight of this town, carried to sea, suffered shipwreck and a hundred other hardships, and stand before you to-day in this poor accoutrement." "You say you were shipwrecked," said Rankeillor; "where was that?" "Off the south end of the Isle of Mull," said I. "The name of the isle on which I was cast up is the Island Earraid." "Ah!" says he, smiling, "you are deeper than me in the geography. But so far, I may tell you, this agrees pretty exactly with other informations that I hold. But you say you were kidnapped; in what sense?" "In the plain meaning of the word, sir," said I. "I was on my way to your house, when I was trepanned on board the brig, cruelly struck down, thrown below, and knew no more of anything till we were far at sea. I was destined for the plantations; a fate that, in God's providence, I have escaped." "The brig was lost on June the 27th," says he, looking in his book, "and we are now at August the 24th. Here is a considerable hiatus, Mr. Balfour, of near upon two months. It has already caused a vast amount of trouble to your friends; and I own I shall not be very well contented until it is set right." "Indeed, sir," said I, "these months are very easily filled up; but yet before I told my story, I would be glad to know that I was talking to a friend." "This is to argue in a circle," said the lawyer. "I cannot be convinced till I have heard you. I cannot be your friend till I am properly informed. If you were more trustful, it would better befit your time of life. And you know, Mr. Balfour, we have a proverb in the country that evil-doers are aye evil-dreaders." "You are not to forget, sir," said I, "that I have already suffered by my trustfulness; and was shipped off to be a slave by the very man that (if I rightly understand) is your employer?" All this while I had been gaining ground with Mr. Rankeillor, and in proportion as I gained ground, gaining confidence. But at this sally, which I made with something of a smile myself, he fairly laughed aloud. "No, no," said he, "it is not so bad as that. Fui, non sum. I was indeed your uncle's man of business; but while you (imberbis juvenis custode remoto) were gallivanting in the west, a good deal of water has run under the bridges; and if your ears did not sing, it was not for lack of being talked about. On the very day of your sea disaster, Mr. Campbell stalked into my office, demanding you from all the winds. I had never heard of your existence; but I had known your father; and from matters in my competence (to be touched upon hereafter) I was disposed to fear the worst. Mr. Ebenezer admitted having seen you; declared (what seemed improbable) that he had given you considerable sums; and that you had started for the continent of Europe, intending to fulfil your education, which was probable and praiseworthy. Interrogated how you had come to send no word to Mr. Campbell, he deponed that you had expressed a great desire to break with your past life. Further interrogated where you now were, protested ignorance, but believed you were in Leyden. That is a close sum of his replies. I am not exactly sure that any one believed him," continued Mr. Rankeillor with a smile; "and in particular he so much disrelished me expressions of mine that (in a word) he showed me to the door. We were then at a full stand; for whatever shrewd suspicions we might entertain, we had no shadow of probation. In the very article, comes Captain Hoseason with the story of your drowning; whereupon all fell through; with no consequences but concern to Mr. Campbell, injury to my pocket, and another blot upon your uncle's character, which could very ill afford it. And now, Mr. Balfour," said he, "you understand the whole process of these matters, and can judge for yourself to what extent I may be trusted." Indeed he was more pedantic than I can represent him, and placed more scraps of Latin in his speech; but it was all uttered with a fine geniality of eye and manner which went far to conquer my distrust. Moreover, I could see he now treated me as if I was myself beyond a doubt; so that first point of my identity seemed fully granted. "Sir," said I, "if I tell you my story, I must commit a friend's life to your discretion. Pass me your word it shall be sacred; and for what touches myself, I will ask no better guarantee than just your face." He passed me his word very seriously. "But," said he, "these are rather alarming prolocutions; and if there are in your story any little jostles to the law, I would beg you to bear in mind that I am a lawyer, and pass lightly." Thereupon I told him my story from the first, he listening with his spectacles thrust up and his eyes closed, so that I sometimes feared he was asleep. But no such matter! he heard every word (as I found afterward) with such quickness of hearing and precision of memory as often surprised me. Even strange outlandish Gaelic names, heard for that time only, he remembered and would remind me of, years after. Yet when I called Alan Breck in full, we had an odd scene. The name of Alan had of course rung through Scotland, with the news of the Appin murder and the offer of the reward; and it had no sooner escaped me than the lawyer moved in his seat and opened his eyes. "I would name no unnecessary names, Mr. Balfour," said he; "above all of Highlanders, many of whom are obnoxious to the law." "Well, it might have been better not," said I, "but since I have let it slip, I may as well continue." "Not at all," said Mr. Rankeillor. "I am somewhat dull of hearing, as you may have remarked; and I am far from sure I caught the name exactly. We will call your friend, if you please, Mr. Thomson--that there may be no reflections. And in future, I would take some such way with any Highlander that you may have to mention--dead or alive." By this, I saw he must have heard the name all too clearly, and had already guessed I might be coming to the murder. If he chose to play this part of ignorance, it was no matter of mine; so I smiled, said it was no very Highland-sounding name, and consented. Through all the rest of my story Alan was Mr. Thomson; which amused me the more, as it was a piece of policy after his own heart. James Stewart, in like manner, was mentioned under the style of Mr. Thomson's kinsman; Colin Campbell passed as a Mr. Glen; and to Cluny, when I came to that part of my tale, I gave the name of "Mr. Jameson, a Highland chief." It was truly the most open farce, and I wondered that the lawyer should care to keep it up; but, after all, it was quite in the taste of that age, when there were two parties in the state, and quiet persons, with no very high opinions of their own, sought out every cranny to avoid offence to either. "Well, well," said the lawyer, when I had quite done, "this is a great epic, a great Odyssey of yours. You must tell it, sir, in a sound Latinity when your scholarship is riper; or in English if you please, though for my part I prefer the stronger tongue. You have rolled much; quae regio in terris--what parish in Scotland (to make a homely translation) has not been filled with your wanderings? You have shown, besides, a singular aptitude for getting into false positions; and, yes, upon the whole, for behaving well in them. This Mr. Thomson seems to me a gentleman of some choice qualities, though perhaps a trifle bloody-minded. It would please me none the worse, if (with all his merits) he were soused in the North Sea, for the man, Mr. David, is a sore embarrassment. But you are doubtless quite right to adhere to him; indubitably, he adhered to you. It comes--we may say--he was your true companion; nor less paribus curis vestigia figit, for I dare say you would both take an orra thought upon the gallows. Well, well, these days are fortunately by; and I think (speaking humanly) that you are near the end of your troubles." As he thus moralised on my adventures, he looked upon me with so much humour and benignity that I could scarce contain my satisfaction. I had been so long wandering with lawless people, and making my bed upon the hills and under the bare sky, that to sit once more in a clean, covered house, and to talk amicably with a gentleman in broadcloth, seemed mighty elevations. Even as I thought so, my eye fell on my unseemly tatters, and I was once more plunged in confusion. But the lawyer saw and understood me. He rose, called over the stair to lay another plate, for Mr. Balfour would stay to dinner, and led me into a bedroom in the upper part of the house. Here he set before me water and soap, and a comb; and laid out some clothes that belonged to his son; and here, with another apposite tag, he left me to my toilet. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Am nächsten Tag beschlossen sie, dass Alan sich tagsüber alleine durchschlagen sollte und nachts in den Feldern warten würde, bis David ein bestimmtes Lied pfiff. David machte sich dann auf die Suche nach Mr. Rankeillor. Jedes Mal, wenn er in der Nähe war und nach dem Weg fragen wollte, war er jedoch zu sehr wegen seiner Kleidung verlegen und konnte es nicht tun. Er stellte auch fest, dass er keinen Beweis für seine Identität oder seine Reisen hatte und fragte sich, ob Rankeillor überhaupt zulassen würde, dass er spricht. Doch wenn er keine Hilfe fand, würden er und Alan wahrscheinlich gehängt werden. David irrte vor einem großen Haus herum, auf dem ein Hund saß. Er beneidete den Hund, der faul und sorglos war. Während David dastand und starrte, verließ ein Mann das Haus und kam auf ihn zu. David sammelte seine Nerven und fragte den Mann nach dem Weg zu Mr. Rankeillor. Wie es der Zufall wollte, war der Mann Mr. Rankeillor. David bat um ein Gespräch und Rankeillor fragte nach seinem Namen. Nachdem er Davids Namen gehört hatte, schaute Rankeillor merkwürdig auf David, also erklärte David, dass er an vielen Orten gewesen sei, über die es am besten sei, in Vertraulichkeit zu sprechen. Rankeillor überlegte es sich und ließ David dann in sein Haus. Drinnen bat Rankeillor David, seine Geschichte kurz zu fassen, und warf eine lateinische Phrase ein, um ihn zu testen. Er war zufrieden, dass David ihn verstand. David begann damit zu erklären, dass er der rechtmäßige Erbe der Shaws sei. Er hatte Schwierigkeiten, fortzufahren, also stellte Rankeillor ihm Fragen über seine Erziehung und die Treffen mit seinem Onkel Ebenezer und Kapitän Hoseason. Rankeillor stellte dann fest, dass Davids Geschichte mit den Details übereinstimmte, die er kannte. Bevor er mehr erzählte, fragte David, ob er Rankeillor vertrauen könne, der antwortete, dass er es nicht sagen könne, bis er die Geschichte gehört habe. Allerdings fuhr er fort zu erklären, dass Mr. Campbell Rankeillor besucht hatte, um nach David zu suchen. Dies führte dazu, dass Rankeillor Ebenezer besuchte, der zugab, David gesehen zu haben, aber behauptete, ihm eine große Summe Geld gegeben zu haben. Ebenezer behauptete dann, dass David nach Europa gegangen sei, um dort sein Studium fortzusetzen. Rankeillor und Campbell zweifelten an der Geschichte, hatten jedoch keinen Beweis, bis Hoseason mit Berichten von Davids Ertrinken zurückkehrte. Rankeillor brach die Verbindung zu Ebenezer ab und Campbell wurde sehr besorgt. An diesem Punkt fuhr David mit dem Rest seiner Geschichte fort und bat Rankeillor um sein Wort, dass er schweigen würde. Rankeillor stimmte unter der Bedingung zu, nannte jedoch beim Namen Alan, dass er den Alias Mr. Thomson verwenden solle. Er erkannte wahrscheinlich Alans Namen in Verbindung mit dem Mord an Red Fox. David stimmte der Farce zu und ersetzte alle Namen der Highlander-Charaktere, über die er sprach, durch andere Namen. Nachdem die Geschichte beendet war, moralisierte Rankeillor über die Abenteuer und erwähnte, dass er "Mr. Thomson" nicht vollständig billigte, aber seine Kameradschaft mit David verstand. David war dankbar für Rankeillors zivilisiertes Unternehmen. Trotzdem war er immer noch peinlich berührt, wenn er auf seine eigene Kleidung schaute. Rankeillor bemerkte dies und lud ihn zum Essen ein, gab ihm einen Kleiderwechsel und erlaubte ihm, sich zu waschen.

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: Gareth and Lynette The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away. 'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight Or evil king before my lance if lance Were mine to use--O senseless cataract, Bearing all down in thy precipitancy-- And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows And mine is living blood: thou dost His will, The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know, Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall Linger with vacillating obedience, Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to-- Since the good mother holds me still a child! Good mother is bad mother unto me! A worse were better; yet no worse would I. Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, Until she let me fly discaged to sweep In ever-highering eagle-circles up To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, A knight of Arthur, working out his will, To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came With Modred hither in the summertime, Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight. Modred for want of worthier was the judge. Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, "Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he-- Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute, For he is alway sullen: what care I?' And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child, Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed, 'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.' 'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said, 'Being a goose and rather tame than wild, Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved, An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine Was finer gold than any goose can lay; For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. And there was ever haunting round the palm A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought "An I could climb and lay my hand upon it, Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings." But ever when he reached a hand to climb, One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck, I charge thee by my love," and so the boy, Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, But brake his very heart in pining for it, And past away.' To whom the mother said, 'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed, And handed down the golden treasure to him.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she, Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world Had ventured--had the thing I spake of been Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel, Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, And lightnings played about it in the storm, And all the little fowl were flurried at it, And there were cries and clashings in the nest, That sent him from his senses: let me go.' Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said, 'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out! For ever since when traitor to the King He fought against him in the Barons' war, And Arthur gave him back his territory, His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love: Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird, And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; So make thy manhood mightier day by day; Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness I know not thee, myself, nor anything. Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.' Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child, Hear yet once more the story of the child. For, mother, there was once a King, like ours. The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed-- But to be won by force--and many men Desired her; one good lack, no man desired. And these were the conditions of the King: That save he won the first by force, he needs Must wed that other, whom no man desired, A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, That evermore she longed to hide herself, Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye-- Yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her. And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother, How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame. Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King, Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King-- Else, wherefore born?' To whom the mother said 'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King-- Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent with him in my youth, And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.' And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour, So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire, Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go. Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed The Idolaters, and made the people free? Who should be King save him who makes us free?' So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain To break him from the intent to which he grew, Found her son's will unwaveringly one, She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire? Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke. Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, Before thou ask the King to make thee knight, Of thine obedience and thy love to me, Thy mother,--I demand. And Gareth cried, 'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!' But slowly spake the mother looking at him, 'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall, And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, And those that hand the dish across the bar. Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.' For so the Queen believed that when her son Beheld his only way to glory lead Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage, Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud To pass thereby; so should he rest with her, Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, 'The thrall in person may be free in soul, And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, And since thou art my mother, must obey. I therefore yield me freely to thy will; For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves; Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.' Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye Full of the wistful fear that he would go, And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned, Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, When wakened by the wind which with full voice Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn, He rose, and out of slumber calling two That still had tended on him from his birth, Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil. Southward they set their faces. The birds made Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green, And the live green had kindled into flowers, For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plain That broadened toward the base of Camelot, Far off they saw the silver-misty morn Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount, That rose between the forest and the field. At times the summit of the high city flashed; At times the spires and turrets half-way down Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone Only, that opened on the field below: Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared. Then those who went with Gareth were amazed, One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord. Here is a city of Enchanters, built By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him, 'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home To Northward, that this King is not the King, But only changeling out of Fairyland, Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again, 'Lord, there is no such city anywhere, But all a vision.' Gareth answered them With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes, To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea; So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate. And there was no gate like it under heaven. For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress Wept from her sides as water flowing away; But like the cross her great and goodly arms Stretched under the cornice and upheld: And drops of water fell from either hand; And down from one a sword was hung, from one A censer, either worn with wind and storm; And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; And in the space to left of her, and right, Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done, New things and old co-twisted, as if Time Were nothing, so inveterately, that men Were giddy gazing there; and over all High on the top were those three Queens, the friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. Then those with Gareth for so long a space Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.' And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes So long, that even to him they seemed to move. Out of the city a blast of music pealed. Back from the gate started the three, to whom From out thereunder came an ancient man, Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?' Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil, Who leaving share in furrow come to see The glories of our King: but these, my men, (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist) Doubt if the King be King at all, or come From Fairyland; and whether this be built By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens; Or whether there be any city at all, Or all a vision: and this music now Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.' Then that old Seer made answer playing on him And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens, And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: And here is truth; but an it please thee not, Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King And Fairy Queens have built the city, son; They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, And built it to the music of their harps. And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son, For there is nothing in it as it seems Saving the King; though some there be that hold The King a shadow, and the city real: Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become A thrall to his enchantments, for the King Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame A man should not be bound by, yet the which No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear, Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide Without, among the cattle of the field. For an ye heard a music, like enow They are building still, seeing the city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built for ever.' Gareth spake Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard That looks as white as utter truth, and seems Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been To thee fair-spoken?' But the Seer replied, 'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards? "Confusion, and illusion, and relation, Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"? I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, And all that see thee, for thou art not who Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. And now thou goest up to mock the King, Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.' Unmockingly the mocker ending here Turned to the right, and past along the plain; Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men, Our one white lie sits like a little ghost Here on the threshold of our enterprise. Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I: Well, we will make amends.' With all good cheer He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces And stately, rich in emblem and the work Of ancient kings who did their days in stone; Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court, Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. And ever and anon a knight would pass Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear. And out of bower and casement shyly glanced Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love; And all about a healthful people stept As in the presence of a gracious king. Then into hall Gareth ascending heard A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall The splendour of the presence of the King Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more-- But felt his young heart hammering in his ears, And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie The truthful King will doom me when I speak.' Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one Nor other, but in all the listening eyes Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne, Clear honour shining like the dewy star Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure Affection, and the light of victory, And glory gained, and evermore to gain. Then came a widow crying to the King, 'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft From my dead lord a field with violence: For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold, Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes, We yielded not; and then he reft us of it Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.' Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?' To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord, The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.' And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again, And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, According to the years. No boon is here, But justice, so thy say be proven true. Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did Would shape himself a right!' And while she past, Came yet another widow crying to him, 'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I. With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, A knight of Uther in the Barons' war, When Lot and many another rose and fought Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead; And standeth seized of that inheritance Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate, Grant me some knight to do the battle for me, Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.' Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, 'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.' Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, 'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none, This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall-- None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.' But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord. Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates! The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames, Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead, And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence-- Lest that rough humour of the kings of old Return upon me! Thou that art her kin, Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not, But bring him here, that I may judge the right, According to the justice of the King: Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.' Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, A name of evil savour in the land, The Cornish king. In either hand he bore What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines A field of charlock in the sudden sun Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold, Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt, Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, Was even upon his way to Camelot; For having heard that Arthur of his grace Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight, And, for himself was of the greater state, Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord Would yield him this large honour all the more; So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold, In token of true heart and fealty. Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight! What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?' For, midway down the side of that long hall A stately pile,--whereof along the front, Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank, There ran a treble range of stony shields,-- Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth. And under every shield a knight was named: For this was Arthur's custom in his hall; When some good knight had done one noble deed, His arms were carven only; but if twain His arms were blazoned also; but if none, The shield was blank and bare without a sign Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright, And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 'More like are we to reave him of his crown Than make him knight because men call him king. The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands From war among themselves, but left them kings; Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled Among us, and they sit within our hall. But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king, As Mark would sully the low state of churl: And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots, Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings-- No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied-- Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!' And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, And evermore a knight would ride away. Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, Approached between them toward the King, and asked, 'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed), For see ye not how weak and hungerworn I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. Hereafter I will fight.' To him the King, 'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon! But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.' He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself Root-bitten by white lichen, 'Lo ye now! This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, However that might chance! but an he work, Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal, Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds; A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know: Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery-- But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace, Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.' Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery? Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish? Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth! Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.' So Gareth all for glory underwent The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage; Ate with young lads his portion by the door, And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves. And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not, Would hustle and harry him, and labour him Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself With all obedience to the King, and wrought All kind of service with a noble ease That graced the lowliest act in doing it. And when the thralls had talk among themselves, And one would praise the love that linkt the King And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's-- For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field-- Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, How once the wandering forester at dawn, Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King, A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 'He passes to the Isle Avilion, He passes and is healed and cannot die'-- Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul, Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him. Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, So there were any trial of mastery, He, by two yards in casting bar or stone Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights Clash like the coming and retiring wave, And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. So for a month he wrought among the thralls; But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen, Repentant of the word she made him swear, And saddening in her childless castle, sent, Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot With whom he used to play at tourney once, When both were children, and in lonely haunts Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, And each at either dash from either end-- Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee-- These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's-- Descend into the city:' whereon he sought The King alone, and found, and told him all. 'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I. Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring Like flame from ashes.' Here the King's calm eye Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him, 'Son, the good mother let me know thee here, And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, And uttermost obedience to the King.' Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, 'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee. For uttermost obedience make demand Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, No mellow master of the meats and drinks! And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, But love I shall, God willing.' And the King 'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he, Our noblest brother, and our truest man, And one with me in all, he needs must know.' 'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, Thy noblest and thy truest!' And the King-- 'But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you? Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed, Than to be noised of.' Merrily Gareth asked, 'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it? Let be my name until I make my name! My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.' So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, 'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. Look therefore when he calls for this in hall, Thou get to horse and follow him far away. Cover the lions on thy shield, and see Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.' Then that same day there past into the hall A damsel of high lineage, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower; She into hall past with her page and cried, 'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset By bandits, everyone that owns a tower The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there? Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, Till even the lonest hold were all as free From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth From that best blood it is a sin to spill.' 'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, The wastest moorland of our realm shall be Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. What is thy name? thy need?' 'My name?' she said-- 'Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight To combat for my sister, Lyonors, A lady of high lineage, of great lands, And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. She lives in Castle Perilous: a river Runs in three loops about her living-place; And o'er it are three passings, and three knights Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed In her own castle, and so besieges her To break her will, and make her wed with him: And but delays his purport till thou send To do the battle with him, thy chief man Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.' Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked, 'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, Who be they? What the fashion of the men?' 'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, The fashion of that old knight-errantry Who ride abroad, and do but what they will; Courteous or bestial from the moment, such As have nor law nor king; and three of these Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star, Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black, A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. He names himself the Night and oftener Death, And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, To show that who may slay or scape the three, Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. And all these four be fools, but mighty men, And therefore am I come for Lancelot.' Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose, A head with kindling eyes above the throng, 'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull-- 'Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I, And I can topple over a hundred such. Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him, Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden, And pardonable, worthy to be knight-- Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed. But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm, 'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight, And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.' Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned, Fled down the lane of access to the King, Took horse, descended the slope street, and past The weird white gate, and paused without, beside The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.' Now two great entries opened from the hall, At one end one, that gave upon a range Of level pavement where the King would pace At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood; And down from this a lordly stairway sloped Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers; And out by this main doorway past the King. But one was counter to the hearth, and rose High that the highest-crested helm could ride Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled The damsel in her wrath, and on to this Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, A warhorse of the best, and near it stood The two that out of north had followed him: This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, And from it like a fuel-smothered fire, That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those Dull-coated things, that making slide apart Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly. So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms. Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest The people, while from out of kitchen came The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked Lustier than any, and whom they could but love, Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, 'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!' And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode Down the slope street, and past without the gate. So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named, His owner, but remembers all, and growls Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used To harry and hustle. 'Bound upon a quest With horse and arms--the King hath past his time-- My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again, For an your fire be low ye kindle mine! Will there be dawn in West and eve in East? Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth So shook his wits they wander in his prime-- Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice, Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing. Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn Whether he know me for his master yet. Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire-- Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, Into the smoke again.' But Lancelot said, 'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, For that did never he whereon ye rail, But ever meekly served the King in thee? Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.' 'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:' Then mounted, on through silent faces rode Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. But by the field of tourney lingering yet Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least He might have yielded to me one of those Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him-- His kitchen-knave.' To whom Sir Gareth drew (And there were none but few goodlier than he) Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine. Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt, And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay. 'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay. We lack thee by the hearth.' And Gareth to him, 'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay-- The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.' 'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled. But after sod and shingle ceased to fly Behind her, and the heart of her good horse Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke. 'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship? Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more Or love thee better, that by some device Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!-- Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, I leave not till I finish this fair quest, Or die therefore.' 'Ay, wilt thou finish it? Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks! The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, And then by such a one that thou for all The kitchen brewis that was ever supt Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.' 'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile That maddened her, and away she flashed again Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, And Gareth following was again beknaved. 'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way Where Arthur's men are set along the wood; The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves: If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet, Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine? Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.' So till the dusk that followed evensong Rode on the two, reviler and reviled; Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere, Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts Ascended, and there brake a servingman Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, 'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.' Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged, But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.' And when the damsel spake contemptuously, 'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again, 'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere, And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, A stone about his neck to drown him in it. Three with good blows he quieted, but three Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone From off his neck, then in the mere beside Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs To hate me, for my wont hath ever been To catch my thief, and then like vermin here Drown him, and with a stone about his neck; And under this wan water many of them Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, And rise, and flickering in a grimly light Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. And fain would I reward thee worshipfully. What guerdon will ye?' Gareth sharply spake, 'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed, In uttermost obedience to the King. But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?' Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth, And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!-- But deem not I accept thee aught the more, Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit Down on a rout of craven foresters. A thresher with his flail had scattered them. Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still. But an this lord will yield us harbourage, Well.' So she spake. A league beyond the wood, All in a full-fair manor and a rich, His towers where that day a feast had been Held in high hall, and many a viand left, And many a costly cate, received the three. And there they placed a peacock in his pride Before the damsel, and the Baron set Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy, Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall, And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night-- The last a monster unsubduable Of any save of him for whom I called-- Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, "The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I." Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, "Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him-- Him--here--a villain fitter to stick swine Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong, Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord Now looked at one and now at other, left The damsel by the peacock in his pride, And, seating Gareth at another board, Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, And whether she be mad, or else the King, Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, For strong thou art and goodly therewithal, And saver of my life; and therefore now, For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail, The saver of my life.' And Gareth said, 'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.' So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, 'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied. 'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour. Lion and stout have isled together, knave, In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool? For hard by here is one will overthrow And slay thee: then will I to court again, And shame the King for only yielding me My champion from the ashes of his hearth.' To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously, 'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.' Then to the shore of one of those long loops Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came. Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc Took at a leap; and on the further side Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, Save that the dome was purple, and above, Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. And therebefore the lawless warrior paced Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he, The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall? For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said, 'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself: See that he fall not on thee suddenly, And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.' Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn, And servants of the Morning-Star, approach, Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield Blue also, and thereon the morning star. And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought, Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly, The gay pavilion and the naked feet, His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so? Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time: Flee down the valley before he get to horse. Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.' Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight, Far liefer had I fight a score of times Than hear thee so missay me and revile. Fair words were best for him who fights for thee; But truly foul are better, for they send That strength of anger through mine arms, I know That I shall overthrow him.' And he that bore The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, 'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me! Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. For this were shame to do him further wrong Than set him on his feet, and take his horse And arms, and so return him to the King. Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave To ride with such a lady.' 'Dog, thou liest. I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.' He spake; and all at fiery speed the two Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew, And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand He drave his enemy backward down the bridge, The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!' Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.' And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me Good--I accord it easily as a grace.' She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee? I bound to thee for any favour asked!' 'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked, 'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, Thy life is thine at her command. Arise And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou, Lead, and I follow.' And fast away she fled. Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought, Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge The savour of thy kitchen came upon me A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed: I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang, '"O morning star" (not that tall felon there Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness Or some device, hast foully overthrown), "O morning star that smilest in the blue, O star, my morning dream hath proven true, Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me." 'But thou begone, take counsel, and away, For hard by here is one that guards a ford-- The second brother in their fool's parable-- Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.' To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly, 'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave. When I was kitchen-knave among the rest Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, "Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it. And such a coat art thou, and thee the King Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave-- The knave that doth thee service as full knight Is all as good, meseems, as any knight Toward thy sister's freeing.' 'Ay, Sir Knave! Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.' 'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more, That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.' 'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.' So when they touched the second river-loop, Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, That blows a globe of after arrowlets, Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield, All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots Before them when he turned from watching him. He from beyond the roaring shallow roared, 'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?' And she athwart the shallow shrilled again, 'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.' 'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red And cipher face of rounded foolishness, Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford, Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth, The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream Descended, and the Sun was washed away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford; So drew him home; but he that fought no more, As being all bone-battered on the rock, Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King, 'Myself when I return will plead for thee.' 'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led. 'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?' 'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it. '"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave, Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness), "O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, O moon, that layest all to sleep again, Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." What knowest thou of lovesong or of love? Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,-- '"O dewy flowers that open to the sun, O dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike, To garnish meats with? hath not our good King Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head? Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. '"O birds, that warble to the morning sky, O birds that warble as the day goes by, Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth May-music growing with the growing light, Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, Larding and basting. See thou have not now Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. There stands the third fool of their allegory.' For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, All in a rose-red from the west, and all Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried, 'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave His armour off him, these will turn the blade.' Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, 'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried, 'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven With all disaster unto thine and thee! For both thy younger brethren have gone down Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star; Art thou not old?' 'Old, damsel, old and hard, Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.' Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag! But that same strength which threw the Morning Star Can throw the Evening.' Then that other blew A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm With but a drying evergreen for crest, And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone. But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow, They madly hurled together on the bridge; And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, But up like fire he started: and as oft As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, So many a time he vaulted up again; Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, Laboured within him, for he seemed as one That all in later, sadder age begins To war against ill uses of a life, But these from all his life arise, and cry, 'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!' He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, 'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave-- O knave, as noble as any of all the knights-- Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied-- Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round-- His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin-- Strike--strike--the wind will never change again.' And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, And hewed great pieces of his armour off him, But lashed in vain against the hardened skin, And could not wholly bring him under, more Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang, And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, Strangled, but straining even his uttermost Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 'Lead, and I follow.' But the damsel said, 'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side; Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. '"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, O rainbow with three colours after rain, Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me." 'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight, But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,-- Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend, For thou hast ever answered courteously, And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave, Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.' 'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame, Saving that you mistrusted our good King Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say; Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets His heart be stirred with any foolish heat At any gentle damsel's waywardness. Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me: And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, Hath force to quell me.' Nigh upon that hour When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool, Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him, And told him of a cavern hard at hand, Where bread and baken meats and good red wine Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors Had sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb wherein Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. 'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man. And yon four fools have sucked their allegory From these damp walls, and taken but the form. Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read-- In letters like to those the vexillary Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt-- 'PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'-- 'NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armed men, Slab after slab, their faces forward all, And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair, For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, Who comes behind?' For one--delayed at first Through helping back the dislocated Kay To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced, The damsel's headlong error through the wood-- Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops-- His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew Behind the twain, and when he saw the star Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, 'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.' And Gareth crying pricked against the cry; But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world-- Went sliding down so easily, and fell, That when he found the grass within his hands He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette: Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown, And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?' 'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, And victor of the bridges and the ford, And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom I know not, all through mere unhappiness-- Device and sorcery and unhappiness-- Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince, O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, As on the day when Arthur knighted him.' Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance-- Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!' Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot, Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave, Who being still rebuked, would answer still Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight, The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked, And only wondering wherefore played upon: And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned. Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall, In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool, I hate thee and for ever.' And Lancelot said, 'Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise To call him shamed, who is but overthrown? Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. Victor from vanquished issues at the last, And overthrower from being overthrown. With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse And thou are weary; yet not less I felt Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine. Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed, And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes, And when reviled, hast answered graciously, And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!' And then when turning to Lynette he told The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. But all about it flies a honeysuckle. Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found, Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed. 'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou. Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him As any mother? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child, And vext his day, but blesses him asleep-- Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle In the hushed night, as if the world were one Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness! O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-- 'Full merry am I to find my goodly knave Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, Else yon black felon had not let me pass, To bring thee back to do the battle with him. Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.' Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name, May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said, 'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.' And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield; 'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar! Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!-- Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. Hence: let us go.' Silent the silent field They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan, In counter motion to the clouds, allured The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!' An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!' Suddenly she that rode upon his left Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, 'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight: I curse the tongue that all through yesterday Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done; Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow In having flung the three: I see thee maimed, Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.' 'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know. You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice, Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery Appal me from the quest.' 'Nay, Prince,' she cried, 'God wot, I never looked upon the face, Seeing he never rides abroad by day; But watched him have I like a phantom pass Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice. Always he made his mouthpiece of a page Who came and went, and still reported him As closing in himself the strength of ten, And when his anger tare him, massacring Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe! Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh, Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.' Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this, Belike he wins it as the better man: Thus--and not else!' But Lancelot on him urged All the devisings of their chivalry When one might meet a mightier than himself; How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, And so fill up the gap where force might fail With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one-- To dash against mine enemy and win. Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust, And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette. Then for a space, and under cloud that grew To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode In converse till she made her palfrey halt, Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.' And all the three were silent seeing, pitched Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, A huge pavilion like a mountain peak Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, Black, with black banner, and a long black horn Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt, And so, before the two could hinder him, Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn. Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon Came lights and lights, and once again he blew; Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down And muffled voices heard, and shadows past; Till high above him, circled with her maids, The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, Beautiful among lights, and waving to him White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince Three times had blown--after long hush--at last-- The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, Through those black foldings, that which housed therein. High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms, With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps-- In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced The monster, and then paused, and spake no word. But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, But must, to make the terror of thee more, Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers As if for pity?' But he spake no word; Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned; The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept, As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death; Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm; And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast. At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed, And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him. Then those that did not blink the terror, saw That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. Half fell to right and half to left and lay. Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm As throughly as the skull; and out from this Issued the bright face of a blooming boy Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight, Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it, To make a horror all about the house, And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. They never dreamed the passes would be past.' Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child, What madness made thee challenge the chief knight Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it. They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend, They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, They never dreamed the passes could be past.' Then sprang the happier day from underground; And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance And revel and song, made merry over Death, As being after all their foolish fears And horrors only proven a blooming boy. So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. And he that told the tale in older times Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, But he, that told it later, says Lynette. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Gareth ist der jüngste Sohn von Lot und Bellicent. Seine älteren Brüder, Gawain und Modred, sind zu Rittern von König Arthur geworden, aber er muss zu Hause bei seiner Mutter bleiben, da er immer noch als ein einfacher Junge betrachtet wird. Aufgrund dieser Überfürsorglichkeit ist er unglücklich. Er erkennt, dass seine Mutter ihn liebt und dass er ihren Wünschen gehorchen muss, aber er ist frustriert, weil er sich wirklich ein Leben voller Ritterlichkeit wünscht. Schließlich spricht Gareth mit seiner Mutter über seinen Wunsch und kann sie trotz ihrer Ängste dazu bringen, ihm die Erlaubnis zu geben, nach Camelot zu gehen. Sie stellt nur eine Bedingung: Er muss in Verkleidung an Artus' Hof gehen und ein Jahr lang als einfacher Küchenhelfer arbeiten, bevor er seine Identität preisgibt. Sie hofft, dass diese erniedrigende Bedingung Gareth zum Umdenken bringt. Er bleibt jedoch entschlossen, daher hält Bellicent ihr Wort und lässt ihn gehen. Gareth verkleidet sich und macht sich mit zwei Dienern auf den Weg in die magische und reiche Stadt Camelot. Sie sind von dem imposanten Anblick der Hauptstadt, insbesondere den hohen Mauern, auf denen Skulpturen der Dame vom See, die die wahre Religion symbolisiert, und den Drei Königinnen, die den Glauben, die Hoffnung und die Nächstenliebe repräsentieren, erschreckt und ehrfürchtig. Diese verkörpern die Grundprinzipien, nach denen Arthur sein Königreich führt. Gareth und seine Diener betreten die Stadt und werden von Merlin begrüßt. Nach einem kurzen Gespräch weist er sie zum Palast. Im großen Saal beobachtet Gareth die Gerechtigkeit, mit der Arthur Urteile fällt und die Bitten der Bittsteller erfüllt. Als er an der Reihe ist, bittet Gareth um und erhält eine Stelle als Hilfskraft in der Palastküche. Er verspricht, dass er sich in einem Jahr zu erkennen geben und treu für den König kämpfen wird. Während der Zeit arbeitet Gareth weiterhin in der Küche. Er ist bei den anderen Dienern beliebt, wird aber oft von seinem Vorgesetzten, Sir Kay, schikaniert. Schließlich erfährt Gareth, dass Bellicent ihre Forderung zurückgenommen und ihn von seinem einjährigen Eid entlassen hat. Noch immer seine wahre Identität verbergend, bittet Gareth den König um das Recht, sich auf die nächste Aufgabe zu begeben, die ein Ritter erfüllen muss. Trotz Protesten von Kay gewährt Arthur diese Bitte und erlaubt dem Jungen vorerst seine Identität geheim zu halten. An diesem Tag erscheint eine schöne und hochgeborene Jungfrau namens Lynette am Hof. Sie erzählt eine traurige Geschichte darüber, wie ihre Schwester Lyonors und der Rest ihrer Familie von vier furchterregenden Rittern im Burggefängnis festgehalten werden. Sie ist nach Camelot gekommen, um die Hilfe des größten Ritters, Sir Lancelot, bei ihrer Befreiung zu erbitten. Der König stimmt zu, weist aber Gareth die Aufgabe zu. Lynette ist entrüstet, denn sie hält Gareth für einen einfachen Küchenhelfer und glaubt, dass dies Arthurs Art ist, sie zu beleidigen. Trotzdem stattet Arthur Gareth mit Pferd und Rüstung aus und schickt ihn auf die Quest. Während der Reise zur Burg Perilous ist Lynette mürrisch und unfreundlich zu Gareth. Sie beschimpft ihn häufig wegen seiner niedrigen Geburt und mangelnder Fähigkeiten und lässt ihn mehrere Schritte hinter sich reiten. Trotz Lynettes herablassendem Verhalten bleibt Gareth demütig und geduldig. Als sie durch einen Wald kommen, rettet Gareth einen örtlichen Baron, der von einigen Schlägern gefangen genommen worden war, aber Lynette will ihm diesen Sieg nicht anrechnen und führt seinen Erfolg auf Glück zurück. Der Baron bewirtet sie in seiner Burg. Beim Abendessen weigert sich Lynette, mit Gareth am selben Tisch zu sitzen. Danach setzen sie ihre Reise fort. Schließlich kommen die beiden in der Burg Perilous an. Einer nach dem anderen besiegt Gareth in harten Kämpfen die ersten drei Ritter. Langsam ändern sich Lynettes Gefühle. Zunächst respektiert sie nur sein Geschick und seine Tapferkeit als Krieger, erkennt aber bald, dass er tatsächlich von edler Geburt ist und darüber hinaus ein ritterlicher und ehrenhafter Ritter. Sie entschuldigt sich bei ihm für ihr vorheriges grobes Verhalten. Lynette und Gareth werden nun von Lancelot begleitet, den Arthur geschickt hat, um sie zu beschützen und zu unterstützen. Lancelots Schild ist beim ersten Kontakt bedeckt, und sie erkennen ihn nicht. Er und Gareth kämpfen und natürlich wird der Jüngling besiegt. Gareth ist beschämt und Lynette wirft ihm vor, verloren zu haben, aber Lancelot überzeugt sie gnädig, dass es keine Schande ist, zu verlieren. Er bietet an, gegen den vierten Ritter zu kämpfen, da Arthur ihn dafür geschickt hat, aber Gareth lehnt ab. Stattdessen berät Lancelot Gareth so weit wie möglich in der Kunst des persönlichen Kampfes. Gareth kämpft gegen den letzten und furchtbarsten der Ritter in einem bitteren Kampf und siegt. Burg Perilous und Lady Lyonors werden befreit und es folgt eine fröhliche Feier. Später heiraten Gareth und Lynette. Obwohl man es als rein romantische Abenteuergeschichte lesen kann, kann dieses Idyll auch als eine tiefgründige Allegorie betrachtet werden. Der schlängelnde Fluss, der Burg Perilous umgibt, kann als Strom der Zeit interpretiert werden. Seine drei langen Schleifen repräsentieren die drei Lebensphasen - Jugend, mittleres Alter und Alter - und die drei Ritter an den Übergängen sind die Verkörperungen der typischen Versuchungen dieser Lebensabschnitte, die Gareth in seinem Bestreben, ein wahrer Ritter zu sein, überwinden muss, einer, der Lynette würdig ist. Der letzte Ritter repräsentiert den Tod. Das allegorische Prinzip hier ist, dass der Tod, der am formidablesten aller Gegner zu sein scheint, leicht besiegt wird und seine Niederlage ein neues und unschuldiges Leben ermöglicht.

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: SZENE 5. London. Der Palast SUFFOLK tritt auf und bespricht sich mit dem KÖNIG, GLOUCESTER und EXETER KÖNIG HEINRICH. Deine wunderbare und seltene Beschreibung, edler Graf, Von der schönen Margarete hat mich erstaunt. Ihre Tugenden, verschönert mit äußerlichen Gaben, Erwecken feste Leidenschaften der Liebe in meinem Herzen; Und genauso wie die Strenge eines stürmischen Windes Das mächtigste Schiff gegen die Strömung antreibt, So werde ich vom Ruhm ihres Atems vorangetrieben, Entweder Schiffbruch zu erleiden oder anzukommen, Wo ich ihre Liebe erlangen kann. SUFFOLK. Ach, mein guter Herr! Diese oberflächliche Erzählung Ist nur eine Einleitung zu ihrem wertvollen Lob. Die größten Vollkommenheiten dieser lieblichen Dame, Könnte ich sie nur hinreichend aussprechen, Würden ein Band mit verlockenden Zeilen bilden, Fähig, jeden tristen Einfall zu verzücken; Und, was noch mehr ist, sie ist nicht so göttlich, So voller Auswahl aller Freuden, Aber mit so bescheidener Demut des Geistes Ist sie bereit, Ihnen zu gehorchen, Gehorchen, meine ich, in tugendhaften Absichten, Henry zu lieben und zu ehren als ihren Herrn. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Und anders wird Heinrich sich niemals anmaßen. Daher, mein Herr Protektor, geben Sie Ihre Zustimmung, Dass Margarete Englands königliche Königin sein möge. GLOUCESTER. Das wäre zustimmen, Sünde zu schmeicheln. Ihr wisst, mein Herr, Eure Hoheit ist einer anderen angesehenen Dame verlobt. Wie sollen wir dann dieses Bündnis lösen Und Eure Ehre nicht mit Schande beflecken? SUFFOLK. Wie es ein Herrscher mit ungesetzlichen Eiden tut; Oder wie jemand, der bei einem Triumph, nachdem er gelobt hat, Seine Stärke auszuprobieren, doch die Arena verlässt Aufgrund der Überlegenheit seines Gegners: Die Tochter eines armen Earls ist ein ungleicher Kampf, Und daher kann sie ohne Schande gebrochen werden. GLOUCESTER. Warum sollte Margarete denn mehr sein als das? Ihr Vater ist nicht besser als ein Earl, Obwohl er in glorreichen Titeln überragt. SUFFOLK. Ja, mein Herr, ihr Vater ist ein König, Der König von Neapel und Jerusalem; Und von so großer Autorität in Frankreich, Dass seine Verbindung unseren Frieden bestätigen wird, Und die Franzosen zur Treue halten wird. GLOUCESTER. Und so kann auch der Earl von Armagnac, Da er ein naher Verwandter von Charles ist. EXETER. Außerdem garantiert sein Reichtum eine großzügige Mitgift; Wo Reignier eher nehmen als geben wird. SUFFOLK. Eine Mitgift, meine Herren! Entehrt nicht so euren König, Dass er so erniedrigt, unbedeutend und arm sein sollte, Um nach Reichtum zu suchen und nicht nach perfekter Liebe. Heinrich ist in der Lage, seine Königin zu bereichern, Und nicht eine Königin zu suchen, um ihn reich zu machen. So wertlose Bauern handeln mit ihren Frauen, Wie Marktleute mit Ochsen, Schafen oder Pferden. Die Ehe ist von größerem Wert, Als von einem Anwalt gehandhabt zu werden; Nicht wen wir wollen, sondern wen Seine Hoheit bevorzugt, Soll Begleiter seines Hochzeitsbettes sein. Und daher, meine Lords, da er sie am meisten liebt, Sollte sie nach unserer Meinung bevorzugt werden; Denn was ist eine Zwangsehe, wenn nicht die Hölle, Ein Zeitalter von Zwietracht und ständigem Streit? Während das Gegenteil Glück bringt, Und ein Abbild himmlischen Friedens ist. Mit wem sollten wir Heinrich verheiraten, als König, Aber mit Margarete, die Tochter eines Königs ist? Ihre beispiellose Schönheit, vereint mit ihrer Herkunft, Beweist, dass sie nur für einen König geeignet ist; Ihr tapferer Mut und ihr unerschrockener Geist, Mehr als bei Frauen üblich ist, Werden unsere Hoffnung auf einen königlichen Nachkommen erfüllen; Denn Heinrich, als Sohn eines Eroberers, Ist wahrscheinlich weiter Eroberer zu zeugen, Wenn er mit einer Dame von so starkem Willen Wie der schönen Margarete in Liebe verbunden ist. Dann stimmt zu, meine Herren; und schließt euch mir an Dass Margarete Königin sein soll, und niemand sonst. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Ob es nun durch die Kraft deines Berichts ist, Mein edler Lord Suffolk, oder weil Mein zartes Jugendalter bisher noch von keiner flammmenden Liebe berührt wurde, Das kann ich nicht sagen; aber ich bin gewiss, Ich spüre einen solch starken Zwiespalt in meiner Brust, Solch heftige Alarmpfeifen von Hoffnung und Furcht, Dass ich krank bin von meinen Gedanken. Nehmt also das Schiff; eilt, mein Herr, nach Frankreich; Verhandelt jede Vereinbarung; und sorgt dafür, Dass Lady Margarete sich herablässt zu kommen, Um die Meere zu überqueren und in England gekrönt zu werden Als König Heinrichs treue und gesalbte Königin. Für eure Ausgaben und genügend Kosten, Erhebt unter den Leuten einen Zehnten. Geht, sage ich; denn bis du zurückkehrst, Bin ich verwirrt von tausend Sorgen. Und du, lieber Onkel, verbannen alle Anschuldigungen: Wenn du mich nach dem verurteilst, was du warst, Nicht nach dem, was du bist, weiß ich, dass es entschuldigt Diese plötzliche Durchführung meines Willens. Und begleite mich dann zu einem Ort, fern von der Welt, Wo ich meine Trauer umkreisen und durchdenken kann. Abgang GLOUCESTER. Ja, Trauer, fürchte ich, sowohl am Anfang als auch am Ende. Abgang GLOUCESTER und EXETER SUFFOLK. So hat Suffolk sich durchgesetzt; und so geht er, Wie einst der junge Paris nach Griechenland, In der Hoffnung, ein ähnliches Ereignis in der Liebe zu finden, Aber erfolgreicher als der Trojaner. Margarete soll nun Königin sein und den König beherrschen; Aber ich werde sowohl sie, den König als auch das Königreich beherrschen. Abgang DAS ENDE Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Richard, Herzog von York, ist mit Warwick und einem Schäfer, Joans Vater, zu sehen. Richard fordert, dass Joan hereingebracht wird, damit sie auf dem Scheiterhaufen verbrannt werden kann. Der Schäfer ist bestürzt über die Aussicht auf den Tod seiner Tochter und bietet an, mit ihr zu sterben. Aber Joan lehnt ihren Vater ab und besteht darauf, dass sie keine Tochter von ihm ist, da sie von aristokratischem Blut geboren wurde. Der Schäfer besteht darauf, dass die ganze Gemeinde bezeugen kann, dass er Joans Vater ist. Richard und Warwick tadeln sie dafür, dass sie ihren Vater verleugnet. Joan wirft den Engländern vor, den Schäfer bestochen zu haben, um ihre Abstammung zu behaupten und ihre Autorität zu untergraben. Als Joan sich weigert, für den Segen ihres Vaters niederzuknien, verflucht er sie und fordert die Engländer auf, sie zu verbrennen. Richard befiehlt den Wachen, sie wegzubringen. Joan sagt, sie stamme von Königen ab und kehrt zu ihrer früheren Behauptung zurück, dass sie von Gott auserwählt wurde, um seine Wunder auf Erden zu wirken. Sie leugnet jegliche Verbindung mit bösen Geistern und besteht darauf, dass sie immer noch eine reine Jungfrau ist. Ihr Tod durch die Hände der Engländer wird, sagt sie, die Rache des Himmels über sie bringen. Richard befiehlt den Wachen erneut, sie wegzubringen. Warwick bittet darum, genügend Scheiterhaufen aufzustapeln, um sicherzustellen, dass sie schnell stirbt und ihr Leiden verkürzt wird. Joan sagt dann den englischen Adeligen, dass sie sie nicht hinrichten können, weil sie schwanger ist. Die Adeligen vermuten, dass Charles der Vater ist, aber Joan sagt, dass es Alencon ist. Ein Fötus einer verurteilten weiblichen Gefangenen galt als unschuldig und ihre Hinrichtung hätte verschoben werden sollen, bis das Kind geboren war. Richard sagt zynisch, dass er von ihr einen solchen Trick erwartet habe und dass er möchte, dass jedes Kind von Alencon mit seiner Mutter stirbt. Joan behauptet dann, dass der Vater Reignier ist. Warwick sagt, dass dies inakzeptabel ist, da Reignier verheiratet ist. Richard und Warwick weisen darauf hin, dass Joan viele Liebhaber hatte und noch vor kurzem behauptet hat, eine Jungfrau zu sein. Richard sagt, dass sie offensichtlich eine Hure ist und dass ihre Bitten um Gnade vergeblich sind. Joan verflucht England, bevor sie hinausgeführt wird, und Richard verflucht sie als einen Agenten des Teufels. Winchester, jetzt Kardinal, tritt auf. Er hat Briefe von Heinrich VI. Die Herrscher verschiedener Länder möchten, dass England den Frieden mit Frankreich erklärt. Richard, Herzog von York, bedauert bitter, dass so viele englische Adlige und Soldaten für das, was er als unwürdigen Friedensvertrag betrachtet, getötet wurden. Er beklagt den Verlust Englands in Frankreich in den letzten Kriegen und sieht voraus, dass England alle seine französischen Gebiete verlieren wird. Aber Warwick sagt, dass jeder Friedensvertrag so gestaltet sein wird, dass er den Franzosen wenig gibt. Charles und die französischen Adligen treten ein und fragen nach den Bedingungen des Friedensvertrags. Richard ist zu wütend, um zu sprechen, und drängt Winchester, die Verhandlungen durchzuführen. Winchester sagt den Franzosen, dass sie im Gegenzug für ein Ende der englischen Feindseligkeiten dem König Heinrich VI. die Treue schwören müssen. Charles würde unter Heinrich zum Vizekönig gemacht werden. Charles lehnt das Angebot ab und sagt, dass er in Frankreich bereits als König von über der Hälfte des Landes angesehen wird. Er möchte dies nicht aufgeben, um ein untergeordneter Herrscher von ganz Frankreich zu sein. Richard sagt, er habe keine Wahl: Er müsse sich dem Angebot Englands unterwerfen oder die Engländer würden unerbittlichen Krieg gegen Frankreich führen. Reignier rät Charles, Englands Bedingungen zuzustimmen. Alencon stimmt zu und sagt, dass Charles die Bedingungen akzeptieren und diese seinem eigenen Vorteil entsprechend ändern sollte. Charles stimmt den Bedingungen des Vertrags zu, mit Ausnahme davon, dass die Franzosen die Kontrolle über ihre Garnisonsstädte behalten. Richard erklärt den Frieden und fordert sie auf, ihre Armeen abzuziehen.

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: Die Krise, die Madame Raquin bedrohte, fand statt. Die Lähmung, die sich mehrere Monate lang in ihren Gliedern ausgebreitet hatte und immer bereit war, sie zu erwürgen, ergriff sie schließlich bei der Kehle und verband ihren Körper. An einem Abend blieb sie mit weit geöffnetem Mund mitten in einem Satz stehen, während sie friedlich mit Thérèse und Laurent sprach: Sie hatte das Gefühl, als würde sie erstickt. Als sie schreien und um Hilfe rufen wollte, konnte sie nur ein paar heisere Laute ausstoßen. Ihre Hände und Füße waren starr. Sie fand sich ohne Stimme wieder und konnte sich nicht bewegen. Thérèse und Laurent sprangen erschrocken von ihren Stühlen auf angesichts dieses Schlags, der die alte Mercerin in weniger als fünf Sekunden entstellte. Als sie erstarrte und ihre flehenden Augen auf sie richtete, drängten sie sie mit Fragen, um die Ursache ihres Leidens herauszufinden. Da sie nicht antworten konnte, starrte sie sie weiterhin mit tiefem Schmerz an. Da verstanden sie, dass sie nur eine Leiche vor sich hatten, eine halb lebende Leiche, die sehen und hören konnte, ihnen aber nicht antworten konnte. Sie waren verzweifelt über diesen Angriff. Im Grunde genommen war ihnen das Leiden der gelähmten Frau gleichgültig. Sie trauerten um sich selbst, die in Zukunft allein leben müssten, von Angesicht zu Angesicht. Von diesem Tag an wurde das Leben des Ehepaars unerträglich. Sie verbrachten die qualvollsten Abende gegenüber der impotenten alten Frau, die ihre Ängste nicht mehr mit ihrem sanften, belanglosen Geplauder lindern konnte. Sie ruhte in einem Sessel wie ein Päckchen, eine Sache, während sie allein blieben, einer am einen Ende des Tisches, der andere am anderen Ende, verlegen und besorgt. Dieser Körper trennte sie nicht mehr; manchmal vergaßen sie ihn und verwechselten ihn mit den Möbeln. Sie waren nun von derselben Angst wie nachts ergriffen. Das Esszimmer wurde wie das Schlafzimmer zu einem schrecklichen Ort, an dem das Gespenst von Camille auftauchte und sie täglich vier oder fünf Stunden zusätzlich leiden ließ. Sobald die Dämmerung hereinbrach, zuckten sie zusammen, senkten den Lampenschirm, um einander nicht sehen zu müssen, und versuchten sich einzureden, dass Madame Raquin sprechen und sie so an ihre Anwesenheit erinnern würde. Wenn sie sie bei sich behielten, wenn sie sich nicht von ihr trennten, dann nur, weil ihre Augen noch lebendig waren und sie ein wenig Erleichterung empfanden, wenn sie sahen, wie sie sich bewegten und funkelten. Sie platzierten die impotente alte Frau immer im hellen Lichtstrahl der Lampe, damit ihr Gesicht vollständig beleuchtet war und sie es immer vor sich hatten. Dieses schlaffe, leichenähnliche Gesicht hätte niemand ertragen können, aber Thérèse und Laurent empfanden ein solches Bedürfnis nach Gesellschaft, dass sie es mit wirklicher Freude betrachteten. Dieses Gesicht sah aus wie das einer toten Person, in dessen Mitte zwei lebendige Augen fixiert worden waren. Nur diese Augen bewegten sich, rollten schnell in ihren Höhlen. Die Wangen und der Mund waren so furchterregend unbeweglich, dass sie wie erstarrt wirkten. Wenn Madame Raquin einschlief und ihre Augenlider senkte, war ihr Gesicht, das dann ganz weiß und stumm war, wirklich das einer Leiche. Thérèse und Laurent, die sich nicht mehr von ihr begleitet fühlten, machten dann Lärm, bis die gelähmte Frau ihre Augenlider hob und sie ansah. Auf diese Weise zwangen sie sie wach zu bleiben. Sie betrachteten sie als eine Ablenkung, die sie von ihren Albträumen ablenkte. Seitdem sie krank war, mussten sie sich wie um ein Kind kümmern. Die Sorge, die sie für sie aufbrachten, zwang sie, ihre Gedanken zu zerstreuen. Morgens hob Laurent sie hoch und brachte sie in ihren Sessel; abends legte er sie wieder ins Bett. Sie war immer noch schwer, und er musste alle seine Kraft aufbringen, um sie behutsam in seine Arme zu heben und zu tragen. Er war es auch, der ihren Sessel hin- und herrollte. Die anderen Aufmerksamkeiten übernahm Thérèse. Sie kleidete die impotente alte Frau an und fütterte sie und bemühte sich, ihren kleinsten Wunsch zu verstehen. Einige Tage lang behielt Madame Raquin die Funktion ihrer Hände bei. Sie konnte auf eine Schiefertafel schreiben und so um das bitten, was sie brauchte; dann verwelkten ihre Hände und es wurde ihr unmöglich, sie zu erheben oder einen Stift zu halten. Ab diesem Zeitpunkt waren ihre Augen ihre einzige Sprache, und ihre Nichte musste erraten, was sie wollte. Die junge Frau widmete sich den schweren Aufgaben der Krankenschwester, was ihr körperliche und geistige Beschäftigung bot, die ihr guttat. Um nicht alleine gegenüberzubleiben, schob das Ehepaar den Sessel der armen alten Frau morgens als Erstes ins Esszimmer. Sie setzten sie zwischen sich, als ob sie für ihr Dasein notwendig wäre. Sie sorgten dafür, dass sie bei ihren Mahlzeiten und in all ihren Gesprächen anwesend war. Wenn sie den Wunsch äußerte, sich in ihr Schlafzimmer zurückzuziehen, taten sie so, als ob sie es nicht verstünden. Sie wurde nur dazu benutzt, ihre privaten Gespräche zu unterbrechen, und hatte kein Recht, getrennt zu leben. Um acht Uhr ging Laurent in sein Atelier, Thérèse stieg in den Laden hinab, während die gelähmte Frau bis zum Mittag allein im Esszimmer blieb; dann, nach dem Mittagessen, fand sie sich wieder ohne Gesellschaft, bis sechs Uhr. Während des Tages lief ihre Nichte häufig die Treppe hinauf, schwebte um sie herum und stellte sicher, dass sie nichts brauchte. Die Freunde der Familie fanden nicht genug lobende Worte, um die Tugenden von Thérèse und Laurent zu preisen. Die Donnerstagsrezeptionen wurden fortgesetzt, und die impotente alte Frau war wie in der Vergangenheit anwesend. Ihr Sessel wurde an den Tisch geschoben, und von acht bis elf Uhr hatte sie ihre Augen offen und warf durchdringende Blicke abwechselnd auf ihre Gäste. Anfangs empfanden der alte Michaud und Grivet eine gewisse Verlegenheit in Anwesenheit der Leiche ihrer alten Freundin. Sie wussten nicht, welchem Gesichtsausdruck sie sich geben sollten. Sie empfanden nur mäßige Trauer und fragten sich, in welchem Maße es angemessen wäre, ihre Trauer zu zeigen. Sollten sie mit dieser leblosen Gestalt sprechen? Sollten sie sich nicht weiter um sie kümmern? Nach und nach beschlossen sie, Madame Raquin so zu behandeln, als sei nichts mit ihr geschehen. Sie taten so, als ob sie ihren Zustand vollständig ignorieren würden. Sie unterhielten sich mit ihr, stellten Fragen und gaben die Antworten, lachten sowohl mit ihr als auch über sich selbst und ließen sich von dem erstarrten Ausdruck auf ihrem Gesicht nicht verwirren. Es war ein seltsamer Anblick: Diese Männer, die scheinbar vernünftig mit einer Statue sprachen, so wie kleine Mädchen mit ihren Puppen sprechen. Die gelähmte Frau saß starr und stumm vor ihnen, während sie plapperten, ihre Gesten in überaus lebhaften Gesprächen mit ihr multiplizierten. Michaud und Grivet waren stolz auf ihre korre Ihre Gedanken ähnelten denen der Lebenden, die fälschlicherweise begraben wurden und mitten in der Nacht in der Erde, drei oder vier Meter unter der Oberfläche, erwachen. Sie schreien, kämpfen und die Menschen gehen über sie hinweg, ohne ihre grauenhaften Klagen zu hören. Laurent blickte oft auf Madame Raquin, seine Lippen zusammengepresst, seine Hände auf den Knien ausgestreckt, sein ganzes Leben in seine funkelnden und schnell bewegenden Augen legend. Und er sagte zu sich selbst: "Wer weiß, woran sie alleine denkt? Ein grausames Drama muss sich in diesem regungslosen Körper abspielen." Laurent irrte sich. Madame Raquin war glücklich, glücklich über die Fürsorge und Zuneigung, die ihre lieben Kinder ihr zuteilwerden ließen. Sie hatte immer davon geträumt, auf diese sanfte Weise zu enden, umgeben von Hingabe und Zärtlichkeiten. Sicherlich hätte sie gerne ihre Sprache bewahrt, um ihren Freunden, die ihr halfen, in Frieden zu sterben, danken zu können. Aber sie akzeptierte ihren Zustand ohne Rebellion. Das ruhige und zurückgezogene Leben, das sie immer geführt hatte, die Sanftheit ihres Charakters, verhinderten, dass sie den Schmerz des Stummseins und der Unbeweglichkeit zu stark empfand. Sie war in die zweite Kindheit eingetreten. Sie verbrachte Tage ohne Müdigkeit, starrte vor sich hin und sinnierte über die Vergangenheit. Sie genoss sogar den Zauber, in ihrem Sessel sehr brav zu bleiben, wie ein kleines Mädchen. Tag für Tag wurden die Sanftheit und Helligkeit ihrer Augen durchdringender. Sie hatte den Punkt erreicht, an dem sie ihnen die Aufgaben einer Hand oder eines Mundes zu übertragen vermochte, um zu bitten, was sie brauchte, und ihren Dank auszudrücken. Auf diese Weise ersetzte sie auf äußerst eigentümliche und charmante Weise die fehlenden Organe. Ihre Augen, im Zentrum ihres schlaffen und grimassierenden Gesichts, waren von himmlischer Schönheit. Da ihre verdrehten und reglosen Lippen nicht mehr lächeln konnten, lächelte sie mit bezaubernder Zärtlichkeit durch ihren Blick - feuchte Strahlen und Dämmerungsstrahlen strömten aus ihren Augenumfassungen. Nichts war eigentümlicher als diese Augen, die wie Lippen lachten in diesem leblosen Gesicht. Der untere Teil des Gesichts blieb düster und bleich, während der obere Teil göttlich aufleuchtete. Besonders für ihre geliebten Kinder legte sie all ihre Dankbarkeit, die ganze Zuneigung ihrer Seele in einen einzigen Blick. Wenn Laurent sie morgens und abends in seine Arme nahm, um sie zu tragen, dankte sie ihm liebevoll mit Blicken voller zärtlicher Hingabe. So lebte sie wochenlang, in Erwartung des Todes, in dem Glauben, vor weiterem Unglück geschützt zu sein. Sie dachte, sie hätte ihr Maß an Leiden bereits erhalten. Aber sie irrte sich. Eines Nachts wurde sie von einem entsetzlichen Schlag getroffen. Therese und Laurent mögen sie wohl zwischen sich gestellt haben, im vollen Licht, aber sie war nicht mehr genug lebendig, um sich zu trennen und sie gegen ihre Qualen zu verteidigen. Wenn sie vergaßen, dass sie da war und sie hören und sehen konnte, wurden sie von Wahnsinn ergriffen. Als sie Camille bemerkten, versuchten sie, ihn zu vertreiben. Dann, in unsicheren Tönen, ließen sie die Wahrheit entkommen und offenbarten Madame Raquin alles. Laurent erlitt eine Art Anfall, während dessen er wie unter dem Einfluss von Halluzinationen sprach, und die gelähmte Frau verstand plötzlich. Eine schreckliche Verzerrung legte sich über ihr Gesicht, und sie empfand einen solchen Schock, dass Therese dachte, sie würde aufspringen und schreien, aber sie fiel rückwärts um, starr wie Eisen. Dieser Schock war umso furchterregender, weil er schien, als ob er eine Leiche galvanisieren würde. Das kurzzeitig zurückgekehrte Gefühl verschwand; die impotente Frau blieb noch stärker zermalmt und bleich. Ihre normalerweise so sanften Augen waren dunkel und hart geworden und glichen Stücken aus Metall. Noch nie war Verzweiflung härter auf einen Menschen niedergestürzt. Die düstere Wahrheit hatte die Augen der gelähmten Frau wie ein Flammenblitz verbrannt und war mit dem Aufprall eines Blitzes in ihr eingedrungen. Wenn sie in der Lage gewesen wäre aufzustehen, um den Schrei des Grauens ausstoßen und die Mörder ihres Sohnes verfluchen zu können, hätte sie weniger gelitten. Aber nachdem sie alles gehört und verstanden hatte, musste sie regungslos und stumm bleiben, all den Glanz ihres Leids in sich bewahrend. Es schien ihr, als ob Therese und Laurent sie gefesselt, an ihren Sessel geheftet hätten, um sie zu hindern aufzuspringen, und dass sie grausame Freude daran hatten, ihr zu wiederholen, nachdem sie ihren Mund gestopft hatten, um ihre Schreie zu ersticken: "Wir haben Camille getötet!" Angst und Leid rasten rasend in ihrem Körper umher, konnten jedoch keinen Ausweg finden. Sie machte übermenschliche Anstrengungen, um das Gewicht, das auf ihr lastete, abzuschütteln, um ihre Kehle zu befreien und damit ihrem Strom der Verzweiflung freien Lauf zu lassen. Vergeblich strengte sie ihre letzte Energie an; sie fühlte ihre Zunge kalt an ihrem Gaumen liegen und konnte sich nicht vom Tod losreißen. Die Vergeblichkeit hielt sie starr gefangen. Ihre Empfindungen ähnelten denen eines Mannes, der in Lethargie verfallen ist, und der, von seinen eigenen Fesseln gefesselt, das dumpfe Geräusch der auf seinen Kopf fallenden Schaufeln voller Erde hört. Die Verwüstungen, denen ihr Herz ausgesetzt war, erwiesen sich als noch schrecklicher. Sie fühlte innerlich einen Schlag, der sie völlig zerbrach. Ihr ganzes Leben war gezeichnet: all ihre Zärtlichkeit, all ihre Güte, ihre ganze Hingabe war gerade brutal gestört und mit Füßen getreten worden. Sie hatte ein Leben voller Zuneigung und Sanftheit geführt, und in ihren letzten Stunden, als sie den Glauben an die Freude eines ruhigen Lebens mit ins Grab nehmen wollte, schrie ihr eine Stimme entgegen, dass alles Lüge und Verbrechen sei. Der Vorhang wurde zerrissen und sie erblickte jenseits der Liebe und Freundschaft, die sie bisher hatte sehen können, ein erschreckendes Bild von Blut und Schande. Sie hätte den Allmächtigen verflucht, wenn sie in der Lage gewesen wäre, einen Gotteslästerung auszustoßen. Das Schicksal hatte sie über sechzig Jahre lang getäuscht, indem es sie wie ein sanftes, gutes kleines Mädchen behandelte und sie mit lügnerischen Darstellungen von ruhiger Freude unterhielt. Und sie war ein Kind geblieben, sie hatte dummen tausend Dingen sinnlos geglaubt und konnte das Leben nicht so sehen, wie es wirklich ist, wie es sich in einem blutigen Sumpf von Leidenschaften dahinschleppt. Das Schicksal war böse; es hätte ihr die Wahrheit früher sagen oder ihr erlauben sollen, in ihrer Unschuld und Blindheit weiterzuleben. Jetzt blieb ihr nur noch zu sterben, die Liebe, die Freundschaft, die Hingabe zu verleugnen. Es gab nichts außer Mord und Begierde. Was! Camille war von Therese und Laurent getötet worden, und sie hatten das Verbrechen in Schande geplant! Für Madame Raquin lag in diesem Gedanken eine unergründliche Tiefe, die sie weder vernünftig Laurent eilte sich, die gelähmte Frau in ihr Schlafzimmer zu rollen. Dann, als er sich bückte, um sie in seine Arme zu nehmen, hoffte Madame Raquin, dass eine starke Bewegung sie auf die Beine stellen würde; und sie versuchte eine letzte Anstrengung. Der Allmächtige würde es nicht zulassen, dass Laurent sie an seine Brust drückte; sie erwartete voll und ganz, dass er niedergeschlagen würde, wenn er solch monströse Unverschämtheit zeigte. Aber keine solche Bewegung kam in Gang, und der Himmel behielt seinen Donner zurück. Madame Raquin blieb zusammengekauert und passiv wie ein Bündel Wäsche. Der Mörder packte sie, hob sie hoch und trug sie weg; sie erlebte die Angst, sich schwach und verlassen in den Armen des Mörders von Camille zu fühlen. Ihr Kopf rollte auf die Schulter von Laurent, den sie mit vor Schrecken geweiteten Augen beobachtete. "Du kannst mich ansehen", murmelte er. "Deine Augen werden mich nicht fressen." Und er warf sie brutal auf das Bett. Die impotente alte Dame fiel bewusstlos auf die Matratze. Ihr letzter Gedanke war Angst und Abscheu. In Zukunft musste sie sich morgens und abends dem widerlichen Druck der Arme von Laurent beugen. Ein Schock des Schreckens hatte das Ehepaar dazu gebracht, in Anwesenheit von Madame Raquin von ihrem Verbrechen zu sprechen und es zu gestehen. Weder der eine noch der andere war grausam; aus Gründen der Menschlichkeit hätten sie eine solche Enthüllung vermieden, wenn ihre eigene Sicherheit sie nicht bereits dazu gebracht hätte, Stillschweigen zu bewahren. Am folgenden Donnerstag waren sie besonders besorgt. Am Morgen fragte Therese Laurent, ob es klug sei, die gelähmte Frau während des Abends im Speisesaal zu lassen. Sie wusste alles und könnte Alarm schlagen. "Pah!", antwortete Laurent, "es ist unmöglich für sie, ihren kleinen Finger zu bewegen. Wie könnte sie plappern?" "Vielleicht findet sie einen Weg, es zu tun", antwortete Therese. "Ich habe seit dem anderen Abend einen unerbittlichen Gedanken in ihren Augen bemerkt." "Nein", sagte Laurent. "Siehst du, der Arzt hat mir gesagt, dass es mit ihr absolut vorbei ist. Wenn sie jemals wieder spricht, wird es das Todesröcheln sein. Sie wird nicht mehr lange durchhalten, da kannst du sicher sein. Es wäre dumm, unser Gewissen noch mehr zu belasten, indem wir verhindern, dass sie heute Abend an dem Treffen teilnimmt." Therese schauderte. "Du verstehst mich falsch", rief sie aus. "Oh! Du hast recht. Es gab schon genug Verbrechen. Ich wollte sagen, dass wir unsere Tante in ihrem Zimmer einsperren könnten, und vorgeben, dass es ihr nicht gut gehe und sie schlafe." "Genau", antwortete Laurent, "und dieser Idiot Michaud würde direkt in das Zimmer gehen, um seinen alten Freund zu sehen, ganz gleich. Das wäre ein guter Weg, um uns zu ruinieren." Er zögerte. Er wollte ruhig erscheinen, aber seine Ängstlichkeit ließ seine Stimme zittern. "Es ist am besten, den Dingen ihren Lauf zu lassen", fuhr er fort. "Diese Leute sind so dumm wie Gänse. Die stumme Verzweiflung der alten Frau wird ihnen sicherlich nichts beibringen. Sie werden nie den geringsten Verdacht haben, denn sie sind zu weit von der Wahrheit entfernt. Sobald die Prüfung vorbei ist, werden wir bezüglich der Konsequenzen unserer Unvorsichtigkeit beruhigt sein. Alles wird gut sein, du wirst sehen." Als am Abend die Gäste ankamen, nahm Madame Raquin wie üblich ihren Platz zwischen Ofen und Tisch ein. Therese und Laurent gaben vor, gute Laune zu haben, versteckten ihre Schauer und warteten in Angst auf den unvermeidlichen Vorfall. Sie hatten den Lampenschirm sehr tief gestellt, so dass nur die mit Wachstuch bedeckte Tischplatte beleuchtet wurde. Die Gäste führten das übliche laute, banale Gespräch, das dem ersten Domino-Spiel vorausging. Weder Grivet noch Michaud versäumten es, die üblichen Fragen an die gelähmte Frau zu stellen, was ihren Gesundheitszustand betraf, und ebenso die üblichen ausgezeichneten Antworten zu geben. Danach stürzten sich die Gäste mit Freude in das Spiel und kümmerten sich nicht mehr um die arme alte Dame. Seitdem Madame Raquin von dem schrecklichen Geheimnis erfahren hatte, hatte sie diesen Abend mit fiebriger Ungeduld erwartet. Sie hatte ihre letzten Kräfte gesammelt, um die Täter anzuklagen. Bis zum letzten Moment fürchtete sie, nicht an dem Treffen teilnehmen zu können; sie dachte, Laurent würde sie verschwinden lassen, sie vielleicht töten oder zumindest in ihrem eigenen Zimmer einsperren. Als sie sah, dass ihre Nichte und ihr Neffe sie im Speisesaal belassen, empfand sie lebhafte Freude bei dem Gedanken, sich an ihrem Sohn rächen zu können. Da sie wusste, dass ihre Zunge machtlos war, griff sie zu einer neuen Art von Sprache. Mit einer erstaunlichen Willenskraft gelang es ihr, ihre rechte Hand in gewissem Maße zu beleben, leicht von ihrem Knie zu heben, wo sie immer ausgestreckt lag, inaktiv; dann ließ sie sie langsam an einem der Tischbeine vor ihr hochkriechen und schaffte es so, sie auf die mit Wachstuch bedeckte Tischplatte zu legen. Dann bewegte sie die Finger schwach, als ob sie Aufmerksamkeit erregen wollte. Als die Spieler diese leblose, weiße und nervenlose Hand vor sich bemerkten, waren sie sehr überrascht. Grivet hielt abrupt inne, mit dem Arm in der Luft, in dem Moment, als er den Doppel-Sechs spielen wollte. Seitdem die impotente Frau niedergeschlagen wurde, hatte sie ihre Hände nie bewegt. "Hey! Schau nur, Therese", rief Michaud. "Madame Raquin bewegt ihre Finger. Sie will wohl etwas." Therese konnte nicht antworten. Sowohl sie als auch Laurent hatten die Anstrengungen der gelähmten Frau verfolgt, und sie schaute jetzt auf die Hand ihrer Tante, die im rohen Licht der Lampe blass hervorstach wie eine rachsüchtige Hand, die sprechen wollte. Die beiden Mörder warteten, atemlos. "Natürlich", sagte Grivet, "sie will wohl etwas. Oh! Wir verstehen uns schon perfekt. Sie will Domino spielen, nicht wahr, liebe Dame?" Madame Raquin machte eine heftige Geste, die deutlich machte, dass sie nichts in dieser Art wollte. Sie streckte einen Finger aus, faltete die anderen mühsam zusammen und begann, Buchstaben auf das Tischtuch zu zeichnen. Kaum hatte sie ein oder zwei Striche angezeigt, rief Grivet triumphierend erneut aus: "Ich verstehe; sie sagt, ich soll die Doppel-Sechs spielen." Die impotente Frau warf dem alten Beamten einen entsetzlichen Blick zu und versuchte dann, den Satz zu vervollständigen, aber ihre Finger waren steif geworden, der höchste Wille, der sie belebte, entglitt ihr. Sie eilte weiter und zeichnete ein anderes Wort. Der alte Michaud las laut vor: "Therese und Laurent haben----" Und Olivier fragte: "Was haben eure lieben Kinder?" Die Mörder, von blindem Schrecken ergriffen, standen kurz davor den Satz laut zu vollenden. Sie betrachteten die rächende Hand mit starren und beunruhigten Augen, als plötzlich diese Hand sich krampfte und auf dem Tisch flach wurde. Sie rutschte ab und fiel auf das Knie der impotenten Frau wie ein Haufen lebloser Fleisch- und Knochenmasse. Die Lähmung war zurückgekehrt und hatte die Strafe gestoppt. Michaud und Olivier setzten sich enttäuscht wieder hin, während Thérèse und Laurent solche Freude empfanden, dass sie sich unter dem Einfluss des plötzlichen Ansturms von Blut, das in ihren Herzen schlug, ohnmächtig fühlten. Grivet, der verärgert war, dass man ihm nicht geglaubt hatte, dachte, dass der Moment gekommen sei, um seine Unfehlbarkeit zurückzugewinnen, indem er den unvollständigen Satz vervollständigt. Während jeder versuchte, die fehlenden Worte zu ergänzen, rief er aus: "Es ist ganz klar. Ich kann den ganzen Satz in den Augen der Dame lesen. Es ist nicht nötig, dass sie auf den Tisch schreibt, um mich verstehen zu lassen; ein einfacher Blick genügt. Sie meint zu sagen: "Thérèse und Laurent waren sehr freundlich zu mir." Grivet hatte diesmal Grund, stolz auf seine Vorstellungskraft zu sein, da die ganze Gesellschaft seiner Meinung war; und die Gäste begannen, die Lobeshymnen auf das Ehepaar zu singen, das so gut zu der armen Dame war. "Es ist sicher", bemerkte der alte Michaud ernsthaft, "dass Madame Raquin ihre zärtliche Zuneigung bezeugen möchte, die ihre Kinder ihr schenken, und das ehrt die ganze Familie." Dann nahm er seine Domino-Steine wieder auf und fügte hinzu: "Also, lasst uns weitermachen. Wo waren wir? Grivet war kurz davor, den Doppel-Sechs zu spielen, glaube ich." Grivet spielte den Doppel-Sechs, und das dumme, monotonische Spiel ging weiter. Die gelähmte Frau, von furchtbarer Verzweiflung gequält, betrachtete ihre Hand, die sie gerade verraten hatte. Sie fühlte sie jetzt so schwer wie Blei; sie würde sie nie wieder heben können. Das Schicksal wollte es nicht zulassen, dass Camille gerächt wurde. Es entzog seiner Mutter die einzige Möglichkeit, das Verbrechen bekannt zu machen, dem er zum Opfer gefallen war. Und die unglückliche Frau dachte bei sich, dass sie nun nur noch dazu taugte, zu ihrem Kind in die Erde zu gehen. Sie senkte die Lider und fühlte sich nunmehr nutzlos und hatte den Wunsch, sich bereits in der Dunkelheit des Grabes vorzustellen. Seit zwei Monaten kämpften Thérèse und Laurent mit der Angst in ihrer Ehe. Der eine litt unter dem anderen. Dann gewann der Hass langsam die Oberhand und sie warfen einander ärgerliche Blicke zu, voller geheimer Bedrohung. Der Hass musste kommen. Sie hatten wie Tiere geliebt, mit heißer Leidenschaft, ganz blutordnungslos. Dann, mitten in der Erschöpfung ihrer Tat, war ihre Liebe zur Angst geworden und ihre Küsse hatten eine Art körperlicher Angst hervorgerufen. Gegenwärtig, mitten im Leiden, das ihnen die Ehe, das gemeinsame Leben auferlegte, empörten sie sich und gerieten in Zorn. Es war ein bitterer Hass mit schrecklichen Ausbrüchen. Sie fühlten sich gegenseitig im Weg und dachten beide im Geheimen, dass sie ein ruhiges Leben führen könnten, wenn sie sich nicht ständig Auge in Auge gegenüberstehen würden. In Anwesenheit des anderen schien es, als ob eine enorme Last sie erstickte und sie hätten diese Last gerne entfernt, um sie zu zerstören. Ihre Lippen waren verkniffen, Gedanken der Gewalt zogen in ihren klaren Augen vorbei und ein Verlangen überfiel sie, einander zu verschlingen. In Wirklichkeit quälte sie ein einziger Gedanke: Sie ärgerten sich über ihr Verbrechen und waren verzweifelt darüber, ihre Leben für immer gestört zu haben. Daher all ihr Zorn und Hass. Sie spürten, dass das Böse unheilbar war, dass sie für den Mord an Camille bis zum Tod leiden würden, und diese Idee des ewigen Leidens brachte sie zur Verzweiflung. Ohne zu wissen, wen sie treffen sollten, wandten sie ihren Hass gegeneinander. Sie wollten nicht offen zugeben, dass ihre Ehe die endgültige Strafe für den Mord war; sie weigerten sich, auf die innere Stimme zu hören, die ihnen die Wahrheit zurief und die Geschichte ihres Lebens vor ihren Augen ausbreitete. Und doch, in den Wutausbrüchen, die sie bewegten, sahen sie beide klar bis zum Grund ihres Zorns, sie waren sich bewusst, dass es der wütende Impuls ihrer egoistischen Natur gewesen war, der sie zu dem Mord getrieben hatte, um ihre Begierde zu befriedigen, und dass sie in der Tat in der Ermordung nur ein betrübtes und unerträgliches Dasein gefunden hatten. Sie erinnerten sich an die Vergangenheit, sie wussten, dass ihre falschen Hoffnungen auf Lust und friedliches Glück sie nur zur Reue gebracht hatten. Hätten sie sich in Frieden umarmen und in Freude leben können, hätten sie nicht um Camille getrauert, sondern sich an ihrem Verbrechen ergötzt. Aber ihre Körper hatten rebelliert und die Ehe verweigert, und sie fragten sich voller Angst, wohin Abscheu und Ekel sie führen würden. Sie sahen nur eine Zukunft, die schmerzhaft und mit einem düsteren und gewaltsamen Ende grausam sein würde. Dann, wie zwei Feinde, die aneinander gebunden sind und die verzweifelt versuchen, sich aus dieser erzwungenen Umarmung zu befreien, spannten sie ihre Muskeln und Nerven an, versteiften ihre Glieder, ohne sich jedoch befreien zu können. Schließlich erkannten sie, dass sie sich niemals aus diesem Griff befreien konnten, wurden von den in ihr Fleisch schneidenden Seilen gereizt, empfanden Ekel bei ihrem Kontakt, fühlten ihre Unannehmlichkeiten mit jeder Minute zunehmen, vergaßen sich und konnten ihre Fesseln keinen Moment länger ertragen. Sie richteten unverschämte Vorwürfe aneinander, in der Hoffnung, Verlust zu erleiden, die Wunden, die sie sich zufügten, durch Fluchen und sich gegenseitig mit Schreien und Anschuldigungen zu übertönen. Jeden Abend brach ein Streit aus. Es schien, als ob die Mörder Gelegenheiten suchten, um sich zu erzürnen und ihre steifen Nerven zu lockern. Sie beobachteten einander, sondierten einander mit Blicken, untersuchten die Wunden des anderen, entdeckten die rohen Stellen und erfreuten sich daran, den anderen vor Schmerz aufschreien zu lassen. Sie lebten in ständiger Reizung, müde von sich selbst, unfähig, ein Wort, eine Geste oder einen Blick zu ertragen, ohne zu leiden und in Raserei zu verfallen. Beide Wesen waren auf Gewalt vorbereitet; die geringste Ungeduld, der gewöhnlichste Widerspruch nahmen in ihrem gestörten Organismus übermäßig zu und nahmen plötzlich die Form von Brutalität an. Ein kleines Nichts löste einen Sturm aus, der bis zum nächsten Tag anhielt. Ein zu heißer Teller, ein offenes Fenster, eine Verweigerung, eine einfache Bemerkung genügten, um sie in regelmäßige Anfälle von Wahnsinn zu treiben. Im Verlauf der Diskussion kam es immer wieder zum Thema des ertrunkenen Mannes. Von Satz zu Satz warfen sie sich gegenseitig Vorwürfe über dieses Ertrinken in Saint-Ouen um die Ohren und hielten einander das Verbrechen immer wieder vor. Sie gerieten in Rage, bis einer den anderen umbringen wollte. Dann folgten grausame Szenen der Erstickung, Schläge, abscheuliche Schreie, schamlose Brutalitäten. Normalerweise gerieten Thérèse und Laurent in dieser Weise nach dem Abendessen in Rage. Sie schlossen sich im Esszimmer ein, damit der Klang ihrer Verzweiflung nicht gehört wurde. Dort konnten sie sich in aller Ruhe verschlingen. Am Ende dieses feuchten Raumes, dieser Art von Gewöl Diese Streitereien des Ehepaars brachten sie in den Besitz der kleinsten Umstände, die mit dem Mord zusammenhingen, und breiteten, eins nach dem anderen, vor ihrem erschrockenen Geist alle Episoden des schrecklichen Abenteuers aus. Je tiefer sie in diesen blutigen Schmutz eintauchte, flehte sie in ihrem Kopf um Gnade. Manchmal glaubte sie, den Tiefpunkt der Schande erreicht zu haben, und doch musste sie noch weiter absteigen. Jede Nacht lernte sie etwas Neues. Die furchtbare Geschichte dehnte sich vor ihr aus. Es schien, als wäre sie in einen endlosen Alptraum des Horrors verloren. Das erste Eingeständnis war brutal und niederschmetternd, aber sie litt mehr unter diesen wiederholten Schlägen, unter diesen kleinen Tatsachen, die dem Ehemann und der Ehefrau entkamen in ihren Wutanfällen und die das Verbrechen mit finsteren Strahlen beleuchteten. Einmal am Tag hörte diese Mutter den Bericht über den Mord an ihrem Sohn. Und jeden Tag wurde dieser Bericht grauenvoller, voller Details und wurde mit größerer Grausamkeit und Lärm in ihre Ohren geschrien. Einmal wies Thérèse innehaltend, von Reue überwältigt, auf das blasse Gesicht hin, auf dem große Tränen langsam hinabströmten, und deutete ihrer Tante Laurent an, mit einem Blick, den Mund zu halten. "- Was ist damit? Lass mich in Ruhe!" rief Letzterer in brutalem Ton. "Du weißt doch, dass sie uns nicht verraten kann. Bin ich glücklicher als sie? Wir haben ihr Geld, ich muss mich nicht zurückhalten." Der Streit ging bitter und durchdringend weiter, und Camille wurde immer wieder getötet. Sowohl Thérèse als auch Laurent wagten es nicht, den Gedanken an Mitleid zuzulassen, der manchmal über sie kam, und sperrten die gelähmte Frau in ihrem Zimmer ein, wenn sie stritten, um ihr die Geschichte des Verbrechens zu ersparen. Sie fürchteten, sich gegenseitig zu Tode zu schlagen, wenn sie diese Halbtote zwischen sich nicht hatten. Ihr Mitleid wich der Feigheit. Sie verursachten Madame Raquin unaussprechliches Leid, weil sie ihre Anwesenheit brauchten, um sich vor ihren Halluzinationen zu schützen. Alle ihre Streitigkeiten waren gleich und führten zu denselben Anklagen. Sobald einer den anderen beschuldigte, diesen Mann getötet zu haben, gab es einen furchtbaren Zusammenstoß. Eines Abends beim Abendessen stellte Laurent, der nach einem Vorwand suchte, um gereizt zu werden, fest, dass das Wasser in der Karaffe lauwarm war. Er erklärte, dass ihm lauwarmes Wasser Übelkeit verursachte und dass er es frisch haben wollte. "- Ich konnte kein Eis besorgen", antwortete Thérèse trocken. "- Nun gut, dann verzichte ich eben aufs Trinken", erwiderte Laurent. "Dieses Wasser ist ausgezeichnet", sagte sie. "Es ist warm und schmeckt schlammig", antwortete er. "Es ist wie Wasser aus dem Fluss." "Wasser aus dem Fluss?", wiederholte Thérèse. Und sie brach in Tränen aus. In ihrem Kopf war eine Verbindung von Ideen gerade entstanden. "- Warum weinst du?", fragte Laurent, der die Antwort ahnte und blass wurde. "- Ich weine", schluchzte die junge Frau, "ich weine, weil - du weißt warum - oh, großer Gott! Großer Gott! Du hast ihn getötet." "- Du lügst!" schrie der Mörder heftig. "Gib zu, dass du lügst. Wenn ich ihn in die Seine geworfen habe, dann hast du mich zum Mord angestiftet." "- Ich? Ich?", rief sie aus. "- Ja, du! Spiel nicht die Unwissende", antwortete er, "zwing mich nicht, dich zur Wahrheit zu zwingen. Ich will, dass du dein Verbrechen gestehst, dass du deinen Teil an dem Mord übernimmst. Das wird mich beruhigen und erleichtern." "- Aber ich habe Camille nicht ertränkt", flehte sie. "- Doch, tausendmal ja!" schrie er. "Oh! Du heuchelst Erstaunen und Gedächtnisverlust vor. Warte einen Moment, ich werde deine Erinnerungen wachrufen." Er erhob sich vom Tisch, beugte sich über die junge Frau und schrie ihr mit knallrotem Gesicht ins Gesicht: "- Du warst am Flussufer, du erinnerst dich, und ich sagte dir leise:„Ich werde ihn ins Wasser werfen.“ Dann hast du zugestimmt, du bist in das Boot gestiegen. Du siehst, dass wir ihn zusammen ermordet haben." "- Das stimmt nicht", antwortete sie. "Ich war verrückt, ich weiß nicht, was ich getan habe, aber ich wollte ihn nie töten. Du allein hast das Verbrechen begangen." Diese Leugnungen quälten Laurent. Wie er gesagt hatte, erleichterte ihm die Vorstellung, einen Komplizen zu haben. Hätte er es gewagt, hätte er versucht, sich selbst zu beweisen, dass der ganze Horror des Mordes auf Thérèse fiel. Mehr als einmal hatte er den Drang, die junge Frau zu schlagen, um sie dazu zu bringen, ihm zu gestehen, dass sie die Schuldigere von beiden war. Er begann auf und ab zu schreiten, zu schreien und zu rasen, gefolgt von den durchdringenden Augen von Madame Raquin. "Ah! Der Schurke! Der Schurke!" stammelte er mit erstickter Stimme. "Sie will mich wahnsinnig machen. Hör mal, bist du nicht an einem Abend zu mir ins Zimmer gekommen, hast du mich nicht mit deinen Liebkosungen betrunken gemacht, um mich dazu zu bringen, deinen Mann loszuwerden? Du hast mir gesagt, als ich dich hier besuchte, dass er dir zuwider war, dass er den Geruch eines kranken Kindes hatte. Habe ich vor drei Jahren an all das gedacht? War ich ein Schurke? Ich führte ein friedliches Leben als anständiger Mann und tat niemandem etwas zuleide. Ich hätte nicht einmal eine Fliege getötet." "- Du hast Camille getötet", wiederholte Thérèse mit so verzweifelter Hartnäckigkeit, dass Laurent den Kopf verlor. "- Nein, du sagst es, du sagst es", erwiderte er mit schrecklichem Wutausbruch. "Guck mal, du quälst mich nicht, oder wenn du es tust, wirst du dafür büßen. Was, du Schurke, hast du alles vergessen? Du hast mich mit deinen Liebkosungen wahnsinnig gemacht! Gib zu, dass das alles eine Berechnung in deinem Kopf war, dass du Camille gehasst hast und ihn schon lange töten wolltest. Zweifellos hast du mich als Geliebten genommen, um mich dazu zu bringen, ihm ein Ende zu setzen." "- Das stimmt nicht", sagte sie. "Was du erzählst, ist ungeheuerlich. Du hast kein Recht, mich wegen meiner Schwäche für dich zu beschuldigen. Ich kann in Bezug auf dich sprechen, wie du in Bezug auf mich sprichst. Bevor ich dich kannte, war ich eine gute Frau, die niemandem Unrecht getan hat. Wenn ich dich wahnsinnig gemacht habe, dann hast du mich noch verrückter gemacht. Hör zu, Laurent, lass uns nicht streiten. Ich habe zu viel, wofür ich dich tadeln könnte." "Wofür kannst du mich tadeln?", fragte er. "Nein, für nichts", antwortete sie. "Du hast mich nicht vor mir selbst gerettet, du hast mein Mitgefühl ausgenutzt, du hast mein Leben ruiniert. Ich verzeihe dir das alles. Aber bitte, beschuldige mich nicht, Camille getötet zu haben. Behalte dein Verbrechen für dich. Versuche nicht, mich noch mehr zu ängstigen, als ich schon bin." Laurent hob die Their falsehoods were puerile, their affirmations ridiculous. It was the wordy dispute of two wretches who lied for the sake of lying, without succeeding in concealing from themselves that they did so. Each took the part of accuser in turn, and although the prosecution they instituted against one another proved barren of result, they began it again every evening with cruel tenacity. They were aware that they would prove nothing, that they would not succeed in effacing the past, and still they attempted this task, still they returned to the charge, spurred on by pain and terror, vanquished in advance by overwhelming reality. The sole advantage they derived from their disputes, consisted in producing a tempest of words and cries, and the riot occasioned in this manner momentarily deafened them. And all the time their anger lasted, all the time they were accusing one another, the paralysed woman never ceased to gaze at them. Ardent joy sparkled in her eyes, when Laurent raised his broad hand above the head of Therese. Matters now took a different aspect. Therese, driven into a corner by fright, not knowing which way to turn for a consoling thought, began to weep aloud over the drowned man, in the presence of Laurent. She abruptly became depressed, her overstrained nerves relaxed, her unfeeling and violent nature softened. She had already felt compassionate in the early days of her second marriage, and this feeling now returned, as a necessary and fatal reaction. When the young woman had struggled with all her nervous energy against the spectre of Camille, when she had lived in sullen irritation for several months up in arms against her sufferings, seeking to get the better of them by efforts of will, she all at once experienced such extraordinary lassitude that she yielded vanquished. Then, having become a woman again, even a little girl, no longer feeling the strength to stiffen herself, to stand feverishly erect before her terror, she plunged into pity, into tears and regret, in the hope of finding some relief. She sought to reap advantage from her weakness of body and mind. Perhaps the drowned man, who had not given way to her irritation, would be more unbending to her tears. Her remorse was all calculation. She thought that this would no doubt be the best way to appease and satisfy Camille. Like certain devotees, who fancy they will deceive the Almighty, and secure pardon by praying with their lips, and assuming the humble attitude of penitence, Therese displayed humility, striking her chest, finding words of repentance, without having anything at the bottom of her heart save fear and cowardice. Besides, she experienced a sort of physical pleasure in giving way in this manner, in feeling feeble and undone, in abandoning herself to grief without resistance. She overwhelmed Madame Raquin with her tearful despair. The paralysed woman became of daily use to her. She served as a sort of praying-desk, as a piece of furniture in front of which Therese could fearlessly confess her faults and plead for forgiveness. As soon as she felt inclined to cry, to divert herself by sobbing, she knelt before the impotent old lady, and there, wailing and choking, performed to her alone a scene of remorse which weakened but relieved her. "I am a wretch," she stammered, "I deserve no mercy. I deceived you, I drove your son to his death. Never will you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief." She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: "You forgive me! You forgive me!" Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. "Oh! How good you are!" she sometimes exclaimed. "I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved." Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. Was sie besonders verärgerte, war die abscheuliche Verhöhnung der jungen Frau, die vorgab, in ihren Augen Anzeichen von Barmherzigkeit zu sehen, während sie gerne Feuer und Schwefel auf den Kopf des Verbrechers herabgerufen hätte. Sie machte häufig höchste Anstrengungen, um einen Schrei des Protestes auszustoßen und ihre Blicke mit Hass zu erfüllen. Doch Thérèse, die immer wieder betonte, dass sie vergeben sei, verstärkte ihre Zärtlichkeiten und sah nichts. Die gelähmte Frau musste daher die Dankbarkeit und Hingabe akzeptieren, die ihr Herz zurückwies. Von da an lebte sie in einem Zustand bitterer, aber machtloser Irritation, angesichts ihrer nachgiebigen Nichte, die entzückende Liebesbekundungen zeigte, um sie für das zu entschädigen, was sie als ihre himmlische Güte bezeichnete. Als Thérèse vor Madame Raquin niederkniete in Anwesenheit ihres Mannes, brachte er sie grob auf die Beine. "Keine Schauspielerei", sagte er. "Weine ich, werfe ich mich auf den Boden? Das alles tust du nur, um mich zu beunruhigen." Das Gewissen von Thérèse versetzte ihn in eine besondere Unruhe. Sein Leiden nahm zu, jetzt da seine Komplizin vor ihm herumschleppte, mit geröteten Augen vom Weinen und flehenden Lippen. Der Anblick dieses lebenden Beispiels der Reue verdoppelte seine Angst und verstärkte seine Unruhe. Es war wie eine ewige Anklage, die durch das Haus irrte. Dann fürchtete er, dass eines Tages die Reue seine Frau dazu bringen würde, alles zu enthüllen. Er hätte es vorgezogen, wenn sie starr und bedrohlich geblieben wäre, sich bitter gegen seine Vorwürfe gewehrt hätte. Aber sie hatte ihre Taktik geändert. Sie erkannte jetzt bereitwillig ihren Anteil am Verbrechen an. Sie beschuldigte sich sogar selbst. Sie war nachgiebig und ängstlich geworden und bat von diesem Standpunkt aus um Erlösung mit glühender Demut. Diese Haltung ärgerte Laurent und jeden Abend wurden die Streitereien des Paares immer qualvoller und düsterer. "Hör mir zu," sagte Thérèse zu ihrem Mann, "wir sind sehr schuldig. Wir müssen bereuen, wenn wir Ruhe haben wollen. Schau mich an. Seitdem ich weine, bin ich friedlicher. Mach es mir nach. Sagen wir gemeinsam, dass wir gerechterweise für ein furchtbares Verbrechen bestraft werden." "Bah!", antwortete Laurent grob, "du kannst sagen, was du willst. Ich weiß, dass du verdammt schlau und heuchlerisch bist. Weine, wenn das dich ablenkt. Aber ich bitte dich, mich nicht mit deinen Tränen zu belästigen." "Oh", sagte sie, "du bist böse. Du lehnst Reue ab. Du bist feige. Du hast Camille verraten." "Möchtest du sagen, dass ich alleine schuldig bin?" fragte er. "Nein", antwortete sie, "das sage ich nicht. Ich bin schuldiger, schuldiger als du. Ich hätte meinen Mann vor deinen Händen retten sollen. Oh! Ich kenne den Horror meines Fehlers. Aber ich habe um Vergebung gebeten und Erfolg gehabt, Laurent, während du ein trauriges Leben weiterführst. Du hast nicht einmal das Gefühl gehabt, meiner armen Tante deine gemeine Wut zu ersparen. Du hast ihr noch nicht einmal ein Wort des Bedauerns gesagt." Und sie umarmte Madame Raquin, die ihre Augen schloss. Sie schwebte um sie herum, hob das Kissen, das ihren Kopf stützte, an und zeigte ihr allerlei Aufmerksamkeiten. Laurent war außer sich vor Wut. "Oh, lass sie in Ruhe", rief er. "Siehst du nicht, dass deine Dienste und dein Anblick ihr widerwärtig sind? Wenn sie könnte, würde sie dir ins Gesicht schlagen." Die langsamen und klagenden Worte seiner Frau und ihre Haltung der Resignation trieben ihn nach und nach in blinde Wutanfälle. Er verstand ihre Taktik; sie wollte nicht länger mit ihm eins sein, sondern sich in ihrer Reue absondern, um dem Griff des ertrunkenen Mannes zu entkommen. Manchmal sagte er sich, dass sie vielleicht den richtigen Weg eingeschlagen hatte, dass Tränen sie von ihrem Entsetzen heilen könnten, und er schauderte bei dem Gedanken, alleine zu leiden und gegen die Angst anzukämpfen. Auch er hätte bereuen oder zumindest die Tragödie der Reue inszenieren wollen, um zu sehen, welche Wirkung es haben würde. Da er jedoch weder die Tränen noch die notwendigen Worte finden konnte, verfiel er wieder in Gewalt, um Thérèse zu erregen und sie zu wahnsinniger Wut zu verleiten. Aber die junge Frau blieb darauf bedacht, träge zu bleiben, seine Schreie der Wut mit tränenreicher Unterwerfung zu beantworten und seine Roheiten mit entsprechender Demut und Reue zu kontern. Laurent wurde so nach und nach in den Wahnsinn getrieben. Zur Krönung seiner Irritation endete Thérèse immer mit einer Lobeshymne auf Camille, um die Tugenden des Opfers zu beschreiben. "Er war gut", sagte sie, "und wir müssen sehr grausam gewesen sein, um einen warmherzigen Mann anzugreifen, der nie einen schlechten Gedanken hatte." "Ja, er war gut, das weiß ich", spottete Laurent. "Du meinst, er war ein Narr. Du hast vielleicht vergessen! Du hast behauptet, du wärst über das Geringste, was er sagte, irritiert gewesen, dass er keinen Ton von sich geben konnte, ohne Unsinn zu reden." "Lass das", sagte Thérèse. "Es bleibt dir nur noch, den Mann, den du ermordet hast, zu beleidigen. Du weißt nichts über die Gefühle einer Frau, Laurent; Camille liebte mich und ich liebte ihn." "Du hast ihn geliebt! Ach! wirklich, was für eine grandiose Vorstellung", rief Laurent aus. "Und natürlich war es, weil du deinen Mann geliebt hast, dass du mich als Liebhaber genommen hast. Ich erinnere mich an einen Tag, an dem wir zusammen waren, als du mir sagtest, Camille widere dich an, als du das Ende deiner Finger in sein Fleisch eindringen fühltest, als wäre es weiche Erde. Oh, ich weiß, warum du mich geliebt hast. Du brauchtest kraftvollere Arme als diejenigen dieses armen Teufels." "Ich habe ihn geliebt wie einen Bruder", antwortete Thérèse. "Er war der Sohn meiner Wohltäterin. Er hatte alle feinen Gefühle eines schwachen Mannes. Er zeigte sich edel und großzügig, hilfsbereit und liebevoll. Und wir haben ihn getötet, mein Gott, mein Gott!" Sie weinte und fiel in Ohnmacht. Madame Raquin warf ihr stechende Blicke zu und war empört, die Lobrede auf Camille von solchen Lippen zu hören. Laurent, der gegen diese Flut von Tränen nichts tun konnte, lief mit wütenden Schritten auf und ab und suchte in seinem Kopf nach Möglichkeiten, die Reue von Thérèse zu ersticken. Alles Gute, das er über sein Opfer hörte, verursachte ihm schmerzhafte Ängste. Hin und wieder ließ er sich von den herzergreifenden Betonungen seiner Frau einfangen. Er glaubte wirklich an die Tugenden von Camille und seine Angst verstärkte sich. Doch was seine Geduld über alle Maßen strapazierte, war der Vergleich, den die Witwe des Ertrunkenen zwischen ihrem ersten und zweiten Mann zog und der stets zu Gunsten des Ersteren ausfiel. "Nun gut! Ja", rief sie, "er war besser als du. Ich würde lieber wollen, dass er jetzt lebendig wäre und du an seiner Stelle unter der Erde." Laurent zuckte zunächst nur mit den Schultern. "Man kann sagen, was man will", fuhr sie fort und wurde immer hitziger, "auch wenn ich ihn vielleicht zu seinen Lebzeiten nicht geliebt habe Und Laurent, angespornt von dem, was sie sagte, schüttelte sie vor Wut, schlug sie, bläute ihren Körper mit geballten Fäusten. In zwei Fällen erwürgte er sie fast. Therese gab seinen Schlägen nach. Sie empfand eine starke Freude darin, geschlagen zu werden, sich hinzugeben, ihren Körper vorzuschieben, ihren Ehemann auf jede erdenkliche Weise zu provozieren, damit er sie halb totschlage. Das war ein weiteres Mittel gegen ihr Leiden. Sie schlief besser in der Nacht, wenn sie abends gründlich verprügelt worden war. Madame Raquin genoss höchstes Vergnügen, wenn Laurent ihre Nichte auf diese Weise über den Boden schleifte und sie mit Schlägen und Tritten misshandelte. Die Existenz des Mörders war seit dem Tag, als Therese die teuflische Idee hatte, Reue zu empfinden und um Camille laut zu trauern, schrecklich geworden. Von diesem Moment an lebte das Scheusal unablässig mit seinem Opfer. Zu jeder Stunde musste er seiner Frau zuhören, wie sie ihren ersten Ehemann lobte und bedauerte. Der geringste Vorfall wurde zum Vorwand: Camille hat dies getan, Camille hat das getan, Camille hatte solche und solche Eigenschaften, Camille liebte auf diese und jene Weise. Es war immer Camille! Immer wieder traurige Bemerkungen über seinen Tod. Therese griff zu ihrer ganzen Boshaftigkeit, um diese Folter, die sie Laurent zufügte, um sich selbst zu schützen, so grausam wie möglich zu gestalten. Sie ging ins Detail, erzählte tausend unbedeutende Ereignisse aus ihrer Jugend, begleitet von Seufzern und Bedauern, und vermischte so die Erinnerung an den ertrunkenen Mann mit jeder Handlung ihres täglichen Lebens. Die Leiche, die bereits das Haus heimsuchte, wurde dort offen eingeführt. Sie setzte sich auf die Stühle, nahm ihren Platz am Tisch ein, breitete sich auf dem Bett aus und benutzte die verschiedenen Möbelstücke und herumliegenden Gegenstände. Laurent konnte nichts anfassen, keine Gabel, keine Bürste, ohne dass Therese ihm spüren ließ, dass Camille es zuvor berührt hatte. Der Mörder, der praktisch beständig gegen den Mann, den er getötet hatte, gestoßen wurde, endete damit, eine seltsame Empfindung zu erleben, die ihn fast in den Wahnsinn trieb. Indem er so ständig mit Camille verglichen wurde, indem er die verschiedenen Gegenstände benutzte, die Camille benutzt hatte, bildete er sich ein, er selbst sei Camille, dass er identisch mit seinem Opfer sei. Dann, mit einem Gehirn, das kurz vor dem Platzen war, griff er seine Frau an, um sie zum Schweigen zu bringen, damit er die Worte, die ihn verrückt machten, nicht mehr hören musste. Alle ihre Streitigkeiten endeten nun in Schlägereien. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem sie ihren Körper geschwächt und ihre Gelenke steif werden sieht, findet sich Mme Raquin durch einen plötzlichen Schlaganfall in einem völlig gelähmten Zustand wieder. Mit Mme Raquins absoluter Lähmung beginnt eine neue Phase im Leben von Therese und Laurent, die von Verzweiflung geprägt ist. Ohne das ständige Gerede der alten Frau müssen sie sich mit ihrer mörderischen Entscheidung und den Schrecken der anhaltenden Anwesenheit von Camille auseinandersetzen. Therese jedoch findet in der Pflege der bewegungslosen alten Frau Ablenkung und ein wenig Trost und sie ist sehr gut darin, Mme Raquins Bedürfnissen gerecht zu werden. Die Donnerstagabend-Gäste haben ihren eigenen Weg, mit der Veränderung umzugehen: Sie tun so, als ob mit Mme Raquin nichts passiert wäre. Grivet macht sogar Witze mit der gelähmten Frau und tut so, als ob er ihre Wünsche perfekt verstünde, obwohl er in Wahrheit jeden ihrer Wünsche falsch liest oder falsch auslegt. Dennoch kann die gelähmte Mme Raquin immer noch recht effektiv kommunizieren; ihre Augen können eine erstaunliche Bandbreite an Ausdrücken annehmen und mit großer Genauigkeit zeigen, was sie fühlt und denkt. Mme Raquin glaubt, dass sie im Frieden sterben wird, umgeben von ihrer geliebten kleinen Familie. Allerdings wird sie eines Besseren belehrt. Nachdem sie Therese und Laurent mehrere Wochen lang genau beobachtet hat, erahnt Mme Raquin die wahre, gequälte Beziehung zwischen dem jungen Paar und versteht, was der Ursprung ihres Handelns ist - der Mord an Camille. Und Mme Raquin verändert sich. Sie will Gott verleugnen, weil er sie so lange getäuscht hat, indem er sie an die Güte der Menschen hat glauben lassen. Sie ist jetzt motiviert von dem Wunsch, Rache an den Mördern ihres Sohnes zu sehen. Therese und Laurent werden schnell klar, dass die alte Frau ihr Geheimnis entdeckt hat, aber sie bleiben weiterhin für ihre Bedürfnisse da. Von Laurent herumgetragen zu werden und von Therese betreut zu werden, ist jetzt eine Qual für Mme Raquin. Da sie wissen, dass ihr Geheimnis entdeckt wurde, müssen Therese und Laurent entscheiden, wie sie mit Mme Raquin umgehen sollen. Therese glaubt, dass Mme Raquin einen Weg finden wird, ihre Kenntnisse mitzuteilen, trotz ihrer Lähmung, doch Laurent fürchtet eher, dass Verdacht erregt wird, wenn Mme Raquin nicht aus dem Blickfeld gebracht wird. So beschließen die beiden Komplizen, dass Mme Raquin weiterhin an den Donnerstagabenden teilnehmen wird. Beim nächsten Treffen sammelt Mme Raquin ihre letzten Kräfte und versucht, den Mord bekannt zu machen; sie kann sich nur mit ihrer rechten Hand bewegen, aber das reicht aus. Leider wird ihre Versuche, ihr Wissen mitzuteilen, von Grivet behindert, der versucht, ihre Bedeutung zu entschlüsseln. Mme Raquin ist dennoch in der Lage, die folgende Botschaft zu zeichnen: "Therese und Laurent sind..." Und dann versagen ihre Kräfte. Grivet beendet den Satz unvorteilhafterweise, indem er behauptet, Mme Raquin habe schreiben wollen "Therese und Laurent kümmern sich gut um mich." Die alte Frau ist niedergeschlagen, gefangen in ihrer eigenen Niederlage und Nutzlosigkeit. Die Beziehung zwischen Therese und Laurent ist geprägt von zunehmendem Groll und Gewalt. Jeden Abend bricht ein lauter Streit aus und die beiden Mörder - die sich gegenseitig unausweichlich gefangen fühlen - geben sich gegenseitig die Schuld an Camilles Mord und ihren folgenden Unglücksschicksalen. Gezwungen, diesen Auseinandersetzungen zuzuhören, erfährt Mme Raquin die Details vom Tod ihres Sohnes. Die alte Frau ärgert sich, dass Therese gelegentlich reumütig klingt und um Vergebung für ihre Verbrechen gegen Camille bittet. Mme Raquin ist jedoch erfreut über die Richtung, die diese Streitereien bald nehmen; anstatt nur Thereses Vorwürfen zu antworten und Beleidigungen zu erwidern, fängt Laurent bald an, seine Frau zu schlagen. Nun tritt Thereses Versuch, ihrer Vergangenheit zu entfliehen, in eine neue Phase ein. Die junge Frau nähert sich regelmäßig Mme Raquin, um um Vergebung zu flehen, oft durch ausgeklügelte Reden und tränenreiche Demonstrationen und oft in Anwesenheit von Laurent. Therese nimmt sich die Freiheit, Laurent zu kritisieren und den verstorbenen Camille zu loben. Diese Demonstrationen sind für Laurent einfach nur scheinheilig und provozieren seinen Rasereizustand noch mehr. Er greift Therese nun regelmäßig an, doch leidet er auch unter der beunruhigenden, wahrnehmungsverändernden Empfindung, dass er selbst zu Camille wird.

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: KAPITEL VI. VON DEN EINWOHNERN LILLIPUTS; IHREM WISSEN, GESETZEN UND GEBRÄUCHEN; DIE ART UND WEISE, WIE DER AUTOR IN DIESEM LAND LEBT. Obwohl ich beabsichtige, die Beschreibung dieses Reiches einem speziellen Abhandlung zu überlassen, so bin ich dennoch bereit, den neugierigen Leser mit einigen allgemeinen Vorstellungen zu befriedigen. Da die durchschnittliche Größe der Eingeborenen etwas unter sechs Zoll liegt, so besteht eine exakte Proportion bei allen anderen Tieren sowie Pflanzen und Bäumen: Zum Beispiel sind die größten Pferde und Kühe zwischen vier und fünf Zoll hoch, die Schafe einen Zoll und eine Hälfte mehr oder weniger; Ihre Gänse sind etwa so groß wie eine Spatz und so weiter in absteigenden Abstufungen, bis man zu den kleinsten gelangt, die ich kaum sehen konnte; aber die Natur hat die Augen der Lilliputaner an alle für ihre Sicht geeigneten Objekte angepasst; sie sehen sehr genau, aber nicht auf große Entfernung. Um die Schärfe ihres Blickes in Bezug auf nahe Objekte zu zeigen, habe ich mich oft darüber gefreut, einer Köchin zuzusehen, die eine Lerche plückte, die nicht größer war als eine gewöhnliche Fliege; und einem Mädchen, das eine unsichtbare Nadel mit unsichtbarer Seide einreihte. Ihre höchsten Bäume sind etwa sieben Fuß hoch; Ich meine einige von denen in dem großen königlichen Park, deren Spitzen ich nur erreichen konnte, wenn ich die Faust geballt hatte. Die anderen Pflanzen haben die gleiche Proportion; aber das überlasse ich der Vorstellungskraft des Lesers. Ich werde vorerst wenig über ihr Wissen sagen, das seit vielen Jahrhunderten in allen Bereichen bei ihnen geblüht hat; aber ihre Schreibweise ist sehr besonders, sie erfolgt weder von links nach rechts wie bei den Europäern, noch von rechts nach links wie bei den Arabern, noch von oben nach unten wie bei den Chinesen, sondern schräg von einer Ecke des Papiers zur anderen, wie es die Damen in England tun. Sie begraben ihre Toten mit den Köpfen direkt nach unten, weil sie die Meinung vertreten, dass sie in elftausend Monden alle wieder auferstehen werden, in welchem Zeitraum die Erde (die sie flach ist) sich umdrehen wird, und auf diese Weise werden sie bei der Auferstehung bereit sein, aufrecht zu stehen. Die Gelehrten unter ihnen gestehen die Absurdität dieser Doktrin ein, aber die Praxis hält sich weiterhin aus Rücksicht auf das gemeine Volk. Es gibt einige Gesetze und Bräuche in diesem Reich, die sehr eigenartig sind; und wenn sie nicht so direkt im Gegensatz zu denen meines eigenen lieben Landes wären, wäre ich versucht, ein wenig zu ihrer Rechtfertigung zu sagen. Es wäre nur zu wünschen, dass sie ebenso gut ausgeführt würden. Das erste, das ich erwähnen werde, betrifft die Denunzianten. Alle Verbrechen gegen den Staat werden hier mit äußerster Strenge bestraft; aber wenn die Person, die beschuldigt wird, ihre Unschuld während des Prozesses deutlich nachweist, wird der Ankläger sofort auf eine schändliche Weise hingerichtet; und aus seinem Vermögen oder Grundbesitz wird der unschuldige Mensch vierfach für den Verlust seiner Zeit, für die Gefahr, die er erlebt hat, für die Härte seiner Gefangenschaft und für alle Kosten, die er für seine Verteidigung getragen hat, entschädigt, oder falls dieser Fonds unzureichend ist, wird es vom Kronstaat großzügig ergänzt. Der Kaiser erwählt ihm auch irgendein öffentliches Zeichen seiner Gunst, und es wird in der ganzen Stadt seine Unschuld verkündet. Sie halten Betrug für ein größeres Verbrechen als Diebstahl und bestrafen es daher selten mit dem Tod; denn sie führen an, dass Vorsicht und Wachsamkeit sowie ein sehr gewöhnlicher Verstand das Eigentum eines Menschen vor Dieben schützen können, aber Ehrlichkeit keine Verteidigung gegen überlegene List hat; und da es notwendig ist, dass es einen ständigen Austausch von Kauf und Verkauf sowie Geschäfte auf Kredit gibt, wo Betrug erlaubt und geduldet wird oder keine Gesetze hat, um ihn zu bestrafen, wird der ehrliche Händler immer zugrunde gehen und der Schurke profitieren. Ich erinnere mich, als ich einmal bei dem König für einen Verbrecher intervenierte, der seinem Herrn eine große Summe Geld gestohlen hatte, die er auf Anordnung erhalten und mitgenommen hatte, und zufällig Seiner Majestät, zur Milderung, erzählte, dass es nur ein Vertrauensbruch war, hielt der Kaiser es für monströs von mir, die größte Verschlimmerung des Verbrechens als Verteidigung anzubieten und ehrlich gesagt hatte ich außer der üblichen Antwort, dass verschiedene Nationen verschiedene Gebräuche haben, wenig zu sagen und war zutiefst beschämt. Obwohl wir Belohnung und Bestrafung gewöhnlich als die beiden Scharniere bezeichnen, auf denen sich jede Regierung dreht, konnte ich diese Maxime nie in der Praxis von irgendeiner Nation beobachten, außer der von Lilliput. Wer auch immer dort ausreichende Beweise vorlegen kann, dass er für dreiundsiebzig Monde die Gesetze seines Landes streng befolgt hat, hat Anspruch auf bestimmte Privilegien gemäß seiner Qualität und Lebensumstände mit einer proportionalen Summe aus einem dafür vorgesehenen Fonds; er erwirbt auch den Titel "snillpall" oder "legal", der seinem Namen hinzugefügt wird, aber nicht auf seine Nachkommen übergeht. Und diese Leute hielten es für einen ungeheuren politischen Mangel bei uns, als ich ihnen sagte, dass unsere Gesetze nur durch Strafen durchgesetzt werden, ohne eine Erwähnung von Belohnung. Aus diesem Grund ist das Bild der Gerechtigkeit in ihren Gerichten mit sechs Augen gebildet, zwei vorne, ebenso viele hinten und auf jeder Seite eines, um Vorsicht anzuzeigen; in ihrer rechten Hand hält sie einen offenen Goldbeutel und in ihrer linken eine Schwertscheide, um zu zeigen, dass sie eher geneigt ist zu belohnen als zu bestrafen. Bei der Auswahl von Personen für alle Positionen haben sie mehr Rücksicht auf gute Moral als auf große Fähigkeiten; denn da Regierung für die Menschheit notwendig ist, glauben sie, dass die durchschnittliche Größe des menschlichen Verständnisses für eine oder andere Position geeignet ist und dass die Vorsehung nie die Verwaltung öffentlicher Angelegenheiten zu einem Mysterium machen wollte, das nur von wenigen Personen von erhabenem Genie verstanden werden kann, von denen in einem Zeitalter selten drei geboren werden; Aber sie nehmen an, dass Wahrheit, Gerechtigkeit, Mäßigung und ähnliches in der Macht jedes Menschen liegen, deren Praxis, unterstützt durch Erfahrung und eine gute Absicht, jeden Menschen für den Dienst an seinem Land qualifizieren würde, außer wo ein Studium erforderlich ist. Aber sie hielten es für so weit davon entfernt, dass der Mangel an moralischen Tugenden durch überlegene Begabungen des Geistes ersetzt wurde, dass Posten nie in so gefährliche Hände von Personen gelegt werden könnten, die so qualifiziert waren; und zumindest wären die Fehler, die durch Unwissenheit in einer tugendhaften Veranlagung begangen wurden, niem Die Kinderstuben für männliche Kinder von adligem oder hervorragendem Stand werden mit ernsthaften und gelehrten Professoren sowie deren Stellvertretern versorgt. Die Kleidung und das Essen der Kinder sind schlicht und einfach. Sie werden in den Prinzipien von Ehre, Gerechtigkeit, Mut, Bescheidenheit, Barmherzigkeit, Religion und Liebe zu ihrem Land erzogen; sie sind immer mit irgendeiner Tätigkeit beschäftigt, außer während der Essens- und Schlafenszeiten, die sehr kurz sind, sowie zwei Stunden für Vergnügungen in Form von körperlichen Übungen. Bis zum Alter von vier Jahren werden sie von Männern gekleidet und dann sind sie verpflichtet, sich selbst anzukleiden, auch wenn ihr Stand noch so hoch ist; die weiblichen Bediensteten, die proportional zu unseren Frauen im Alter von fünfzig Jahren sind, nehmen lediglich die niedrigsten Dienste wahr. Sie dürfen nie mit Dienern sprechen, sondern gehen in kleineren oder größeren Gruppen zusammen, um sich zu vergnügen, und immer in der Anwesenheit eines Professors oder eines seiner Stellvertreter, um frühzeitige schlechte Eindrücke von Narrheit und Laster, denen unsere Kinder ausgesetzt sind, zu vermeiden. Ihre Eltern dürfen sie nur zweimal im Jahr sehen; der Besuch dauert nur eine Stunde; sie dürfen das Kind bei der Begrüßung und dem Abschied küssen; aber der Professor, der bei solchen Gelegenheiten immer dabei steht, wird ihnen nicht erlauben zu flüstern oder irgendwelche zärtlichen Äußerungen zu machen oder Geschenke wie Spielzeug, Süßigkeiten und dergleichen mitzubringen. Die Pension von jeder Familie für die Erziehung und Unterhaltung eines Kindes wird von den Beamten des Kaisers eingezogen, wenn die Zahlung nicht erfolgt. Die Kinderstuben für Kinder einfacher Herren, Kaufleute, Händler und Handwerker werden proportional auf die gleiche Art und Weise geführt; nur diejenigen, die für Handwerke bestimmt sind, werden mit elf Jahren in die Lehre geschickt, während Personen von Adel bis zum fünfzehnten Lebensjahr in ihrer Ausbildung bleiben, was bei uns einem Alter von einundzwanzig Jahren entspricht; aber die Einschränkung wird in den letzten drei Jahren nach und nach verringert. In den Kinderstuben für Mädchen von adeliger Herkunft werden die jungen Mädchen ähnlich wie die Jungen erzogen, nur werden sie von ordentlichen Dienerinnen ihres eigenen Geschlechts gekleidet; jedoch immer in der Anwesenheit eines Professors oder eines Stellvertreters, bis sie sich mit fünf Jahren selbst anziehen können. Und wenn festgestellt wird, dass diese Bediensteten es wagen, die Mädchen mit erschreckenden oder albernen Geschichten zu unterhalten oder die gewöhnlichen Torheiten zu praktizieren, die von den Zimmermädchen unter uns ausgeübt werden, werden sie öffentlich dreimal in der Stadt ausgepeitscht, für ein Jahr ins Gefängnis gesteckt und für den Rest ihres Lebens in den abgelegensten Teil des Landes verbannt. Daher schämen sich die jungen Damen dort genauso sehr wie die Männer, feige und töricht zu sein, und verachten jegliche persönliche Schmuckstücke jenseits von Anstand und Sauberkeit: Ich habe keinen Unterschied in ihrer Bildung aufgrund ihres Geschlechts festgestellt, außer dass die Übungen der Frauen nicht ganz so robust waren und ihnen einige Regeln mit Blick auf das häusliche Leben gegeben wurden, und ihnen ein kleinerer Lernumfang auferlegt wurde: bei ihrer Maxime, dass eine Ehefrau bei Leuten von Adel immer eine vernünftige und angenehme Gefährtin sein sollte, da sie nicht immer jung sein kann. Wenn die Mädchen zwölf Jahre alt sind, was bei ihnen das heiratsfähige Alter ist, nehmen ihre Eltern oder Vormünder sie unter großem Dank an die Professoren mit nach Hause, oft begleitet von Tränen der jungen Dame und ihren Gefährtinnen. In den Kinderstuben für Mädchen niedrigeren Standes werden die Kinder in allen für ihr Geschlecht und ihre unterschiedlichen Grade geeigneten Arbeiten unterrichtet; diejenigen, die für die Lehre bestimmt sind, werden mit sieben Jahren entlassen, die anderen bleiben bis elf Jahre. Die Familien, die Kinder in diesen Kinderstuben haben, sind verpflichtet, zusätzlich zu ihrer jährlichen Pension, die so niedrig wie möglich ist, dem Verwalter der Kinderstube einen kleinen monatlichen Anteil ihrer Einkünfte als Mitgift für das Kind zurückzugeben; daher sind alle Eltern durch das Gesetz in ihren Ausgaben begrenzt. Denn die Lilliputaner halten es für äußerst ungerecht, dass die Menschen die Last der Unterstützung ihrer Kinder der Allgemeinheit aufbürden. Was Personen von Adel betrifft, geben sie Sicherheit für die Zuweisung eines bestimmten Betrags für jedes Kind, entsprechend ihrer Stellung; und diese fonds werden immer mit gutem Wirtschaftssinn und äußerster Gerechtigkeit verwaltet. Die Bauern und Arbeiter behalten ihre Kinder zu Hause, da ihre Aufgabe nur darin besteht, das Land zu bearbeiten und zu kultivieren, und daher ist ihre Bildung für die Öffentlichkeit von geringer Bedeutung; aber die alten und kranken unter ihnen werden von Krankenhäusern unterstützt, denn Betteln ist in diesem Reich ein unbekanntes Gewerbe. Und hier mag es den neugierigen Leser möglicherweise interessieren, einige Informationen über meine häusliche Situation und meine Lebensweise in diesem Land während eines Aufenthalts von neun Monaten und dreizehn Tagen zu erhalten. Da ich Verständnis für Mechanik hatte und auch durch die Notwendigkeit gezwungen war, hatte ich mir einen Tisch und einen Stuhl aus den größten Bäumen im königlichen Park gemacht, die bequem genug waren. Zweihundert Näherinnen wurden beschäftigt, um mir Hemden und Bett- und Tischwäsche, alles von der stärksten und groben Art, zu machen; jedoch mussten sie diese in mehreren Lagen zusammennähen, da der dickste Grad feiner war als Batist. Ihre Wäsche ist normalerweise drei Zoll breit und drei Fuß ergeben eine Stück. Die Näherinnen nahmen mein Maß, als ich auf dem Boden lag, während eine am Hals und eine andere am Unterschenkelende stand und eine starke Schnur hielt, die jede am Ende hielt, während eine dritte die Länge der Schnur mit einer Zoll-Lang-Rute maß. Dann maß sie meinen rechten Daumen und verlangte nicht mehr; denn durch eine mathematische Berechnung bedeutet das zweimal um den Daumen herum einmal um das Handgelenk, und so weiter bis zum Hals und zur Taille, und mit Hilfe meines alten Hemdes, das ich vor ihnen auf dem Boden ausgelegt hatte, als Modell, passten sie mich genau an. Dreihundert Schneider wurden auf die gleiche Weise beschäftigt, um mir Kleidung zu machen; aber sie hatten eine andere Methode, um mein Maß zu nehmen. Ich kniete nieder und sie errichteten eine Leiter vom Boden bis zu meinem Hals; auf dieser Leiter stieg einer von ihnen hinauf und ließ eine Senkrechte von meinem Kragen bis zum Boden fallen, die genau der Länge meines Mantels entsprach; aber meine Taille und Arme habe ich selbst gemessen. Als meine Kleidung fertig war, was in meinem Haus geschah (denn das größte ihrer Häuser hätte sie nicht halten können), sah es aus wie die Patchwork-Arbeiten, die die Damen in England machen, nur dass meine alle von einer Farbe waren. Ich hatte dreihundert Köche, die meine Mahlzeiten in kleinen, bequemen Hütten in der Nähe meines Hauses zubereiteten, in denen sie und ihre Familien lebten und mir zwei Gerichte pro Person zubereiteten. Ich nahm zwanzig Kellner in meine Hand und setzte sie auf den Tisch; einhundert weitere warteten unten auf dem Boden, einige mit Fleischgerichten und einige mit Fässern Wein und anderen Getränken, die auf ihren Schultern hingen; all diese wurden von den Kellnern nach oben gezogen, wie ich es wollte, auf eine sehr einfallsreiche Weise, mit bestimmten Seilen, wie wir einen Eimer aus dem Brunnen in Europa hochziehen. Eine Portion ihres Fleisches war ein guter Bissen und ein Fass ihres Getränks ein angemessener Schluck. Ihr Lammfleisch steht unserem nach, aber ihr Rindfleisch ist ausgezeichnet, ich hatte ein Filetsteak, das so groß war, dass ich es dreimal nehmen musste, um es zu essen; dies ist jedoch selten. Meine Bediensteten waren erstaunt, mich es zu sehen, Knochen und alles zu essen, so wie wir in unserem Land das Bein einer Lerche tun. Ihre Gänse und Puten esse ich normalerweise in einem Bissen, und ich muss zugeben, dass sie unsere bei weitem übertreffen. Von ihren kleineren Vögeln konnte ich zwanzig oder dreißig mit dem Ende meines Messers nehmen. Eines Tages wünschte seine kaiserliche Majestät, nachdem er von meiner Lebensweise erfahren hatte, dass er selbst und seine königliche Gemahlin mit den jungen Prinzen beider Geschlechter das Glück haben könnten, wie er es gerne nannte, mit mir zu speisen. Sie kamen folglich, und ich setzte sie auf Staatsstühle an meinen Tisch, genau gegenüber von mir, mit ihren Wachen um sie herum. Auch Flimnap, der Lord High Treasurer, war dort anwesend, mit seinem weißen Stab; und ich bemerkte, dass er mich oft mit einem grimmigen Gesichtsausdruck ansah, dem ich jedoch nicht zu beachten schien, sondern mehr als üblich aß, um mein geliebtes Land zu ehren und den Hof mit Bewunderung zu erfüllen. Ich habe einige private Gründe zu glauben, dass dieser Besuch von seiner Majestät Flimnap die Gelegenheit gab, meinem Herrn schlechte Dienste zu erweisen. Dieser Minister war mir immer heimlicher Feind gewesen, obwohl er mich äußerlich mehr umgarnte, als es der Miesepetrigkeit seiner Natur entsprach. Er machte dem Kaiser die schlechte Lage seiner Schatzkammer deutlich; dass er gezwungen war, Geld zu einem hohen Rabatt aufzunehmen; dass Schatzpfandbriefe unter dem Nennwert nicht im Umlauf waren; dass ich Seine Majestät mehr als eine Million und eineinhalb Sprugs (ihre größte Goldmünze, ungefähr so groß wie ein Paillett) gekostet hatte; und insgesamt wäre es ratsam für den Kaiser, mich bei erster Gelegenheit zu entlassen. 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.

Gulliver gibt dem Leser Informationen über die Kultur der Lilliputaner und die persönliche Behandlung, die er von ihnen erhält. Was das Lilliputanische Rechtssystem betrifft, so sagt Gulliver, dass Hochverrat streng bestraft wird, was nicht besonders überraschend ist, aber andere Gesetze sind es schon. Diese Gesetze bestrafen einen erfolglosen Ankläger genauso schwer wie einen Verräter; Betrug wird am häufigsten mit dem Tod bestraft; und jeder unschuldige Mann, der einer Anschuldigung freigesprochen wird, wird belohnt. Interessanterweise ist Undankbarkeit ein Kapitalverbrechen. Statt kluger Männer werden moralische Männer in mächtige Positionen berufen und Atheisten sind von allen Regierungsämtern ausgeschlossen. Um den scheinbaren Widerspruch zwischen diesen guten Gesetzen und den verderbten Seiltänzern zu erklären, sagt Gulliver, dass letztere vom Großvater des amtierenden Kaisers eingeführt wurden. Die Lilliputaner glauben, dass Eltern aus sexuellem Verlangen und nicht aus Liebe zu den Kindern heiraten. Daher leugnen sie jegliche familiäre Pflicht und richten öffentliche Schulen für Kinder ein. Eltern mit Kindern in der Schule bezahlen für die Unterhaltung jedes Kindes und werden gezwungen, diejenigen zu versorgen, die sie zeugen. Die Schulen für junge Adlige sind spartanisch und die Schüler werden in Ehre, Gerechtigkeit, Mut, Bescheidenheit, Milde, Religion und Patriotismus ausgebildet. Die Schulen für Handwerker und normale Herren sind ähnlich wie die der Adligen, aber die Dauer der Ausbildung ist kürzer. Die Lilliputaner erziehen Frauen dazu, vernünftig, liebenswert und belesen zu sein. Arbeiter und Bauern haben keine Schulen. In seiner Erzählung beschreibt Gulliver den Besuch des Kaisers und seiner Familie. Sie kommen zum Abendessen mit Gulliver und bringen Flimnap mit. Das Abendessen erweist sich als Desaster, weil Flimnap, der königliche Schatzmeister, entsetzt ist, als er die Kosten für die Versorgung und Unterbringung von Gulliver beziffert. Zusätzlich beschuldigt Flimnap, dass seine Frau von Gulliver angezogen ist und ihn heimlich besucht hat.

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: XXXI. OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT. "LONDON. "DEAREST PEOPLE,-- "Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started. "I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid. [Illustration: "Every one was very kind, especially the officers."--Page 378.] "Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture. "It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore _so_ picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it. "At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,--Mr. Lennox,--and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed and sung, with a look at me,-- 'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.' Wasn't that nonsensical? "We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved _à la_ mutton-chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em the latest Yankee shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I _must_ tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling. "I never _shall_ get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,--the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,--I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,--'Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo, darting to my window,--'How sweet! We must go there some time, won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,--'No, my dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.' "A pause,--then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa, aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and I have the scenery all to myself. "Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid; things seem so cheap--nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich? "Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,-- "'Now then, mum?' "I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate. "To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep; dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them. "Rotten Row means '_Route de Roi_,' or the king's way; but now it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one rides,--old men, stout ladies, little children,--and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea. "In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible--so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. "MIDNIGHT. "It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was _so_ surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers; Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did have _such_ a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it? "Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I _must_ stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving AMY." "DEAR GIRLS,-- "PARIS. "In my last I told you about our London visit,--how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else,--for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, _I_ think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows,--especially Fred. "Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the '_parley vooing_,' as uncle calls it. "Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafés_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art; but _I_ have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to write. "The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,--so full of _bijouterie_ and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are _très magnifique_. I've seen the imperial family several times,--the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, _I_ thought,--purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a mounted guard before and behind. [Illustration: I've seen the imperial family several times] "We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy. "Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew,--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower. "Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised. It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles. "Adieu; I embrace you tenderly. VOTRE AMIE." "MY DEAR MAMMA,-- "HEIDELBERG. "Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see. "The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw,--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone. "When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away,--to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it. "The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me. "Now comes the serious part,--for it happened here, and Fred is just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich,--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us _must_ marry well; Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his friend,--a rakish-looking baron,--about '_ein wonderschönes Blöndchen_,' Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes. "Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,--at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine; so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a real story-book girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool, and only a little excited. [Illustration: Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall] "By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he said, as he shook hands,--and said it in a way that I could not mistake,--'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?' "I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he says 'Will you, please?' "Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your 'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me. "Ever your AMY." 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.

Dieses Kapitel besteht aus einigen von Amys Briefen an ihre Familie aus Europa. Der erste Brief ist aus London geschrieben. Amy, zusammen mit ihrer Tante und ihrem Onkel Carrol und ihrer Cousine Flo, wohnt in einem Hotel in Piccadilly. Amy sagt, dass sie eine ziemlich gute Zeit an Bord des Schiffes hatte, auf dem Weg nach London, nachdem sie ihre erste Seekrankheit überwunden hatte. Ihre Tante und Cousine waren die meiste Zeit seekrank, also verbrachte sie viel Zeit allein an Deck und beobachtete die Wellen. Ihr Schiff legte an der Küste Irlands an, was wunderschön war. Einer der Männer, die Amy an Bord des Schiffes traf, Mr. Lennox, rezitierte ihr eine Limerick, bevor er ging. Das Schiff fuhr dann für einige Stunden nach Liverpool, wo Onkel Carrol das richtige Zubehör kaufte und die richtige Frisur bekam, um so auszusehen, wie ein Brite - oder zumindest denkt er das. Auch in Liverpool brachte einer von Mr. Lennox' Freunden Amy einen Blumenstrauß von ihm. Amy und ihre Familie reisten von Liverpool nach London quer durch das Land. Die Reise war wirklich malerisch; Amy und Flo waren von allem aufgeregt, Onkel Carrol las ruhig sein Reiseführer, und Tante Carrol schlief ein. Als sie in London ankamen, regnete es. Das erste, was Tante Carrol tat, war, Amy einige schöne Kleider zu kaufen. Während Tante und Onkel Carrol in ihrem Hotelzimmer ein Nickerchen machten, fuhren Amy und Flo mit einer Pferdedroschke spazieren, obwohl sie später herausfanden, dass sie sich unangemessen benommen hatten. Der Kutscher fuhr entweder sehr schnell oder sehr langsam. Am neuesten waren sie mit der Familie in den Hyde Park gegangen, einem äußerst modischen Park in einem gehobenen Teil von London. Sie beobachteten Leute und sahen viele Aristokraten. Sie fuhren auch entlang einer schicken Straße namens "Rotten Row", was eine Verfälschung von "Route de Roi" oder "Weg des Königs" ist. Viele Menschen ritten, und Amy fand es lustig, den englischen Reitstil anstelle des amerikanischen zu sehen. Am Abend gingen sie zur Westminster Abbey. Amy versucht sie nicht zu beschreiben, weil sie zu fantastisch war. Das ist das Ende des ersten Briefes, aber dann fügt Amy ein P.S. hinzu, um zu sagen, dass Lauries englische Freunde, die Zwillinge Fred und Frank Vaughn, sie besucht haben. Sie und Fred, der jetzt ziemlich gut aussieht, haben über alte Zeiten gesprochen. Amys zweiter Brief ist einige Zeit später aus Paris geschrieben. Sie verweist auf weitere Briefe aus London, die nicht im Roman enthalten sind, und erinnert ihre Familie an Sightseeing-Touren, die sie mit Fred und Frank Vaughn unternommen hat. Fred, sagt sie, war besonders nett. Jetzt sind Amy, ihre Tante, ihr Onkel und ihre Cousine in Paris, und Fred ist dort aufgetaucht, um sie zu besuchen! Anfangs missbilligte Amys Tante sein offenkundiges romantisches Interesse, aber jetzt sind sie froh, dass er da ist, weil er der Einzige von ihnen ist, der Französisch spricht. Amy genießt das Sightseeing in Paris, besonders die Kunst im Louvre und die Relikte berühmter Personen. Amy bewundert auch den Schmuck, den sie sieht. Fred möchte ihr etwas kaufen, aber sie lässt ihn nicht. Amy beschreibt Spaziergänge im berühmten Garten, dem Jardin des Tuileries, und die Aussicht aus ihrem Hotelfenster. Sie sagt, Fred ist viel bei ihnen, und er ist sehr unterhaltsam und hat gute Manieren. Nächste Woche, sagt Amy, gehen sie nach Deutschland und in die Schweiz, und sie wird nicht so viele Briefe schreiben können, da sie unterwegs sein werden. Das ist das Ende dieses Briefes. Der nächste Brief ist aus Heidelberg, in Deutschland, geschrieben und nur an Mrs. March adressiert. Amy beginnt damit zu sagen, dass sie etwas Zeit hat, bevor sie nach Bern, in der Schweiz, fahren, und ihrer Mutter erzählen muss, was passiert ist. Eines Abends sind Amy sagt, sie segelten bei Mondschein mit Fred den Rhein hinauf. Es war wunderschön, und eine Gruppe von Studenten, die sie trafen, serenadierte sie und ihre Cousine. An diesem Abend, nachdem sie nach Hause gekommen waren, serenadierten Fred und die Studenten sie wieder unter ihren Fenstern. Es war sehr romantisch, und sie warfen Blumen auf die Männer hinunter. Am nächsten Tag zeigte Fred Amy eine Blume, die er in seiner Tasche aufbewahrte. Sie sagte, Flo hätte sie geworfen, und er warf sie weg, aber sie fängt an zu bemerken, dass er an ihr interessiert ist. Amy erzählt ihrer Mutter, dass sie nie bemerkt hat, dass Fred an ihr interessiert war, und sie hat sich auch nicht wirklich in ihn verliebt. Dennoch hat sie beschlossen, dass sie, wenn er sie fragt, ob sie ihn heiraten will, Ja sagen wird. Amy nennt ihrer Mutter all die Vorteile von Fred: er ist gutaussehend, wohlhabend und klug, er liebt sie, und seine Familie mag sie. Reicht das nicht? Amy schreibt, dass jemand in der Familie gut heiraten muss - Meg hat es nicht getan, Jo wird es nicht tun, und Beth kann es nicht. Ihre Familie braucht Geld und gute Verbindungen, also wird sie dafür sorgen! Gestern Abend, sagt Amy, saß sie in einem Schloss, das sie besichtigten, und wartete darauf, dass Fred von der Abholung seiner Briefe zurückkommt. Sie fühlte sich wie ein Mädchen in einem Märchenbuch. Fred kam aufgeregt, wegen etwas, herein. Er erhielt einen Brief, der ihn aufforderte nach Hause zu kommen, weil sein Bruder Frank sehr krank ist. Fred bat Amy, ihn nicht zu vergessen. Sie machte keine Versprechungen, aber sie warf ihm einen liebevollen Blick zu, und er schien es als Versprechen zu akzeptieren. Amy erzählt ihrer Mutter, dass sie erwartet, dass Fred zurückkommt und ihr einen Heiratsantrag macht, und sie plant, Ja zu sagen. Und das ist das Ende des Briefes!

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: Der Wagen war noch keine kurze Strecke gefahren, als Carrie, die sich zurechtgesetzt hatte und durch die nächtliche Atmosphäre vollends wach geworden war, fragte: "Was ist mit ihm los? Ist er schwer verletzt?" "Es ist nichts Schlimmes," sagte Hurstwood feierlich. Er war sehr beunruhigt über seine eigene Situation und wollte jetzt, da er Carrie bei sich hatte, nur sicher außerhalb der Reichweite des Gesetzes sein. Daher hatte er nur Stimmungen für Worte, die seine Pläne eindeutig vorantreiben würden. Carrie vergaß nicht, dass es etwas zu klären gab zwischen ihr und Hurstwood, aber der Gedanke wurde von ihrer Unruhe ignoriert. Das einzige Ziel war es, diese seltsame Pilgerreise zu beenden. "Wo ist er?" "Ganz weit im Süden", sagte Hurstwood. "Wir müssen den Zug nehmen. Das ist der schnellste Weg." Carrie sagte nichts und das Pferd trabte weiter. Die Seltsamkeit der Stadt bei Nacht fesselte ihre Aufmerksamkeit. Sie betrachtete die langen zurückweichenden Reihen von Lampen und studierte die dunklen, stillen Häuser. "Wie hat er sich verletzt?", fragte sie - sie meinte, was war die Art seiner Verletzungen. Hurstwood verstand. Er hasste es, mehr zu lügen als nötig und wollte keine Proteste, bis er außer Gefahr war. "Ich weiß es nicht genau", sagte er. "Sie haben mich nur angerufen, um dich zu holen und dich hierher zu bringen. Sie meinten, es bestünde kein Grund zur Sorge, aber ich sollte dich auf jeden Fall mitbringen." Die ernste Haltung des Mannes überzeugte Carrie und sie schwieg und wunderte sich. Hurstwood sah auf seine Uhr und drängte den Mann, sich zu beeilen. Für jemanden in einer so heiklen Lage war er außerordentlich ruhig. Er konnte nur daran denken, wie nötig es war, den Zug zu erreichen und sich leise davonzumachen. Carrie schien ziemlich einsichtig zu sein, und er beglückwünschte sich selbst. Schließlich erreichten sie den Bahnhof, und nachdem er ihr geholfen hatte auszusteigen, gab er dem Mann einen Fünf-Dollar-Schein und eilte weiter. "'Warte hier", sagte er zu Carrie, als sie den Warteraum erreichten, "während ich die Tickets besorge." "Habe ich genug Zeit, um den Zug nach Detroit zu erwischen?", fragte er den Mitarbeiter. "Vier Minuten", antwortete dieser. Er bezahlte für zwei Tickets so umsichtig wie möglich. "Ist es weit?", fragte Carrie, als er eilig zurückkam. "Nicht sehr", sagte er. "Wir müssen jetzt einsteigen." Er schob sie vor sich am Eingang und stellte sich zwischen sie und den Fahrkartenmann, so dass sie nichts sehen konnte, und eilte dann hinterher. Es gab eine lange Reihe von Express- und Personenzügen und ein oder zwei gewöhnliche Tageswagen. Da der Zug erst kürzlich zusammengestellt worden war und nur wenige Fahrgäste erwartet wurden, warteten nur ein oder zwei Zugführer. Sie stiegen in den hinteren Tageswagen ein und setzten sich. Kurz darauf erklang aus der Ferne leise "Alles einsteigen" von außen und der Zug fuhr an. Carrie begann zu denken, dass es etwas merkwürdig war, zu einem Bahnhof zu gehen, aber sagte nichts. Die ganze Situation war so unnatürlich, dass sie den Dingen, die sie sich vorstellte, nicht allzu viel Bedeutung beimessen konnte. "Wie geht es dir?", fragte Hurstwood sanft, denn jetzt atmete er erleichtert auf. "Sehr gut", sagte Carrie, die so aufgewühlt war, dass sie sich nicht angemessen mit der Angelegenheit befassen konnte. Sie war immer noch nervös, zu Drouet zu kommen und zu sehen, was los sein könnte. Hurstwood bemerkte das und fühlte mit. Es störte ihn nicht, dass es so war. Er machte sich keine Gedanken, weil sie sympathisch auf die Angelegenheit reagierte. Es war eine der Eigenschaften an ihr, die ihm außerordentlich gefielen. Er dachte nur darüber nach, wie er es erklären sollte. Doch dies war nicht das Ernsthafteste in seinem Kopf. Seine eigene Tat und seine gegenwärtige Flucht waren die großen Schatten, die ihn beschwerten. "Was für ein Narr ich war, das zu tun", sagte er immer wieder. "Was für ein Fehler!" In seinem nüchternen Bewusstsein konnte er kaum begreifen, dass die Tat geschehen war. Er konnte nicht einmal anfangen zu fühlen, dass er ein Flüchtiger vor dem Gesetz war. Er hatte oft davon gelesen und gedacht, dass es schrecklich sein müsse, aber jetzt, da die Sache auf ihn gekommen war, saß er nur da und blickte in die Vergangenheit. Die Zukunft war etwas, das die kanadische Grenze betraf. Dort wollte er hin. Was den Rest betraf, überdachte er seine Handlungen für den Abend und zählte sie als Teil eines großen Fehlers. "Trotzdem", sagte er, "was hätte ich tun können?" Dann entschied er sich, das Beste daraus zu machen, und begann von vorne mit der ganzen Untersuchung. Es war ein fruchtloser, quälender Kreis und versetzte ihn in eine seltsame Stimmung, um mit dem Vorschlag umzugehen, den er bei Carrie hatte. Der Zug ratterte durch die Bahnhofsgleise entlang der Seefront und fuhr ziemlich langsam bis zur Twenty-fourth Street. Bremsen und Signale waren von außen sichtbar. Die Lokomotive gab kurze Rufe mit ihrem Pfeifen ab und häufig erklang die Glocke. Mehrere Zugführer kamen mit Laternen durch und verschlossen die Eingänge und brachten die Waggons für eine lange Fahrt in Ordnung. Bald begann der Zug an Geschwindigkeit zuzunehmen und Carrie sah, wie die stillen Straßen in schneller Folge vorbeihuschten. Die Lokomotive begann auch ihre Pfeifrufe in vier Teilen, mit denen sie auf wichtige Kreuzungen hinwies. "Ist es sehr weit?", fragte Carrie. "Nicht so sehr", sagte Hurstwood. Er konnte ein Lächeln über ihre Einfachheit kaum unterdrücken. Er wollte sie erklären und besänftigen, aber er wollte auch gut aus Chicago herauskommen. Nach einer weiteren halben Stunde wurde Carrie klar, dass es sowieso ziemlich weit war, wohin er sie brachte. "Befinden wir uns in Chicago?", fragte sie nervös. Sie waren jetzt weit außerhalb der Stadtgrenzen und der Zug raste mit hoher Geschwindigkeit über die Indiana-Grenze. "Nein", sagte er, "nicht dahin, wohin wir gehen." Es war etwas in seiner Art zu sagen, was sie sofort aufschreckte. Ihre hübsche Stirn begann sich zu runzeln. "Gehen wir nicht zu Charlie?", fragte sie. Er spürte, dass die Zeit abgelaufen war. Eine Erklärung könnte genauso gut jetzt wie später kommen. Daher schüttelte er den Kopf in der sanftest möglichen Verneinung. "Was?", sagte Carrie. Sie war verblüfft über die Möglichkeit, dass der Auftrag anders war, als sie gedacht hatte. Er sah sie nur auf sanfteste und besänftigendste Weise an. "Nun, wo bringst du mich dann hin?", fragte sie und ihre Stimme zeigte die Angst. "Ich werde es dir sagen, Carrie, wenn du ruhig bist. Ich will, dass du mit mir in eine andere Stadt kommst." "Oh", sagte Carrie und ihre Stimme stieg zu einem schwachen Schrei. "Lass mich gehen. Ich möchte nicht mit dir gehen." Sie war von der Frechheit des Mannes völlig entsetzt. Das war etwas, woran sie noch nie auch nur für einen Moment gedacht hatte. Ihr einziger Gedanke war jetzt, wegzukommen. Wenn der Zug nur gestoppt werden könnte, würde der schreckliche Streich gutgemacht werden. Sie erhob sich und versuchte, in den Gang zu stoßen - überallhin. Sie wusste, sie musste etwas tun. Hurstwood legte ihr eine sanfte Hand auf. "Bleib sitzen, Carrie", sagte er. "Bleib sitzen. Es wird dir nichts nützen Hurstwood hörte mit einiger Verwunderung zu. Er fand, dass sie allen Grund hatte, sich so zu fühlen, und doch wünschte er, er könnte diese Sache schnell klären. Bald würde der Schaffner kommen, um die Fahrkarten zu kontrollieren. Er wollte keinen Lärm, keine Probleme. Vor allem musste er sie beruhigen. "Du kannst nicht aussteigen, bis der Zug wieder anhält", sagte Hurstwood. "Es dauert nicht mehr lange, bis wir den nächsten Bahnhof erreichen. Dann kannst du aussteigen, wenn du willst. Ich halte dich nicht auf. Alles, was ich möchte, ist, dass du einen Moment zuhörst. Du wirst mir doch zuhören, oder?" Carrie schien nicht zuzuhören. Sie drehte nur den Kopf zum Fenster, wo draußen alles schwarz war. Der Zug fuhr mit gleichmäßiger Grazie über die Felder und durch Waldstücke. Die langen Pfeifen erklangen mit trauriger, musikalischer Wirkung, wenn die einsamen Waldüberführungen erreicht wurden. Nun betrat der Schaffner den Wagen und nahm die ein oder zwei zusätzlichen Fahrpreise ein, die in Chicago hinzugekommen waren. Er näherte sich Hurstwood, der die Fahrkarten herausgab. Carrie, bereit zum Handeln, rührte sich nicht. Sie schaute sich nicht um. Als der Schaffner wieder gegangen war, fühlte sich Hurstwood erleichtert. "Du bist wütend auf mich, weil ich dich getäuscht habe", sagte er. "Das war nicht meine Absicht, Carrie. So wahr ich lebe, ich wollte es nicht. Ich konnte nicht von dir fernbleiben, nachdem ich dich zum ersten Mal gesehen hatte." Er ignorierte die letzte Täuschung als etwas, das beiseite geschoben werden könnte. Er wollte sie davon überzeugen, dass seine Frau keine Rolle mehr in ihrer Beziehung spielen konnte. Das gestohlene Geld versuchte er aus seinem Kopf zu verbannen. "Sprich nicht mit mir", sagte Carrie, "ich hasse dich. Ich will, dass du von mir weggehst. An der nächsten Station steige ich aus." Sie war vor Aufregung und Widerspenstigkeit in Erregung. "Alles klar", sagte er, "aber du wirst mir trotzdem zuhören, oder? Nach all dem, was du gesagt hast, dass du mich liebst, könntest du mir zuhören. Ich möchte dir kein Unrecht tun. Wenn du gehen willst, gebe ich dir das Geld mit, wenn du gehst. Ich möchte dir nur sagen, Carrie. Du kannst mich nicht davon abhalten, dich zu lieben, egal was du denken magst." Er schaute sie zärtlich an, erhielt aber keine Antwort. "Du denkst, ich habe dich stark getäuscht, aber das habe ich nicht. Ich habe es nicht mit Absicht gemacht. Meine Frau ist für mich erledigt. Sie hat keine Ansprüche mehr an mich. Ich werde sie nie wiedersehen. Deshalb bin ich heute Abend hier. Deshalb bin ich gekommen und habe dich geholt." "Du hast gesagt, Charlie sei verletzt", sagte Carrie wütend. "Du hast mich getäuscht. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit getäuscht und jetzt willst du mich zwingen, mit dir wegzulaufen." Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie aufstand und wieder an ihm vorbeikommen wollte. Er ließ sie, und sie nahm einen anderen Platz ein. Dann folgte er ihr. "Lauf nicht vor mir weg, Carrie", sagte er sanft. "Lass mich es erklären. Wenn du mir nur zuhörst, wirst du sehen, wie ich dazu stehe. Ich sage dir, meine Frau bedeutet mir nichts. Sie bedeutet mir schon seit Jahren nichts mehr, sonst wäre ich nie wieder in deine Nähe gekommen. Sobald wie möglich werde ich mich scheiden lassen. Ich werde sie nie wieder sehen. Das ist der Grund, warum ich heute hier bin. Das ist der Grund, warum ich gekommen bin und dich geholt habe." "Du hast gesagt, Charlie sei verletzt", sagte Carrie wütend. "Du hast mich getäuscht. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit getäuscht und jetzt willst du mich zwingen, mit dir wegzulaufen." Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie aufstand und wieder an ihm vorbeigehen wollte. Er ließ sie und sie nahm einen anderen Platz ein. Dann folgte er ihr. "Lauf nicht vor mir weg, Carrie", sagte er sanft. "Lass mich es erklären. Wenn du mir nur zuhörst, wirst du sehen, wie ich dazu stehe. Ich sage dir, meine Frau bedeutet mir nichts. Sie bedeutet mir schon seit Jahren nichts mehr, sonst würde ich nie wieder in deine Nähe kommen. Sobald wie möglich werde ich mich scheiden lassen. Ich werde sie nie wiedersehen. Das ist der Grund, warum ich heute hier bin. Das ist der Grund, warum ich gekommen bin und dich geholt habe." "Du hast gesagt, Charlie sei verletzt", sagte Carrie wütend. "Du hast mich getäuscht. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit getäuscht und jetzt willst du mich zwingen, mit dir wegzulaufen." Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie aufstand und wieder an ihm vorbeikommen wollte. Er ließ sie und sie nahm einen anderen Platz ein. Dann folgte er ihr. "Lauf nicht vor mir weg, Carrie", sagte er sanft. "Lass mich es erklären. Wenn du mir nur zuhörst, wirst du sehen, wie ich dazu stehe. Ich sage dir, meine Frau bedeutet mir nichts. Sie bedeutet mir schon seit Jahren nichts mehr, sonst würde ich nie wieder in deine Nähe kommen. Sobald wie möglich werde ich mich scheiden lassen. Ich werde sie nie wiedersehen. Das ist der Grund, warum ich heute hier bin. Das ist der Grund, warum ich gekommen bin und dich geholt habe." "Du hast gesagt, Charlie sei verletzt", sagte Carrie wütend. "Du hast mich getäuscht. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit getäuscht und jetzt willst du mich zwingen, mit dir wegzulaufen." Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie aufstand und wieder an ihm vorbeikommen wollte. Er ließ sie und sie nahm einen anderen Platz ein. Dann folgte er ihr. "Lauf nicht vor mir weg, Carrie", sagte er sanft. "Lass mich es erklären. Wenn du mir nur zuhörst, wirst du sehen, wie ich dazu stehe. Ich sage dir, meine Frau bedeutet mir nichts. Sie bedeutet mir schon seit Jahren nichts mehr, sonst würde ich nie wieder in deine Nähe kommen. Sobald wie möglich werde ich mich scheiden lassen. Ich werde sie nie wiedersehen. Das ist der Grund, warum ich heute hier bin. Das ist der Grund, warum ich gekommen bin und dich geholt habe." "Du sagtest, Charlie sei verletzt", sagte Carrie grimmig. "Du hast mich getäuscht. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit getäuscht und jetzt willst du mich zwingen, mit dir wegzulaufen." Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie aufstand und wieder an ihm vorbeigehen wollte. Er ließ sie, und sie nahm einen anderen Platz ein. Dann folgte er ihr. "Lauf nicht vor mir weg, Carrie", sagte er sanft. "Lass mich es erklären. Wenn du mir nur zuhörst, wirst du sehen, wie ich dazu stehe. Ich sage dir, meine Frau bedeutet mir nichts. Sie bedeutet mir schon seit Jahren nichts mehr, sonst würde ich nie wieder in deine Nähe kommen. Sobald wie möglich werde ich mich scheiden lassen. Ich werde sie nie wiedersehen. Das ist der Grund, warum ich heute hier bin. Das ist der Grund, warum ich gekommen bin und dich geholt habe." "Du hast gesagt, Charlie sei verletzt", sagte Carrie wütend. "Du hast mich getäuscht. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit getäuscht und jetzt willst du mich zwingen, mit dir wegzulaufen." Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie aufstand und wieder an ihm vorbeigehen wollte. Er ließ sie, und sie nahm einen anderen Platz ein. Dann folgte er ihr. "Lauf nicht vor mir weg, Carrie", sagte er sanft. "Lass mich es erklären. Wenn du mir nur zuhörst, wirst du sehen, wie ich dazu stehe. Ich sage dir, meine Frau bedeutet mir nichts. Sie bedeutet mir schon seit Jahren nichts mehr, sonst würde ich nie wieder in deine Nähe kommen. Sobald wie möglich werde ich mich scheiden lassen. Ich werde "Dort", sagte er liebevoll, "sieh jetzt nach, ob du dich nicht ein wenig ausruhen kannst." Er hätte sie für ihre Nachgiebigkeit küssen können. Er setzte sich neben sie und dachte einen Moment nach. "Ich glaube, wir bekommen einen starken Regen", sagte er. "So sieht es aus", sagte Carrie, deren Nerven sich unter dem Klang der Regentropfen, vom stürmischen Wind getrieben, beruhigten, während der Zug hektisch durch den Schatten in eine neue Welt fuhr. Die Tatsache, dass er Carrie in gewissem Maße besänftigt hatte, war eine Quelle der Zufriedenheit für Hurstwood, aber es brachte nur eine vorübergehende Erleichterung. Jetzt, da ihr Widerstand aus dem Weg geräumt war, hatte er seine gesamte Zeit um seinen eigenen Fehler zu bedenken. Sein Zustand war äußerst bitter, denn er wollte nicht die elende Summe, die er gestohlen hatte. Er wollte kein Dieb sein. Diese Summe oder irgendeine andere könnte niemals den Zustand entschädigen, den er so töricht aufgegeben hatte. Sie konnte ihm nicht seine vielen Freunde, seinen Namen, sein Haus und seine Familie zurückgeben, noch Carrie, wie er es geplant hatte. Er war von Chicago ausgeschlossen - von seinem leichten, komfortablen Zustand. Er hat sich seiner Würde beraubt, seinen fröhlichen Treffen, seinen angenehmen Abenden. Und wofür? Je mehr er darüber nachdachte, desto unerträglicher wurde es. Er begann zu überlegen, ob er versuchen sollte, sich selbst in seinen alten Zustand zurückzuversetzen. Er würde die elenden Diebstähle der Nacht zurückgeben und erklären. Vielleicht würde Moy es verstehen. Vielleicht würden sie ihm verzeihen und ihn zurücklassen. Mittags rollte der Zug in Detroit ein und er begann sich überaus nervös zu fühlen. Die Polizei musste ihm jetzt auf der Spur sein. Sie hatten wahrscheinlich alle Polizeidienststellen in den großen Städten benachrichtigt, und Detektive würden nach ihm suchen. Er erinnerte sich an Fälle, in denen Betrüger gefangen genommen worden waren. Folglich atmete er schwer und blassierte etwas. Seine Hände fühlten sich an, als müssten sie etwas tun. Er simulierte Interesse an mehreren Szenen, ohne die er sich nicht fühlte. Er schlug immer wieder mit dem Fuß auf den Boden. Carrie bemerkte seine Unruhe, sagte aber nichts. Sie hatte keine Ahnung, was es bedeutete oder dass es wichtig war. Jetzt fragte er sich, warum er nicht gefragt hatte, ob dieser Zug bis Montreal oder zu einem anderen kanadischen Punkt fährt. Vielleicht hätte er Zeit gespart. Er sprang auf und suchte den Schaffner. "Fährt ein Teil dieses Zuges nach Montreal?" fragte er. "Ja, der nächste Schlafwagen zurück fährt dorthin." Er hätte mehr fragen können, aber es schien ihm nicht ratsam, also beschloss er, am Bahnhof nachzufragen. Der Zug rollte in den Bahnhof ein und klang und pustete. "Ich denke, wir sollten bis Montreal weiterfahren", sagte er zu Carrie. "Ich werde sehen, wie die Anschlüsse sind, wenn wir aussteigen." Er war überaus nervös, tat aber sein Bestes, um äußerlich ruhig zu wirken. Carrie sah ihn nur mit großen, besorgten Augen an. Sie trieb geistig dahin und konnte sich nicht sagen, was sie tun sollte. Der Zug hielt an und Hurstwood ging voran. Er schaute sich vorsichtig um und gab vor, auf Carrie aufzupassen. Als er nichts sah, was auf gezielte Beobachtung hindeutete, machte er sich auf den Weg zum Fahrkartenschalter. "Wann fährt der nächste Zug nach Montreal?" fragte er. "In zwanzig Minuten", sagte der Mann. Er kaufte zwei Fahrkarten und Schlafwagenbetten. Dann eilte er zurück zu Carrie. "Wir fahren gleich wieder raus", sagte er und bemerkte kaum, dass Carrie müde und erschöpft aussah. "Ich wünschte, ich wäre aus dem Ganzen raus", sagte sie düster. "Du wirst dich besser fühlen, wenn wir Montreal erreichen", sagte er. "Ich habe überhaupt nichts bei mir", sagte Carrie; "nicht einmal ein Taschentuch." "Dort kannst du alles kaufen, was du willst, sobald wir dort sind, Liebling", erklärte er. "Du kannst eine Schneiderin rufen." Jetzt rief der Ausrufen den startbereiten Zug aus und sie stiegen ein. Hurstwood atmete erleichtert auf, als er sich in Bewegung setzte. Es gab einen kurzen Lauf zum Fluss und dort wurden sie eingeschifft. Kaum hatte sich der Zug von der Fähre gelöst, als er sich mit einem Seufzer zurücklehnte. "Es wird nicht mehr lange dauern", sagte er und erinnerte sich in seiner Erleichterung an sie. "Wir kommen morgen früh als erstes an." Carrie schenkte ihm kaum Beachtung. "Ich werde sehen, ob es einen Speisewagen gibt", fügte er hinzu. "Ich habe Hunger." 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.

Carrie fragt Hurstwood im Taxi nach Einzelheiten über Drouets Unfall aus, aber er ist ziemlich vage, da er die Geschichte erfunden hat. Er sagt ihr, dass sie in den Süden fahren und den Zug nehmen müssen, um dorthin zu gelangen. Sie kommen am Bahnhof an, und Hurstwood lässt Carrie im Wartesaal zurück, während er zwei Tickets nach Detroit kauft. Sie steigen in den Zug ein und machen es sich bequem. Hurstwood, der mit jeder Minute nüchterner wird, denkt darüber nach, was für ein betrunkener Idiot er war, das Geld zu nehmen. Carrie hingegen denkt darüber nach, wie lange diese Reise dauert. Sie wird misstrauisch und fragt Hurstwood schließlich, ob sie wirklich Drouet besuchen werden. Er gesteht, dass er über Drouet gelogen hat, um sie in den Zug zu bekommen, und erzählt ihr, dass er sie in eine andere Stadt bringt. Carrie ist schockiert und sagt ihm, dass sie sofort aus dem Zug aussteigen möchte. Sie versucht aufzustehen, aber er drückt sie sanft zurück; sie schluchzt, während er versucht, ihr zu erklären, was los ist. Sie will nicht zuhören und droht, dem Schaffner Bescheid zu sagen. Hurstwood sagt ihr, dass sie an der nächsten Station aussteigen kann, wenn sie will, aber bitte erst ihm zuhört. Hurstwood erzählt ihr, dass es vorbei ist mit seiner Frau und deshalb ist er gekommen, um sie zu holen. Sie ist immer noch wütend darüber, dass er ihr über Drouets Verletzung und alles andere gelogen hat, also steht sie auf und setzt sich auf einen anderen Platz. Er folgt ihr. Er lässt sich scheiden, sagt er zu ihr. Außerdem liebt er sie. Carrie wird weicher, fühlt sich schmeichelhaft, dass er das alles aus Liebe für sie tut. Er sagt ihr, dass er nach Montreal will und danach können sie nach New York City fahren, wenn sie möchte; wenn sie es nicht mag, kann sie zurückgehen. Carrie ist von der Aussicht, einige coole neue Städte zu erkunden, fasziniert, aber sie ist immer noch ziemlich wütend und sagt Hurstwood, dass er nicht mit ihr reden soll. Hurstwood bittet sie, bei ihm zu bleiben. Sie ist sich nicht sicher. Er versucht, sie mit dem Angebot eines Schlafwagens zu begeistern, und als sie ablehnt, lässt er sie ihren Kopf auf seinen zusammengeballten Mantel legen. Was für ein Kerl. Sie gibt zu, dass er aufmerksam ist. Hurstwood denkt erneut darüber nach, wie ein Fehler es war, das Geld zu nehmen. Er wünscht sich, alles zurückgeben und vergeben werden zu können, und macht sich Sorgen, dass die Polizei nach ihm sucht. Nächster Halt: Detroit. Hurstwood und Carrie steigen aus, und er sagt ihr, dass sie einen anderen Zug nach Montreal nehmen sollten, also kauft er die Tickets. Carrie realisiert, dass sie nicht einmal eine Zahnbürste dabei hat und wird traurig, aber Hurstwood versichert ihr, dass er ihr alles kaufen wird, was sie in Kanada möchte. Sie steigen in den Zug nach Montreal.

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: Als Pete den Gedanken von Maggie kam, fing sie an, eine starke Abneigung gegen all ihre Kleider zu haben. "Was zur Hölle stimmt nicht mit dir? Warum bist du ständig am Fummeln und Zappeln? Guter Gott", brüllte ihre Mutter sie häufig an. Sie begann, mit mehr Interesse die gut gekleideten Frauen zu beachten, denen sie auf den Straßen begegnete. Sie beneidete Eleganz und weiche Hände. Sie begehrte die Verzierungen des Körpers, die sie jeden Tag auf der Straße sah, und hielt sie für Verbündete von großer Bedeutung für Frauen. Als sie Gesichter studierte, dachte sie, dass viele der Frauen und Mädchen, denen sie zufällig begegnete, mit Gelassenheit lächelten, als wären sie für immer von denen geliebt und behütet, die sie liebten. Die Luft in der Kragen- und Manschetten-Einrichtung würgte sie. Sie wusste, dass sie langsam und sicher in dem heißen, stickigen Raum verkümmerte. Die vergrämten Fenster klapperten unaufhörlich vom Vorbeifahren der Hochbahnen. Der Ort war erfüllt von einem Wirbel aus Geräuschen und Gerüchen. Sie fragte sich, während sie einige der ergrauten Frauen im Raum betrachtete, die nichts weiter waren als mechanische Vorrichtungen, die Nähte nähten und mit hängenden Köpfen ihrer Arbeit nachgingen, von Herzschmerz oder Wahrheit erzählten, von vergangenen Betrunkenen, von dem Baby zu Hause und von unbezahltem Lohn. Sie spekulierte darüber, wie lange ihre Jugend noch anhalten würde. Sie begann, die Blüte auf ihren Wangen als wertvoll anzusehen. Sie stellte sich vor, dass sie in einer irritierenden Zukunft eine dünne Frau sein würde, die für immer über ein Unrecht verfügte. Außerdem hielt sie Pete für eine sehr anspruchsvolle Person, was das Aussehen von Frauen betraf. Sie fand es großartig, wenn jemand seine Finger im öligen Bart des fetten Ausländers, dem der Laden gehörte, verheddern würde. Er war eine abscheuliche Kreatur. Er trug weiße Socken zu niedrigen Schuhen. Er saß den ganzen Tag in einem gepolsterten Sessel und hielt Reden. Sein Portemonnaie raubte ihnen die Macht zur Erwiderung. "Wofür zum Teufel denkst du, dass ich fünf Dollar die Woche bezahle? Zum Spielen? Nein, verdammt!" Maggie wünschte sich einen Freund, mit dem sie über Pete sprechen konnte. Sie hätte gerne seine bewundernswerten Eigenheiten mit einem zuverlässigen Bekannten besprochen. Zu Hause fand sie ihre Mutter oft betrunken und immer am Toben. Es schien, als hätte diese Frau sehr schlecht behandelt worden, und sie nahm eine tiefe Rache an jenen Teilen davon, die in ihre Reichweite kamen. Sie zerstörte Möbel, als ob sie endlich ihr Recht bekommen würde. Sie schwellte vor selbstgerechter Empörung an, während sie die leichten Gegenstände des Haushalts einzeln unter den Schatten der drei vergoldeten Kugeln trug, an denen die Hebräer sie mit Zinsketten festbanden. Jimmie kam, wenn er es aufgrund von Umständen tun musste, über die er keine Kontrolle hatte. Seine gut trainierten Beine brachten ihn torkelnd nach Hause und ließen ihn manche Nächte im Bett, wenn er lieber woanders gewesen wäre. Swaggering Pete erschien Maggie wie eine goldene Sonne. Er nahm sie mit in ein Kabinett der Kuriositäten, wo Reihen von sanften Missgeburten sie erstaunten. Sie betrachtete ihre Missbildungen mit Ehrfurcht und hielt sie für eine Art auserwählten Stamm. Pete, der nach Unterhaltung grübelte, entdeckte den Central Park Zoo und das Kunstmuseum. Sonntagnachmittage verbrachten sie manchmal an diesen Orten. Pete schien nicht besonders interessiert an dem, was er sah. Er stand einfach herum und wirkte schwer, während Maggie vor Freude kicherte. Einmal im Zoo geriet er in Verzückung angesichts des Anblicks eines sehr kleinen Affen, der drohte, einen Käfig voller Affen zu verprügeln, weil einer von ihnen an seinem Schwanz gezogen hatte und er nicht rechtzeitig genug gewendet hatte, um herauszufinden, wer es getan hatte. Seitdem kannte Pete diesen Affen und zwinkerte ihm zu, während er versuchte, ihn zu einem Kampf mit anderen, größeren Affen zu bewegen. Im Museum sagte Maggie: "Das ist großartig." "Ach, Scheiße", sagte Pete, "warte bis nächsten Sommer, dann nehme ich dich zu einem Picknick mit." Während das Mädchen in den gewölbten Räumen herumwanderte, beschäftigte sich Pete damit, starre Blicke mit den bedrückenden Wächtern der Schätze auszutauschen. Gelegentlich bemerkte er laut: "Dieser Trottel hat Glasaugen" und ähnliche Sätze. Wenn er von diesem Zeitvertreib genug hatte, ging er zu den Mumien und philosophierte über sie. Normalerweise ertrug er mit stolzer Würde alles, was er durchmachen musste, aber manchmal wurde er zu einem Kommentar provoziert. "Was zur Hölle", forderte er einmal. "Schau dir all diese kleinen Krüge an! Hundert Krüge in einer Reihe! Zehn Reihen in einem Schrank und etwa tausend Schränke! Wofür zum Teufel sind die gut?" Unter der Woche nahm er sie abends mit, um Theaterstücke zu sehen, in denen die fesselnde Heldin aus dem herrschaftlichen Haus ihres Vormunds gerettet wurde, der grausam ihre Bindungen an sich reißen wollte, von einem Helden mit schönen Gefühlen. Letzterer verbrachte die meiste Zeit in blassgrünen Schneestürmen, beschäftigt mit einem versilberten Revolver, und rettete gealterte Fremde vor Schurken. Maggie verlor sich in Mitgefühl mit den Wanderern, die unter glücklich bunten Kirchenfenstern in Schneestürmen erlitten. Und ein Chor, der "Freude für die Welt" sang. Für Maggie und den Rest des Publikums war das eine transzendente Realität. Die Freude immer im Innern, und sie selbst, wie der Schauspieler, zwangsläufig außen vor. Beim Anschauen umarmten sie sich in ekstatischem Mitleid mit ihrem erträumten oder realen Zustand. Das Mädchen fand, dass die Arroganz und die herzlose Härte des Magnaten des Stücks sehr treffend dargestellt wurden. Sie wiederholte die Verwünschungen, die die Zuschauer im Rang über diesem Individuum ausschütteten, als seine Texte ihn zwangen, seine extreme Selbstsucht zu enthüllen. Zweifelhafte Personen im Publikum empörten sich über die gezeigte Schurkerei des Dramas. Mit unermüdlichem Eifer zischten sie Tugend aus und applaudierten dem Guten. Unverkennbar schlechte Männer zeigten eine scheinbar aufrichtige Bewunderung für die Tugend. Der laute Rang war überwiegend auf Seiten der Unglücklichen und Unterdrückten. Sie ermutigten den kämpfenden Helden mit Rufen und verspotteten den Schurken, indem sie auf seine Bartstoppeln hinwiesen und ihn ausbuhten. Wenn jemand in den blassgrünen Schneestürmen starb, trauerte der Rang. Sie suchten das gemalte Elend auf und umarmten es als Ihresgleichen. Im letzten Akt war es ein Triumph für den Helden, arm und zum Volk gehörend, den Vertreter des Publikums, über den Schurken und den reichen Mann mit den Taschen voller Wertpapiere, das Herz voller tyrannischer Absichten, unerschütterlich inmitten des Leidens. Maggie kehrte immer mit gehobener Stimmung von den Aufführungsorten der Melodramen zurück. Sie freute sich 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.

Maggie fängt an, sich wegen ihrer Garderobe gestresst zu fühlen. Durch das Daten mit Pete werden die Einsätze höher und es scheint, als ob jede Frau auf der Straße schönere Kleidung hat. Das ist frustrierend. Sie macht sich auch Sorgen, dass sie eine alte Hexe wird, wie einige ihrer Kollegen in der Kragen- und Manschettenfabrik. Pete zeigt Maggie eine wirklich gute Zeit: Zehncent-Shows, Menagerien, Museen, eine ganze Welt der Kultur, von der sie nicht wusste, dass sie existiert. Oh - und die Melodramen mit in Not geratenen Damen. Was für ein Ritter in glänzender Rüstung Pete ist. Diese Shows sind unendlich unterhaltsam. Die Bösewichte sind so bösartig und die Helden so, nun ja, heroisch. Maggie ist bereit, auf die Bühne zu steigen und eine Figur in einem der Stücke zu werden; sie fragt sich, ob sie die Rolle einer eleganten Dame spielen könnte, genau wie Schauspielerinnen es auf der Bühne tun.

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: BOOK X. Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port Not of mean suiters, nor important less Seem'd thir Petition, then when th' ancient Pair In Fables old, less ancient yet then these, DEUCALION and chaste PYRRHA to restore The Race of Mankind drownd, before the Shrine Of THEMIS stood devout. To Heav'n thir prayers Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious windes Blow'n vagabond or frustrate: in they passd Dimentionless through Heav'nly dores; then clad With incense, where the Golden Altar fum'd, By thir great Intercessor, came in sight Before the Fathers Throne: Them the glad Son Presenting, thus to intercede began. See Father, what first fruits on Earth are sprung From thy implanted Grace in Man, these Sighs And Prayers, which in this Golden Censer, mixt With Incense, I thy Priest before thee bring, Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed Sow'n with contrition in his heart, then those Which his own hand manuring all the Trees Of Paradise could have produc't, ere fall'n From innocence. Now therefore bend thine eare To supplication, heare his sighs though mute; Unskilful with what words to pray, let mee Interpret for him, mee his Advocate And propitiation, all his works on mee Good or not good ingraft, my Merit those Shall perfet, and for these my Death shall pay. Accept me, and in mee from these receave The smell of peace toward Mankinde, let him live Before thee reconcil'd, at least his days Numberd, though sad, till Death, his doom (which I To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse) To better life shall yeeld him, where with mee All my redeemd may dwell in joy and bliss, Made one with me as I with thee am one. To whom the Father, without Cloud, serene. All thy request for Man, accepted Son, Obtain, all thy request was my Decree: But longer in that Paradise to dwell, The Law I gave to Nature him forbids: Those pure immortal Elements that know No gross, no unharmoneous mixture foule, Eject him tainted now, and purge him off As a distemper, gross to aire as gross, And mortal food, as may dispose him best For dissolution wrought by Sin, that first Distemperd all things, and of incorrupt Corrupted. I at first with two fair gifts Created him endowd, with Happiness And Immortalitie: that fondly lost, This other serv'd but to eternize woe; Till I provided Death; so Death becomes His final remedie, and after Life Tri'd in sharp tribulation, and refin'd By Faith and faithful works, to second Life, Wak't in the renovation of the just, Resignes him up with Heav'n and Earth renewd. But let us call to Synod all the Blest Through Heav'ns wide bounds; from them I will not hide My judgments, how with Mankind I proceed, As how with peccant Angels late they saw; And in thir state, though firm, stood more confirmd. He ended, and the Son gave signal high To the bright Minister that watchd, hee blew His Trumpet, heard in OREB since perhaps When God descended, and perhaps once more To sound at general Doom. Th' Angelic blast Filld all the Regions: from thir blissful Bowrs Of AMARANTIN Shade, Fountain or Spring, By the waters of Life, where ere they sate In fellowships of joy: the Sons of Light Hasted, resorting to the Summons high, And took thir Seats; till from his Throne supream Th' Almighty thus pronounced his sovran Will. O Sons, like one of us Man is become To know both Good and Evil, since his taste Of that defended Fruit; but let him boast His knowledge of Good lost, and Evil got, Happier, had it suffic'd him to have known Good by it self, and Evil not at all. He sorrows now, repents, and prayes contrite, My motions in him, longer then they move, His heart I know, how variable and vain Self-left. Least therefore his now bolder hand Reach also of the Tree of Life, and eat, And live for ever, dream at least to live Forever, to remove him I decree, And send him from the Garden forth to Till The Ground whence he was taken, fitter soile. MICHAEL, this my behest have thou in charge, Take to thee from among the Cherubim Thy choice of flaming Warriours, least the Fiend Or in behalf of Man, or to invade Vacant possession som new trouble raise: Hast thee, and from the Paradise of God Without remorse drive out the sinful Pair, From hallowd ground th' unholie, and denounce To them and to thir Progenie from thence Perpetual banishment. Yet least they faint At the sad Sentence rigorously urg'd, For I behold them soft'nd and with tears Bewailing thir excess, all terror hide. If patiently thy bidding they obey, Dismiss them not disconsolate; reveale To ADAM what shall come in future dayes, As I shall thee enlighten, intermix My Cov'nant in the Womans seed renewd; So send them forth, though sorrowing, yet in peace: And on the East side of the Garden place, Where entrance up from EDEN easiest climbes, Cherubic watch, and of a Sword the flame Wide waving, all approach farr off to fright, And guard all passage to the Tree of Life: Least Paradise a receptacle prove To Spirits foule, and all my Trees thir prey, With whose stol'n Fruit Man once more to delude. He ceas'd; and th' Archangelic Power prepar'd For swift descent, with him the Cohort bright Of watchful Cherubim; four faces each Had, like a double JANUS, all thir shape Spangl'd with eyes more numerous then those Of ARGUS, and more wakeful then to drouze, Charm'd with ARCADIAN Pipe, the Pastoral Reed Of HERMES, or his opiate Rod. Meanwhile To resalute the World with sacred Light LEUCOTHEA wak'd, and with fresh dews imbalmd The Earth, when ADAM and first Matron EVE Had ended now thir Orisons, and found, Strength added from above, new hope to spring Out of despaire, joy, but with fear yet linkt; Which thus to EVE his welcome words renewd. EVE, easily may Faith admit, that all The good which we enjoy, from Heav'n descends But that from us ought should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concerne the mind Of God high blest, or to incline his will, Hard to belief may seem; yet this will Prayer, Or one short sigh of humane breath, up-borne Ev'n to the Seat of God. For since I saught By Prayer th' offended Deitie to appease, Kneel'd and before him humbl'd all my heart, Methought I saw him placable and mild, Bending his eare; perswasion in me grew That I was heard with favour; peace returnd Home to my brest, and to my memorie His promise, that thy Seed shall bruise our Foe; Which then not minded in dismay, yet now Assures me that the bitterness of death Is past, and we shall live. Whence Haile to thee, EVE rightly call'd, Mother of all Mankind, Mother of all things living, since by thee Man is to live, and all things live for Man. To whom thus EVE with sad demeanour meek. Ill worthie I such title should belong To me transgressour, who for thee ordaind A help, became thy snare; to mee reproach Rather belongs, distrust and all dispraise: But infinite in pardon was my Judge, That I who first brought Death on all, am grac't The sourse of life; next favourable thou, Who highly thus to entitle me voutsaf't, Farr other name deserving. But the Field To labour calls us now with sweat impos'd, Though after sleepless Night; for see the Morn, All unconcern'd with our unrest, begins Her rosie progress smiling; let us forth, I never from thy side henceforth to stray, Wherere our days work lies, though now enjoind Laborious, till day droop; while here we dwell, What can be toilsom in these pleasant Walkes? Here let us live, though in fall'n state, content. So spake, so wish'd much-humbl'd EVE, but Fate Subscrib'd not; Nature first gave Signs, imprest On Bird, Beast, Aire, Aire suddenly eclips'd After short blush of Morn; nigh in her sight The Bird of JOVE, stoopt from his aerie tour, Two Birds of gayest plume before him drove: Down from a Hill the Beast that reigns in Woods, First Hunter then, pursu'd a gentle brace, Goodliest of all the Forrest, Hart and Hinde; Direct to th' Eastern Gate was bent thir flight. ADAM observ'd, and with his Eye the chase Pursuing, not unmov'd to EVE thus spake. O EVE, some furder change awaits us nigh, Which Heav'n by these mute signs in Nature shews Forerunners of his purpose, or to warn Us haply too secure of our discharge From penaltie, because from death releast Some days; how long, and what till then our life, Who knows, or more then this, that we are dust, And thither must return and be no more. VVhy else this double object in our sight Of flight pursu'd in th' Air and ore the ground One way the self-same hour? why in the East Darkness ere Dayes mid-course, and Morning light More orient in yon VVestern Cloud that draws O're the blew Firmament a radiant white, And slow descends, with somthing heav'nly fraught. He err'd not, for by this the heav'nly Bands Down from a Skie of Jasper lighted now In Paradise, and on a Hill made alt, A glorious Apparition, had not doubt And carnal fear that day dimm'd ADAMS eye. Not that more glorious, when the Angels met JACOB in MAHANAIM, where he saw The field Pavilion'd with his Guardians bright; Nor that which on the flaming Mount appeerd In DOTHAN, cover'd with a Camp of Fire, Against the SYRIAN King, who to surprize One man, Assassin-like had levied Warr, Warr unproclam'd. The Princely Hierarch In thir bright stand, there left his Powers to seise Possession of the Garden; hee alone, To finde where ADAM shelterd, took his way, Not unperceav'd of ADAM, who to EVE, While the great Visitant approachd, thus spake. EVE, now expect great tidings, which perhaps Of us will soon determin, or impose New Laws to be observ'd; for I descrie From yonder blazing Cloud that veils the Hill One of the heav'nly Host, and by his Gate None of the meanest, some great Potentate Or of the Thrones above, such Majestie Invests him coming; yet not terrible, That I should fear, nor sociably mild, As RAPHAEL, that I should much confide, But solemn and sublime, whom not to offend, With reverence I must meet, and thou retire. He ended; and th' Arch-Angel soon drew nigh, Not in his shape Celestial, but as Man Clad to meet Man; over his lucid Armes A militarie Vest of purple flowd Livelier then MELIBOEAN, or the graine Of SARRA, worn by Kings and Hero's old In time of Truce; IRIS had dipt the wooff; His starrie Helme unbuckl'd shew'd him prime In Manhood where Youth ended; by his side As in a glistering ZODIAC hung the Sword, Satans dire dread, and in his hand the Spear. ADAM bowd low, hee Kingly from his State Inclin'd not, but his coming thus declar'd. ADAM, Heav'ns high behest no Preface needs: Sufficient that thy Prayers are heard, and Death, Then due by sentence when thou didst transgress, Defeated of his seisure many dayes Giv'n thee of Grace, wherein thou may'st repent, And one bad act with many deeds well done Mayst cover: well may then thy Lord appeas'd Redeem thee quite from Deaths rapacious claimes; But longer in this Paradise to dwell Permits not; to remove thee I am come, And send thee from the Garden forth to till The ground whence thou wast tak'n, fitter Soile. He added not, for ADAM at the newes Heart-strook with chilling gripe of sorrow stood, That all his senses bound; EVE, who unseen Yet all had heard, with audible lament Discover'd soon the place of her retire. O unexpected stroke, worse then of Death! Must I thus leave thee Paradise? thus leave Thee Native Soile, these happie Walks and Shades, Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet though sad, the respit of that day That must be mortal to us both. O flours, That never will in other Climate grow, My early visitation, and my last At Eev'n, which I bred up with tender hand From the first op'ning bud, and gave ye Names, Who now shall reare ye to the Sun, or ranke Your Tribes, and water from th' ambrosial Fount? Thee lastly nuptial Bowre, by mee adornd With what to sight or smell was sweet; from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower World, to this obscure And wilde, how shall we breath in other Aire Less pure, accustomd to immortal Fruits? Whom thus the Angel interrupted milde. Lament not EVE, but patiently resigne What justly thou hast lost; nor set thy heart, Thus over fond, on that which is not thine; Thy going is not lonely, with thee goes Thy Husband, him to follow thou art bound; Where he abides, think there thy native soile. ADAM by this from the cold sudden damp Recovering, and his scatterd spirits returnd, To MICHAEL thus his humble words addressd. Him I beheld As a laborious ploughman tills the soil, Sowing seeds and reaping crops, While nearby a flock of sheep grazes, And in the middle stands a rustic altar, Covered in grass and dirt. Suddenly, a sweaty reaper arrived, Bringing the first fruits of his labor, Green ears and yellow sheaves, Unculled, as they came to his hand. Following him, a humble shepherd came, Bringing the choicest and best of his flock. They both sacrificed their offerings, Placing the entrails and fat on the split wood, And performing all the necessary rites. The reaper's offering was quickly consumed By a propitious fire from heaven, Leaving behind a grateful scent. However, the shepherd's offering Did not receive the same response, For his intentions were insincere. In his anger, he struck the reaper In the abdomen with a stone, Causing him to fall and groan As his lifeblood poured out. Witnessing this, Adam was filled with dismay, And he hurriedly cried out to the angel, "Oh teacher, some great tragedy has befallen This meek man, who had sacrificed with devotion. Is piety and pure devotion met with such a fate?" T' whom MICHAEL thus, hee also mov'd, repli'd. These two are Brethren, ADAM, and to come Out of thy loyns; th' unjust the just hath slain, For envie that his Brothers Offering found From Heav'n acceptance; but the bloodie Fact Will be aveng'd, and th' others Faith approv'd Loose no reward, though here thou see him die, Rowling in dust and gore. To which our Sire. Alas, both for the deed and for the cause! But have I now seen Death? Is this the way I must return to native dust? O sight Of terrour, foul and ugly to behold, Horrid to think, how horrible to feel! To whom thus MICHAEL. Death thou hast seen In his first shape on man; but many shapes Of Death, and many are the wayes that lead To his grim Cave, all dismal; yet to sense More terrible at th' entrance then within. Some, as thou saw'st, by violent stroke shall die, By Fire, Flood, Famin, by Intemperance more In Meats and Drinks, which on the Earth shal bring Diseases dire, of which a monstrous crew Before thee shall appear; that thou mayst know What miserie th' inabstinence of EVE Shall bring on men. Immediately a place Before his eyes appeard, sad, noysom, dark, A Lazar-house it seemd, wherein were laid Numbers of all diseas'd, all maladies Of gastly Spasm, or racking torture, qualmes Of heart-sick Agonie, all feavorous kinds, Convulsions, Epilepsies, fierce Catarrhs, Intestin Stone and Ulcer, Colic pangs, Dropsies, and Asthma's, and Joint-racking Rheums. Dire was the tossing, deep the groans, despair Tended the sick busiest from Couch to Couch; And over them triumphant Death his Dart Shook, but delaid to strike, though oft invok't With vows, as thir chief good, and final hope. Sight so deform what heart of Rock could long Drie-ey'd behold? ADAM could not, but wept, Though not of Woman born; compassion quell'd His best of Man, and gave him up to tears A space, till firmer thoughts restraind excess, And scarce recovering words his plaint renew'd. O miserable Mankind, to what fall Degraded, to what wretched state reserv'd? Better end heer unborn. Why is life giv'n To be thus wrested from us? rather why Obtruded on us thus? who if we knew What we receive, would either not accept Life offer'd, or soon beg to lay it down, Glad to be so dismist in peace. Can thus Th' Image of God in man created once So goodly and erect, though faultie since, To such unsightly sufferings be debas't Under inhuman pains? Why should not Man, Retaining still Divine similitude In part, from such deformities be free, And for his Makers Image sake exempt? Thir Makers Image, answerd MICHAEL, then Forsook them, when themselves they villifi'd To serve ungovern'd appetite, and took His Image whom they serv'd, a brutish vice, Inductive mainly to the sin of EVE. Therefore so abject is thir punishment, Disfiguring not Gods likeness, but thir own, Or if his likeness, by themselves defac't While they pervert pure Natures healthful rules To loathsom sickness, worthily, since they Gods Image did not reverence in themselves. I yeild it just, said ADAM, and submit. But is there yet no other way, besides These painful passages, how we may come To Death, and mix with our connatural dust? There is, said MICHAEL, if thou well observe The rule of not too much, by temperance taught In what thou eatst and drinkst, seeking from thence Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight, Till many years over thy head return: So maist thou live, till like ripe Fruit thou drop Into thy Mothers lap, or be with ease Gatherd, not harshly pluckt, for death mature: This is old age; but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To witherd weak & gray; thy Senses then Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forgoe, To what thou hast, and for the Aire of youth Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reigne A melancholly damp of cold and dry To waigh thy spirits down, and last consume The Balme of Life. To whom our Ancestor. Henceforth I flie not Death, nor would prolong Life much, bent rather how I may be quit Fairest and easiest of this combrous charge, Which I must keep till my appointed day Of rendring up. MICHAEL to him repli'd. Nor love thy Life, nor hate; but what thou livst Live well, how long or short permit to Heav'n: And now prepare thee for another sight. He lookd and saw a spacious Plaine, whereon Were Tents of various hue; by some were herds Of Cattel grazing: others, whence the sound Of Instruments that made melodious chime Was heard, of Harp and Organ; and who moovd Thir stops and chords was seen: his volant touch Instinct through all proportions low and high Fled and pursu'd transverse the resonant fugue. In other part stood one who at the Forge Labouring, two massie clods of Iron and Brass Had melted (whether found where casual fire Had wasted woods on Mountain or in Vale, Down to the veins of Earth, thence gliding hot To som Caves mouth, or whether washt by stream From underground) the liquid Ore he dreind Into fit moulds prepar'd; from which he formd First his own Tooles; then, what might else be wrought Fulfil or grav'n in mettle. After these, But on the hether side a different sort From the high neighbouring Hills, which was thir Seat, Down to the Plain descended: by thir guise Just men they seemd, and all thir study bent To worship God aright, and know his works Not hid, nor those things lost which might preserve Freedom and Peace to men: they on the Plain Long had not walkt, when from the Tents behold A Beavie of fair Women, richly gay In Gems and wanton dress; to the Harp they sung Soft amorous Ditties, and in dance came on: The Men though grave, ey'd them, and let thir eyes Rove without rein, till in the amorous Net Fast caught, they lik'd, and each his liking chose; And now of love they treat till th' Eevning Star Loves Harbinger appeerd; then all in heat They light the Nuptial Torch, and bid invoke Hymen, then first to marriage Rites invok't; With Feast and Musick all the Tents resound. Such happy interview and fair event Of love & youth not lost, Songs, Garlands, Flours, And charming Symphonies attach'd the heart Of ADAM, soon enclin'd to admit delight, The bent of Nature; which he thus express'd. True opener of mine eyes, prime Angel blest, Much better seems this Vision, and more hope Of peaceful dayes portends, then those two past; Those were of hate and death, or pain much worse, Here Nature seems fulfilld in all her ends. To whom thus MICHAEL. Judg not what is best By pleasure, though to Nature seeming meet, Created, as thou art, to nobler end Holie and pure, conformitie divine. Those Tents thou sawst so pleasant, were the Tents Of wickedness, wherein shall dwell his Race Who slew his Brother; studious they appere Of Arts that polish Life, Inventers rare, Unmindful of thir Maker, though his Spirit Taught them, but they his gifts acknowledg'd none. Yet they a beauteous ofspring shall beget; For that fair femal Troop thou sawst, that seemd Of Goddesses, so blithe, so smooth, so gay, Yet empty of all good wherein consists Womans domestic honour and chief praise; Bred onely and completed to the taste Of lustful apperence, to sing, to dance, To dress, and troule the Tongue, and roule the Eye. To these that sober Race of Men, whose lives Religious titl'd them the Sons of God, Shall yeild up all thir vertue, all thir fame Ignobly, to the trains and to the smiles Of these fair Atheists, and now swim in joy, (Erelong to swim at larg) and laugh; for which The world erelong a world of tears must weepe. To whom thus ADAM of short joy bereft. O pittie and shame, that they who to live well Enterd so faire, should turn aside to tread Paths indirect, or in the mid way faint! But still I see the tenor of Mans woe Holds on the same, from Woman to begin. From Mans effeminate slackness it begins, Said th' Angel, who should better hold his place By wisdome, and superiour gifts receavd. But now prepare thee for another Scene. He lookd and saw wide Territorie spred Before him, Towns, and rural works between, Cities of Men with lofty Gates and Towrs, Concours in Arms, fierce Faces threatning Warr, Giants of mightie Bone, and bould emprise; Part wield thir Arms, part courb the foaming Steed, Single or in Array of Battel rang'd Both Horse and Foot, nor idely mustring stood; One way a Band select from forage drives A herd of Beeves, faire Oxen and faire Kine From a fat Meddow ground; or fleecy Flock, Ewes and thir bleating Lambs over the Plaine, Thir Bootie; scarce with Life the Shepherds flye, But call in aide, which tacks a bloody Fray; With cruel Tournament the Squadrons joine; Where Cattel pastur'd late, now scatterd lies With Carcasses and Arms th' ensanguind Field Deserted: Others to a Citie strong Lay Siege, encampt; by Batterie, Scale, and Mine, Assaulting; others from the Wall defend With Dart and Jav'lin, Stones and sulfurous Fire; On each hand slaughter and gigantic deeds. In other part the scepter'd Haralds call To Council in the Citie Gates: anon Grey-headed men and grave, with Warriours mixt, Assemble, and Harangues are heard, but soon In factious opposition, till at last Of middle Age one rising, eminent In wise deport, spake much of Right and Wrong, Of Justice, of Religion, Truth and Peace, And Judgement from above: him old and young Exploded, and had seiz'd with violent hands, Had not a Cloud descending snatch'd him thence Unseen amid the throng: so violence Proceeded, and Oppression, and Sword-Law Through all the Plain, and refuge none was found. ADAM was all in tears, and to his guide Lamenting turnd full sad; O what are these, Deaths Ministers, not Men, who thus deal Death Inhumanly to men, and multiply Ten thousand fould the sin of him who slew His Brother; for of whom such massacher Make they but of thir Brethren, men of men? But who was that Just Man, whom had not Heav'n Rescu'd, had in his Righteousness bin lost? To whom thus MICHAEL; These are the product Of those ill-mated Marriages thou saw'st; Where good with bad were matcht, who of themselves Abhor to joyn; and by imprudence mixt, Produce prodigious Births of bodie or mind. Such were these Giants, men of high renown; For in those dayes Might onely shall be admir'd, And Valour and Heroic Vertu call'd; To overcome in Battel, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human Glorie, and for Glorie done Of triumph, to be styl'd great Conquerours, Patrons of Mankind, Gods, and Sons of Gods, Destroyers rightlier call'd and Plagues of men. Thus Fame shall be achiev'd, renown on Earth, And what most merits fame in silence hid. But hee the seventh from thee, whom thou beheldst The onely righteous in a World perverse, And therefore hated, therefore so beset With Foes for daring single to be just, And utter odious Truth, that God would come To judge them with his Saints: Him the most High Rapt in a balmie Cloud with winged Steeds Did, as thou sawst, receave, to walk with God High in Salvation and the Climes of bliss, Exempt from Death; to shew thee what reward Awaits the good, the rest what punishment; Which now direct thine eyes and soon behold. He look'd, & saw the face of things quite chang'd; The brazen Throat of Warr had ceast to roar, All now was turn'd to jollitie and game, To luxurie and riot, feast and dance, Marrying or prostituting, as befell, Rape or Adulterie, where passing faire Allurd them; thence from Cups to civil Broiles. At length a Reverend Sire among them came, And of thir doings great dislike declar'd, And testifi'd against thir wayes; hee oft Frequented thir Assemblies, whereso met, Triumphs or Festivals, and to them preachd Conversion and Repentance, as to Souls In prison under Judgements imminent: But all in vain: which when he saw, he ceas'd Contending, and remov'd his Tents farr off; Then from the Mountain hewing Timber tall, Began to build a Vessel of huge bulk, Measur'd by Cubit, length, & breadth, and highth, Smeard round with Pitch, and in the side a dore Contriv'd, and of provisions laid in large For Man and Beast: when loe a wonder strange! Of everie Beast, and Bird, and Insect small Came seavens, and pairs, and enterd in, as taught Thir order; last the Sire, and his three Sons With thir four Wives, and God made fast the dore. Meanwhile the Southwind rose, & with black wings Wide hovering, all the Clouds together drove From under Heav'n; the Hills to their supplie Vapour, and Exhalation dusk and moist, Sent up amain; and now the thick'nd Skie Like a dark Ceeling stood; down rush'd the Rain Impetuous, and continu'd till the Earth No more was seen; the floating Vessel swum Uplifted; and secure with beaked prow Rode tilting o're the Waves, all dwellings else Flood overwhelmd, and them with all thir pomp Deep under water rould; Sea cover'd Sea, Sea without shoar; and in thir Palaces Where luxurie late reign'd, Sea-monsters whelp'd And stabl'd; of Mankind, so numerous late, All left, in one small bottom swum imbark't. How didst thou grieve then, ADAM, to behold The end of all thy Ofspring, end so sad, Depopulation; thee another Floud, Of tears and sorrow a Floud thee also drown'd, And sunk thee as thy Sons; till gently reard By th' Angel, on thy feet thou stoodst at last, Though comfortless, as when a Father mourns His Childern, all in view destroyd at once; And scarce to th' Angel utterdst thus thy plaint. O Visions ill foreseen! better had I Liv'd ignorant of future, so had borne My part of evil onely, each dayes lot Anough to bear; those now, that were dispenst The burd'n of many Ages, on me light At once, by my foreknowledge gaining Birth Abortive, to torment me ere thir being, With thought that they must be. Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold what shall befall Him or his Childern, evil he may be sure, Which neither his foreknowing can prevent, And hee the future evil shall no less In apprehension then in substance feel Grievous to bear: but that care now is past, Man is not whom to warne: those few escap't Famin and anguish will at last consume Wandring that watrie Desert: I had hope When violence was ceas't, and Warr on Earth, All would have then gon well, peace would have crownd With length of happy days the race of man; But I was farr deceav'd; for now I see Peace to corrupt no less then Warr to waste. How comes it thus? unfould, Celestial Guide, And whether here the Race of man will end. To whom thus MICHAEL. Those whom last thou sawst In triumph and luxurious wealth, are they First seen in acts of prowess eminent And great exploits, but of true vertu void; Who having spilt much blood, and don much waste Subduing Nations, and achievd thereby Fame in the World, high titles, and rich prey, Shall change thir course to pleasure, ease, and sloth, Surfet, and lust, till wantonness and pride Raise out of friendship hostil deeds in Peace. The conquerd also, and enslav'd by Warr Shall with thir freedom lost all vertu loose And feare of God, from whom thir pietie feign'd In sharp contest of Battel found no aide Against invaders; therefore coold in zeale Thenceforth shall practice how to live secure, Worldlie or dissolute, on what thir Lords Shall leave them to enjoy; for th' Earth shall bear More then anough, that temperance may be tri'd: So all shall turn degenerate, all deprav'd, Justice and Temperance, Truth and Faith forgot; One Man except, the onely Son of light In a dark Age, against example good, Against allurement, custom, and a World Offended; fearless of reproach and scorn, Or violence, hee of thir wicked wayes Shall them admonish, and before them set The paths of righteousness, how much more safe, And full of peace, denouncing wrauth to come On thir impenitence; and shall returne Of them derided, but of God observd The one just Man alive; by his command Shall build a wondrous Ark, as thou beheldst, To save himself and houshold from amidst A World devote to universal rack. No sooner hee with them of Man and Beast Select for life shall in the Ark be lodg'd, And shelterd round, but all the Cataracts Of Heav'n set open on the Earth shall powre Raine day and night, all fountaines of the Deep Broke up, shall heave the Ocean to usurp Beyond all bounds, till inundation rise Above the highest Hills: then shall this Mount Of Paradise by might of Waves be moovd Out of his place, pushd by the horned floud, With all his verdure spoil'd, and Trees adrift Down the great River to the op'ning Gulf, And there take root an Iland salt and bare, The haunt of Seales and Orcs, and Sea-mews clang. To teach thee that God attributes to place No sanctitie, if none be thither brought By Men who there frequent, or therein dwell. And now what further shall ensue, behold. He lookd, and saw the Ark hull on the floud, Which now abated, for the Clouds were fled, Drivn by a keen North-winde, that blowing drie Wrinkl'd the face of Deluge, as decai'd; And the cleer Sun on his wide watrie Glass Gaz'd hot, and of the fresh Wave largely drew, As after thirst, which made thir flowing shrink From standing lake to tripping ebbe, that stole With soft foot towards the deep, who now had stopt His Sluces, as the Heav'n his windows shut. The Ark no more now flotes, but seems on ground Fast on the top of som high mountain fixt. And now the tops of Hills as Rocks appeer; With clamor thence the rapid Currents drive Towards the retreating Sea thir furious tyde. Forthwith from out the Arke a Raven flies, And after him, the surer messenger, A Dove sent forth once and agen to spie Green Tree or ground whereon his foot may light; The second time returning, in his Bill An Olive leafe he brings, pacific signe: Anon drie ground appeers, and from his Arke The ancient Sire descends with all his Train; Then with uplifted hands, and eyes devout, Grateful to Heav'n, over his head beholds A dewie Cloud, and in the Cloud a Bow Conspicuous with three lifted colours gay, Betok'ning peace from God, and Cov'nant new. Whereat the heart of ADAM erst so sad Greatly rejoyc'd, and thus his joy broke forth. O thou that future things canst represent As present, Heav'nly instructer, I revive At this last sight, assur'd that Man shall live With all the Creatures, and thir seed preserve. Farr less I now lament for one whole World Of wicked Sons destroyd, then I rejoyce For one Man found so perfet and so just, That God voutsafes to raise another World From him, and all his anger to forget. But say, what mean those colourd streaks in Heavn, Distended as the Brow of God appeas'd, Or serve they as a flourie verge to binde The fluid skirts of that same watrie Cloud, Least it again dissolve and showr the Earth? To whom th' Archangel. Dextrously thou aim'st; So willingly doth God remit his Ire, Though late repenting him of Man deprav'd, Griev'd at his heart, when looking down he saw The whole Earth fill'd with violence, and all flesh Corrupting each thir way; yet those remoov'd, Such grace shall one just Man find in his sight, That he relents, not to blot out mankind, And makes a Covenant never to destroy The Earth again by flood, nor let the Sea Surpass his bounds, nor Rain to drown the World With Man therein or Beast; but when he brings Over the Earth a Cloud, will therein set His triple-colour'd Bow, whereon to look And call to mind his Cov'nant: Day and Night, Seed time and Harvest, Heat and hoary Frost Shall hold thir course, till fire purge all things new, Both Heav'n and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell. Thus thou hast seen one World begin and end; And Man as from a second stock proceed. Much thou hast yet to see, but I perceave Thy mortal sight to faile; objects divine Must needs impaire and wearie human sense: Henceforth what is to com I will relate, Thou therefore give due audience, and attend. This second sours of Men, while yet but few, And while the dread of judgement past remains Fresh in thir mindes, fearing the Deitie, With some regard to what is just and right Shall lead thir lives, and multiplie apace, Labouring the soile, and reaping plenteous crop, Corn wine and oyle; and from the herd or flock, Oft sacrificing Bullock, Lamb, or Kid, With large Wine-offerings pour'd, and sacred Feast Shal spend thir dayes in joy unblam'd, and dwell Long time in peace by Families and Tribes Under paternal rule; till one shall rise Of proud ambitious heart, who not content With fair equalitie, fraternal state, Will arrogate Dominion undeserv'd Over his brethren, and quite dispossess Concord and law of Nature from the Earth; Hunting (and Men not Beasts shall be his game) With Warr and hostile snare such as refuse Subjection to his Empire tyrannous: A mightie Hunter thence he shall be styl'd Before the Lord, as in despite of Heav'n, Or from Heav'n claming second Sovrantie; And from Rebellion shall derive his name, Though of Rebellion others he accuse. Hee with a crew, whom like Ambition joyns With him or under him to tyrannize, Marching from EDEN towards the West, shall finde The Plain, wherein a black bituminous gurge Boiles out from under ground, the mouth of Hell; Of Brick, and of that stuff they cast to build A Citie & Towre, whose top may reach to Heav'n; And get themselves a name, least far disperst In foraign Lands thir memorie be lost, Regardless whether good or evil fame. But God who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through thir habitations walks To mark thir doings, them beholding soon, Comes down to see thir Citie, ere the Tower Obstruct Heav'n Towrs, and in derision sets Upon thir Tongues a various Spirit to rase Quite out thir Native Language, and instead To sow a jangling noise of words unknown: Forthwith a hideous gabble rises loud Among the Builders; each to other calls Not understood, till hoarse, and all in rage, As mockt they storm; great laughter was in Heav'n And looking down, to see the hubbub strange And hear the din; thus was the building left Ridiculous, and the work Confusion nam'd. Whereto thus ADAM fatherly displeas'd. O execrable Son so to aspire Above his Brethren, to himself affirming Authoritie usurpt, from God not giv'n: He gave us onely over Beast, Fish, Fowl Dominion absolute; that right we hold By his donation; but Man over men He made not Lord; such title to himself Reserving, human left from human free. But this Usurper his encroachment proud Stayes not on Man; to God his Tower intends Siege and defiance: Wretched man! what food Will he convey up thither to sustain Himself and his rash Armie, where thin Aire Above the Clouds will pine his entrails gross, And famish him of Breath, if not of Bread? To whom thus MICHAEL. Justly thou abhorr'st That Son, who on the quiet state of men Such trouble brought, affecting to subdue Rational Libertie; yet know withall, Since thy original lapse, true Libertie Is lost, which alwayes with right Reason dwells Twinn'd, and from her hath no dividual being: Reason in man obscur'd, or not obeyd, Immediately inordinate desires And upstart Passions catch the Government From Reason, and to servitude reduce Man till then free. Therefore since hee permits Within himself unworthie Powers to reign Over free Reason, God in Judgement just Subjects him from without to violent Lords; Who oft as undeservedly enthrall His outward freedom: Tyrannie must be, Though to the Tyrant thereby no excuse. Yet somtimes Nations will decline so low From vertue, which is reason, that no wrong, But Justice, and some fatal curse annext Deprives them of thir outward libertie, Thir inward lost: Witness th' irreverent Son Of him who built the Ark, who for the shame Don to his Father, heard this heavie curse, SERVANT OF SERVANTS, on his vitious Race. Thus will this latter, as the former World, Still tend from bad to worse, till God at last Wearied with their iniquities, withdraw His presence from among them, and avert His holy Eyes; resolving from thenceforth To leave them to thir own polluted wayes; And one peculiar Nation to select From all the rest, of whom to be invok'd, A Nation from one faithful man to spring: Him on this side EUPHRATES yet residing, Bred up in Idol-worship; O that men (Canst thou believe?) should be so stupid grown, While yet the Patriark liv'd, who scap'd the Flood, As to forsake the living God, and fall To-worship thir own work in Wood and Stone For Gods! yet him God the most High voutsafes To call by Vision from his Fathers house, His kindred and false Gods, into a Land Which he will shew him, and from him will raise A mightie Nation, and upon him showre His benediction so, that in his Seed All Nations shall be blest; hee straight obeys, Not knowing to what Land, yet firm believes: I see him, but thou canst not, with what Faith He leaves his Gods, his Friends, and native Soile UR of CHALDAEA, passing now the Ford To HARAN, after him a cumbrous Train Of Herds and Flocks, and numerous servitude; Not wandring poor, but trusting all his wealth With God, who call'd him, in a land unknown. CANAAN he now attains, I see his Tents Pitcht about SECHEM, and the neighbouring Plaine Of MOREB; there by promise he receaves Gift to his Progenie of all that Land; From HAMATH Northward to the Desert South (Things by thir names I call, though yet unnam'd) From HERMON East to the great Western Sea, Mount HERMON, yonder Sea, each place behold In prospect, as I point them; on the shoare Mount CARMEL; here the double-founted stream JORDAN, true limit Eastward; but his Sons Shall dwell to SENIR, that long ridge of Hills. This ponder, that all Nations of the Earth Shall in his Seed be blessed; by that Seed Is meant thy great deliverer, who shall bruise The Serpents head; whereof to thee anon Plainlier shall be reveald. This Patriarch blest, Whom FAITHFUL ABRAHAM due time shall call, A Son, and of his Son a Grand-childe leaves, Like him in faith, in wisdom, and renown; The Grandchilde with twelve Sons increast, departs From CANAAN, to a Land hereafter call'd EGYPT, divided by the River NILE; See where it flows, disgorging at seaven mouthes Into the Sea: to sojourn in that Land He comes invited by a yonger Son In time of dearth, a Son whose worthy deeds Raise him to be the second in that Realme Of PHARAO: there he dies, and leaves his Race Growing into a Nation, and now grown Suspected to a sequent King, who seeks To stop thir overgrowth, as inmate guests Too numerous; whence of guests he makes them slaves Inhospitably, and kills thir infant Males: Till by two brethren (those two brethren call MOSES and AARON) sent from God to claime His people from enthralment, they return With glory and spoile back to thir promis'd Land. But first the lawless Tyrant, who denies To know thir God, or message to regard, Must be compelld by Signes and Judgements dire; To blood unshed the Rivers must be turnd, Frogs, Lice and Flies must all his Palace fill With loath'd intrusion, and fill all the land; His Cattel must of Rot and Murren die, Botches and blaines must all his flesh imboss, And all his people; Thunder mixt with Haile, Haile mixt with fire must rend th' EGYPTIAN Skie And wheel on th' Earth, devouring where it rouls; What it devours not, Herb, or Fruit, or Graine, A darksom Cloud of Locusts swarming down Must eat, and on the ground leave nothing green: Darkness must overshadow all his bounds, Palpable darkness, and blot out three dayes; Last with one midnight stroke all the first-born Of EGYPT must lie dead. Thus with ten wounds This River-dragon tam'd at length submits To let his sojourners depart, and oft Humbles his stubborn heart, but still as Ice More hard'nd after thaw, till in his rage Pursuing whom he late dismissd, the Sea Swallows him with his Host, but them lets pass As on drie land between two christal walls, Aw'd by the rod of MOSES so to stand Divided, till his rescu'd gain thir shoar: Such wondrous power God to his Saint will lend, Though present in his Angel, who shall goe Before them in a Cloud, and Pillar of Fire, To guide them in thir journey, and remove Behinde them, while th' obdurat King pursues: All night he will pursue, but his approach Darkness defends between till morning Watch; Then through the Firey Pillar and the Cloud God looking forth will trouble all his Host And craze thir Chariot wheels: when by command MOSES once more his potent Rod extends Over the Sea; the Sea his Rod obeys; On thir imbattelld ranks the Waves return, And overwhelm thir Warr: the Race elect Safe towards CANAAN from the shoar advance Through the wilde Desert, not the readiest way, Least entring on the CANAANITE allarmd Warr terrifie them inexpert, and feare Return them back to EGYPT, choosing rather Inglorious life with servitude; for life To noble and ignoble is more sweet Untraind in Armes, where rashness leads not on. This also shall they gain by thir delay In the wide Wilderness, there they shall found Thir government, and thir great Senate choose Through the twelve Tribes, to rule by Laws ordaind: God from the Mount of SINAI, whose gray top Shall tremble, he descending, will himself In Thunder Lightning and loud Trumpets sound Ordaine them Lawes; part such as appertaine To civil Justice, part religious Rites Of sacrifice, informing them, by types And shadowes, of that destind Seed to bruise The Serpent, by what meanes he shall achieve Mankinds deliverance. But the voice of God To mortal eare is dreadful; they beseech That MOSES might report to them his will, And terror cease; he grants them thir desire, Instructed that to God is no access Without Mediator, whose high Office now MOSES in figure beares, to introduce One greater, of whose day he shall foretell, And all the Prophets in thir Age the times Of great MESSIAH shall sing. Thus Laws and Rites Establisht, such delight hath God in Men Obedient to his will, that he voutsafes Among them to set up his Tabernacle, The holy One with mortal Men to dwell: By his prescript a Sanctuary is fram'd Of Cedar, overlaid with Gold, therein An Ark, and in the Ark his Testimony, The Records of his Cov'nant, over these A Mercie-seat of Gold between the wings Of two bright Cherubim, before him burn Seaven Lamps as in a Zodiac representing The Heav'nly fires; over the Tent a Cloud Shall rest by Day, a fierie gleame by Night, Save when they journie, and at length they come, Conducted by his Angel to the Land Promisd to ABRAHAM and his Seed: the rest Were long to tell, how many Battels fought, How many Kings destroyd, and Kingdoms won, Or how the Sun shall in mid Heav'n stand still A day entire, and Nights due course adjourne, Mans voice commanding, Sun in GIBEON stand, And thou Moon in the vale of AIALON, Till ISRAEL overcome; so call the third From ABRAHAM, Son of ISAAC, and from him His whole descent, who thus shall CANAAN win. Here ADAM interpos'd. O sent from Heav'n, Enlightner of my darkness, gracious things Thou hast reveald, those chiefly which concerne Just ABRAHAM and his Seed: now first I finde Mine eyes true op'ning, and my heart much eas'd, Erwhile perplext with thoughts what would becom Of mee and all Mankind; but now I see His day, in whom all Nations shall be blest, Favour unmerited by me, who sought Forbidd'n knowledge by forbidd'n means. This yet I apprehend not, why to those Among whom God will deigne to dwell on Earth So many and so various Laws are giv'n; So many Laws argue so many sins Among them; how can God with such reside? To whom thus MICHAEL. Doubt not but that sin Will reign among them, as of thee begot; And therefore was Law given them to evince Thir natural pravitie, by stirring up Sin against Law to fight; that when they see Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowie expiations weak, The bloud of Bulls and Goats, they may conclude Some bloud more precious must be paid for Man, Just for unjust, that in such righteousness To them by Faith imputed, they may finde Justification towards God, and peace Of Conscience, which the Law by Ceremonies Cannot appease, nor Man the moral part Perform, and not performing cannot live. So Law appears imperfet, and but giv'n With purpose to resign them in full time Up to a better Cov'nant, disciplin'd From shadowie Types to Truth, from Flesh to Spirit, From imposition of strict Laws, to free Acceptance of large Grace, from servil fear To filial, works of Law to works of Faith. And therefore shall not MOSES, though of God Highly belov'd, being but the Minister Of Law, his people into CANAAN lead; But JOSHUA whom the Gentiles JESUS call, His Name and Office bearing, who shall quell The adversarie Serpent, and bring back Through the worlds wilderness long wanderd man Safe to eternal Paradise of rest. Meanwhile they in thir earthly CANAAN plac't Long time shall dwell and prosper, but when sins National interrupt thir public peace, Provoking God to raise them enemies: From whom as oft he saves them penitent By Judges first, then under Kings; of whom The second, both for pietie renownd And puissant deeds, a promise shall receive Irrevocable, that his Regal Throne For ever shall endure; the like shall sing All Prophecie, That of the Royal Stock Of DAVID (so I name this King) shall rise A Son, the Womans Seed to thee foretold, Foretold to ABRAHAM, as in whom shall trust All Nations, and to Kings foretold, of Kings The last, for of his Reign shall be no end. But first a long succession must ensue, And his next Son for Wealth and Wisdom fam'd, The clouded Ark of God till then in Tents Wandring, shall in a glorious Temple enshrine. Such follow him, as shall be registerd Part good, part bad, of bad the longer scrowle, Whose foul Idolatries, and other faults Heapt to the popular summe, will so incense God, as to leave them, and expose thir Land, Thir Citie, his Temple, and his holy Ark With all his sacred things, a scorn and prey To that proud Citie, whose high Walls thou saw'st Left in confusion, BABYLON thence call'd. There in captivitie he lets them dwell The space of seventie years, then brings them back, Remembring mercie, and his Cov'nant sworn To DAVID, stablisht as the dayes of Heav'n. Returnd from BABYLON by leave of Kings Thir Lords, whom God dispos'd, the house of God They first re-edifie, and for a while In mean estate live moderate, till grown In wealth and multitude, factious they grow; But first among the Priests dissension springs, Men who attend the Altar, and should most Endeavour Peace: thir strife pollution brings Upon the Temple it self: at last they seise The Scepter, and regard not DAVIDS Sons, Then loose it to a stranger, that the true Anointed King MESSIAH might be born Barr'd of his right; yet at his Birth a Starr Unseen before in Heav'n proclaims him com, And guides the Eastern Sages, who enquire His place, to offer Incense, Myrrh, and Gold; His place of birth a solemn Angel tells To simple Shepherds, keeping watch by night; They gladly thither haste, and by a Quire Of squadrond Angels hear his Carol sung. A Virgin is his Mother, but his Sire The Power of the most High; he shall ascend The Throne hereditarie, and bound his Reign With earths wide bounds, his glory with the Heav'ns. He ceas'd, discerning ADAM with such joy Surcharg'd, as had like grief bin dew'd in tears, Without the vent of words, which these he breathd. O Prophet of glad tidings, finisher Of utmost hope! now clear I understand What oft my steddiest thoughts have searcht in vain, Why our great expectation should be call'd The seed of Woman: Virgin Mother, Haile, High in the love of Heav'n, yet from my Loynes Thou shalt proceed, and from thy Womb the Son Of God most High; So God with man unites. Needs must the Serpent now his capital bruise Expect with mortal paine: say where and when Thir fight, what stroke shall bruise the Victors heel. To whom thus MICHAEL. Dream not of thir fight, As of a Duel, or the local wounds Of head or heel: not therefore joynes the Son Manhood to God-head, with more strength to foil Thy enemie; nor so is overcome SATAN, whose fall from Heav'n, a deadlier bruise, Disabl'd not to give thee thy deaths wound: Which hee, who comes thy Saviour, shall recure, Not by destroying SATAN, but his works In thee and in thy Seed: nor can this be, But by fulfilling that which thou didst want, Obedience to the Law of God, impos'd On penaltie of death, and suffering death, The penaltie to thy transgression due, And due to theirs which out of thine will grow: So onely can high Justice rest appaid. The Law of God exact he shall fulfill Both by obedience and by love, though love Alone fulfill the Law; thy punishment He shall endure by coming in the Flesh To a reproachful life and cursed death, Proclaiming Life to all who shall believe In his redemption, and that his obedience Imputed becomes theirs by Faith, his merits To save them, not thir own, though legal works. For this he shall live hated, be blasphem'd, Seis'd on by force, judg'd, and to death condemnd A shameful and accurst, naild to the Cross By his own Nation, slaine for bringing Life; But to the Cross he nailes thy Enemies, The Law that is against thee, and the sins Of all mankinde, with him there crucifi'd, Never to hurt them more who rightly trust In this his satisfaction; so he dies, But soon revives, Death over him no power Shall long usurp; ere the third dawning light Returne, the Starres of Morn shall see him rise Out of his grave, fresh as the dawning light, Thy ransom paid, which Man from death redeems, His death for Man, as many as offerd Life Neglect not, and the benefit imbrace By Faith not void of works: this God-like act Annuls thy doom, the death thou shouldst have dy'd, In sin for ever lost from life; this act Shall bruise the head of SATAN, crush his strength Defeating Sin and Death, his two maine armes, And fix farr deeper in his head thir stings Then temporal death shall bruise the Victors heel, Or theirs whom he redeems, a death like sleep, A gentle wafting to immortal Life. Nor after resurrection shall he stay Longer on Earth then certaine times to appeer To his Disciples, Men who in his Life Still follow'd him; to them shall leave in charge To teach all nations what of him they learn'd And his Salvation, them who shall beleeve Baptizing in the profluent streame, the signe Of washing them from guilt of sin to Life Pure, and in mind prepar'd, if so befall, For death, like that which the redeemer dy'd. All Nations they shall teach; for from that day Not onely to the Sons of ABRAHAMS Loines Salvation shall be Preacht, but to the Sons Of ABRAHAMS Faith wherever through the world; So in his seed all Nations shall be blest. Then to the Heav'n of Heav'ns he shall ascend With victory, triumphing through the aire Over his foes and thine; there shall surprise The Serpent, Prince of aire, and drag in Chaines Through all his realme, & there confounded leave; Then enter into glory, and resume His Seat at Gods right hand, exalted high Above all names in Heav'n; and thence shall come, When this worlds dissolution shall be ripe, With glory and power to judge both quick & dead, To judge th' unfaithful dead, but to reward His faithful, and receave them into bliss, Whether in Heav'n or Earth, for then the Earth Shall all be Paradise, far happier place Then this of EDEN, and far happier daies. So spake th' Archangel MICHAEL, then paus'd, As at the Worlds great period; and our Sire Replete with joy and wonder thus repli'd. O goodness infinite, goodness immense! That all this good of evil shall produce, And evil turn to good; more wonderful Then that which by creation first brought forth Light out of darkness! full of doubt I stand, Whether I should repent me now of sin By mee done and occasiond, or rejoyce Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring, To God more glory, more good will to Men From God, and over wrauth grace shall abound. But say, if our deliverer up to Heav'n Must reascend, what will betide the few His faithful, left among th' unfaithful herd, The enemies of truth; who then shall guide His people, who defend? will they not deale Wors with his followers then with him they dealt? Be sure they will, said th' Angel; but from Heav'n Hee to his own a Comforter will send, The promise of the Father, who shall dwell His Spirit within them, and the Law of Faith Working through love, upon thir hearts shall write, To guide them in all truth, and also arme With spiritual Armour, able to resist SATANS assaults, and quench his fierie darts What Man can do against them, not affraid, Though to the death, against such cruelties With inward consolations recompenc't, And oft supported so as shall amaze Thir proudest persecuters: for the Spirit Powrd first on his Apostles, whom he sends To evangelize the Nations, then on all Baptiz'd, shall them with wondrous gifts endue To speak all Tongues, and do all Miracles, As did thir Lord before them. Thus they win Great numbers of each Nation to receave With joy the tidings brought from Heav'n: at length Thir Ministry perform'd, and race well run, Thir doctrine and thir story written left, They die; but in thir room, as they forewarne, Wolves shall succeed for teachers, grievous Wolves, Who all the sacred mysteries of Heav'n To thir own vile advantages shall turne Of lucre and ambition, and the truth With superstitions and traditions taint, Left onely in those written Records pure, Though not but by the Spirit understood. Then shall they seek to avail themselves of names, Places and titles, and with these to joine Secular power, though feigning still to act By spiritual, to themselves appropriating The Spirit of God, promisd alike and giv'n To all Beleevers; and from that pretense, Spiritual Lawes by carnal power shall force On every conscience; Laws which none shall finde Left them inrould, or what the Spirit within Shall on the heart engrave. What will they then But force the Spirit of Grace it self, and binde His consort Libertie; what, but unbuild His living Temples, built by Faith to stand, Thir own Faith not anothers: for on Earth Who against Faith and Conscience can be heard Infallible? yet many will presume: Whence heavie persecution shall arise On all who in the worship persevere Of Spirit and Truth; the rest, farr greater part, Will deem in outward Rites and specious formes Religion satisfi'd; Truth shall retire Bestuck with slandrous darts, and works of Faith Rarely be found: so shall the World goe on, To good malignant, to bad men benigne, Under her own waight groaning, till the day Appeer of respiration to the just, And vengeance to the wicked, at return Of him so lately promis'd to thy aid, The Womans seed, obscurely then foretold, Now amplier known thy Saviour and thy Lord, Last in the Clouds from Heav'n to be reveald In glory of the Father, to dissolve SATAN with his perverted World, then raise From the conflagrant mass, purg'd and refin'd, New Heav'ns, new Earth, Ages of endless date Founded in righteousness and peace and love, To bring forth fruits Joy and eternal Bliss. He ended; and thus ADAM last reply'd. How soon hath thy prediction, Seer blest, Measur'd this transient World, the Race of time, Till time stand fixt: beyond is all abyss, Eternitie, whose end no eye can reach. Greatly instructed I shall hence depart, Greatly in peace of thought, and have my fill Of knowledge, what this vessel can containe; Beyond which was my folly to aspire. Henceforth I learne, that to obey is best, And love with feare the onely God, to walk As in his presence, ever to observe His providence, and on him sole depend, Merciful over all his works, with good Still overcoming evil, and by small Accomplishing great things, by things deemd weak Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise By simply meek; that suffering for Truths sake Is fortitude to highest victorie, And to the faithful Death the Gate of Life; Taught this by his example whom I now Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest. To whom thus also th' Angel last repli'd: This having learnt, thou hast attaind the summe Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the Starrs Thou knewst by name, and all th' ethereal Powers, All secrets of the deep, all Natures works, Or works of God in Heav'n, Air, Earth, or Sea, And all the riches of this World enjoydst, And all the rule, one Empire; onely add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add Faith, Add Vertue, Patience, Temperance, add Love, By name to come call'd Charitie, the soul Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess A Paradise within thee, happier farr. Let us descend now therefore from this top Of Speculation; for the hour precise Exacts our parting hence; and see the Guards, By mee encampt on yonder Hill, expect Thir motion, at whose Front a flaming Sword, In signal of remove, waves fiercely round; We may no longer stay: go, waken Eve; Her also I with gentle Dreams have calm'd Portending good, and all her spirits compos'd To meek submission: thou at season fit Let her with thee partake what thou hast heard, Chiefly what may concern her Faith to know, The great deliverance by her Seed to come (For by the Womans Seed) on all Mankind. That ye may live, which will be many dayes, Both in one Faith unanimous though sad, With cause for evils past, yet much more cheer'd With meditation on the happie end. He ended, and they both descend the Hill; Descended, ADAM to the Bowre where EVE Lay sleeping ran before, but found her wak't; And thus with words not sad she him receav'd. Whence thou returnst, & whither wentst, I know; For God is also in sleep, and Dreams advise, Which he hath sent propitious, some great good Presaging, since with sorrow and hearts distress VVearied I fell asleep: but now lead on; In mee is no delay; with thee to goe, Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, Is to go hence unwilling; thou to mee Art all things under Heav'n, all places thou, VVho for my wilful crime art banisht hence. This further consolation yet secure I carry hence; though all by mee is lost, Such favour I unworthie am voutsaft, By mee the Promis'd Seed shall all restore. So spake our Mother EVE, and ADAM heard VVell pleas'd, but answer'd not; for now too nigh Th' Archangel stood, and from the other Hill To thir fixt Station, all in bright array The Cherubim descended; on the ground Gliding meteorous, as Ev'ning Mist Ris'n from a River o're the marish glides, And gathers ground fast at the Labourers heel Homeward returning. High in Front advanc't, The brandisht Sword of God before them blaz'd Fierce as a Comet; which with torrid heat, And vapour as the LIBYAN Air adust, Began to parch that temperate Clime; whereat In either hand the hastning Angel caught Our lingring Parents, and to th' Eastern Gate Let them direct, and down the Cliff as fast To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer'd. They looking back, all th' Eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat, Wav'd over by that flaming Brand, the Gate With dreadful Faces throng'd and fierie Armes: Som natural tears they drop'd, but wip'd them soon; The World was all before them, where to choose Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide: They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow, Through EDEN took thir solitarie way. THE END. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die erste Szene des Buches X findet im Himmel statt, wo die Engel von Adams und Evas Fall wissen. Gott versammelt die Engel, um diese Tatsache zu bestätigen und zu betonen, dass er wusste, dass Adam und Eva der Versuchung nachgeben würden, aber er sie keineswegs dazu veranlasst hat. Die Tat geschah aus ihrem eigenen freien Willen. Jetzt müssen Adam und Eva jedoch gerichtet werden; jedoch fügt Gott hinzu, dass Gerechtigkeit mit Gnade gemildert werden kann. Gott schickt den Sohn, um das Urteil über Adam und Eva zu verkünden. Der Sohn fliegt schnell in den Garten Eden hinab, wo er das Urteil spricht. Zuerst verurteilt Gott die Schlange, die Satan erlaubt hat, ihren Körper zu benutzen. Die Schlange wird nun auf ihrem Bauch kriechen anstatt zu stehen. Weiterhin etabliert Gott eine ewige Feindschaft zwischen Frauen und Schlangen. Evas Kinder werden den Kopf der Schlange zertreten; die Schlange wird ihnen die Ferse zerquetschen. Eva und alle Frauen werden zusätzlich zur Geburtsschmerzen auch der Unterwerfung unter ihre Ehemänner unterworfen. Schließlich müssen Männer aufgrund Adams auf dem Boden arbeiten, um ihre Nahrung zu verdienen, und dem Tod unterworfen sein, indem sie buchstäblich zu dem Staub zurückkehren, aus dem sie geschaffen wurden. Als letzte Handlung, die so freundlich ist, dass sie Gottes ultimative Barmherzigkeit vorausahnt, kleidet der Sohn Adam und Eva in Tierhäute. Die Szene wechselt nun von der Erde zur Hölle, wo Sünde und Tod, nachdem sie den Fahrweg zwischen Hölle und Erde fertiggestellt haben, sich auf den Weg zur Erde machen. Unterwegs sehen sie Satan in seiner engelhaften Form, der sich zur Hölle hinfliegt. Satan enthüllt die Geschehnisse, die sich ereignet haben, und Sünde beglückwünscht ihren Vater zu seinen Errungenschaften und behauptet fälschlicherweise, dass seine Kraft es ihr und dem Tod ermöglicht hat, der Hölle zu entkommen. Sie fügt hinzu, ebenfalls fälschlicherweise, dass Satan nun die Kontrolle über alle Menschen hat, während Gott den Himmel kontrolliert. Satan ist erfreut über Sündes Kommentare und bittet sie, sich mit dem Tod zur Erde zu beeilen, damit sie die Kontrolle übernehmen können. Er selbst setzt seinen Weg in die Hölle fort. Als Satan die Hölle betritt, scheint sie verlassen zu sein, und er muss bis ins Pandämonium gehen, um die anderen gefallenen Engel zu finden. Als die gefallenen Engel Satan sehen, heißen sie ihn freudig willkommen, und er hält zu ihnen eine prahlerische Rede voller Stolz. Er erzählt ihnen von der Versuchung Evas und wie er beide Menschen mit einem niederen Apfel hat fallen lassen. Er sagt, dass die rebellischen Engel nun im Paradies bleiben können. Erwartet er Applaus und Beifall der versammelten Dämonen, so hört Satan stattdessen Zischen. Schlangen kriechen durch das ganze Pandämonium, und Satan und seine Anhänger verwandeln sich schnell in Schlangen. Bäume wie der Baum der Erkenntnis erscheinen, aber wenn die Schlangen die verlockende Frucht essen, verwandelt sie sich in widerlichen Ruß und Asche. Diese Szene beendet im Wesentlichen die Rolle Satans und der gefallenen Engel in der Erzählung. In der Zwischenzeit haben Sünde und Tod die Erde erreicht, wo sie ein fruchtbares Feld für ihre Taten sehen. Gott sieht die Kinder Satans auf der Erde und sagt den Engeln, dass Sünde und Tod aufgrund des Falls von Adam und Eva auf der Erde weiterleben werden, bis zum Tag des Gerichts, wenn sie mit ihrem Vater in die Hölle geworfen und für immer darin eingeschlossen werden. Mit dieser Prophezeiung von Gott werden Sünde und Tod im Gedicht nicht mehr gesehen. Dann sagt Gott den Engeln, sie sollen die Erde verändern. Sie sollen die Jahreszeiten und verschiedene Arten von gewaltvollem Wetter erschaffen. Zwietracht wird ebenfalls auf die Erde gebracht, damit Tiere nun einander jagen und töten und den Menschen bedrohen. Adam ist sich all dieser Veränderungen bewusst und gibt sich selbst die Schuld. Er beginnt mit Klage über das, was er getan hat und die Konsequenzen. Er möchte die ganze Schuld für das, was geschehen ist, auf sich nehmen; dann denkt er an Eva und findet, dass sie böse war und ebenfalls Schuld verdient. Adam findet sich in einem hoffnungslosen Zustand. Als Eva versucht, mit ihm zu sprechen, weist er sie wütend zurück und hinterfragt, warum Gott Weibliches erschaffen hat. Eva nähert sich Adam erneut und hält die sogenannte "Wiedergeburt-Rede". Sie bittet Adam, sie nicht abzuweisen. Sie erklärt, dass die Schlange sie getäuscht hat. Sie bittet Adam, bei ihr zu bleiben, dass sie sich auch in ihrem Schmerz lieben können. Sie sagt, dass sie die Strafe alleine auf sich nehmen würde, weil sie gegen Gott und Adam gesündigt hat, während Adam nur gegen Gott gesündigt hat. Adams Gefühle für Eva erwachen durch ihre Worte, und er kehrt zu ihr zurück. Er sagt ihr, dass sie aufhören müssen, einander die Schuld zu geben. Sie können einander Trost spenden und durch Liebe die Last des Todes, die auf ihnen liegt, erleichtern. Als Eva vorschlägt, dass sie Gottes Fluch auf die Welt entgehen könnten, indem sie entweder kinderlos bleiben oder Selbstmord begehen, antwortet Adam, dass sie nicht versuchen sollten, Gott zu betrügen. Er erinnert Eva daran, dass Gott gesagt hat, dass ihre Nachkommen den Kopf der Schlange zertrampeln würden. Er analysiert, dass mit der Schlange Satan gemeint ist. Daher, wenn sie leben und Nachkommen haben, werden ihre Kinder irgendwann den Kopf der Schlange zertreten und Satan wird besiegt sein. Er schließt dann, dass sie beten und Gottes Gnade und Barmherzigkeit suchen sollten, was sie auch tun.

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: In dem Becky von der Familie erkannt wird Der Erbe von Crawley kehrte nach dieser Katastrophe zur rechten Zeit nach Hause zurück und kann von nun an gesagt werden, dass er in Queen's Crawley regierte. Obwohl der alte Baron viele Monate überlebte, erlangte er nie wieder vollständig die Kontrolle über seinen Verstand oder seine Sprache, und die Verwaltung des Anwesens wurde auf seinen ältesten Sohn übertragen. In einem seltsamen Zustand fand Pitt es vor. Sir Pitt kaufte und belastete immerzu; er hatte zwanzig Geschäftsleute und jedes Mal Streitigkeiten mit ihnen; Streitigkeiten mit all seinen Pächtern und Klagen gegen sie; Klagen gegen die Anwälte; Klagen gegen die Bergbau- und Hafenunternehmen, von denen er Besitzer war; und mit jeder Person, mit der er geschäftlich zu tun hatte. Diese Schwierigkeiten zu entwirren und das Anwesen in Ordnung zu bringen, war eine Aufgabe, die eines ordentlichen und beharrlichen Diplomaten von Pumpernickel würdig war, und er machte sich mit enormem Fleiß daran. Seine ganze Familie wurde natürlich nach Queen's Crawley transportiert, wohin auch Lady Southdown, selbstverständlich, kam; und sie machte sich daran, die Gemeinde vor der Nase des Pfarrers zu bekehren, und brachte ihre unregelmäßigen Geistlichen herbei, zum Schrecken der zornigen Mrs Bute. Sir Pitt hatte keinen Vertrag über den Verkauf der Pfarrei von Queen's Crawley abgeschlossen; wenn sie frei werden sollte, beabsichtigte ihre Ladyship, die Patronatsrechte selbst in die Hand zu nehmen und einen jungen Protegé dem Pfarrhaus zu präsentieren, über den der diplomatische Pitt nichts sagte. Die Absichten von Frau Bute in Bezug auf Miss Betsy Horrocks wurden nicht umgesetzt, und sie besuchte das Gefängnis von Southampton nicht. Sie und ihr Vater verließen den Herrschaftssitz, als letzterer das Crawley Arms im Dorf übernahm, für das er einen Pachtvertrag von Sir Pitt bekommen hatte. Der ehemalige Butler hatte ebenfalls ein kleines Einfamilienhaus dort erworben, das ihm ein Wahlrecht für den Bezirk gab. Der Pfarrer hatte ein weiteres dieser Wahlrechte, und diese zusammen mit vier anderen bildeten das Vertretungsgremium, das die beiden Abgeordneten für Queen's Crawley wählte. Zwischen den Damen des Pfarrhauses und den Damen des Herrschaftssitzes wurde eine höfliche Fassade aufrechterhalten, zumindest zwischen den jüngeren Damen, denn Frau Bute und Lady Southdown konnten sich nie treffen, ohne in Streit zu geraten, und hörten nach und nach ganz auf, sich zu sehen. Ihre Ladyship hielt sich in ihrem Zimmer auf, wenn die Damen aus dem Pfarrhaus ihre Verwandten im Herrschaftssitz besuchten. Vielleicht war Herr Pitt über diese gelegentlichen Abwesenheiten seiner Schwiegermutter nicht sehr verärgert. Er hielt die Familie Binkie für die größte, weiseste und interessanteste der Welt, und ihre Ladyship und ihre Tante hatten lange Zeit die Herrschaft über ihn ausgeübt; aber manchmal fühlte er, dass sie ihm zu sehr befahl. Natürlich gab Lady Jane ihrer Mutter in allem nach. Ihren Kindern gegenüber war sie nur im Privaten zärtlich, und es kam ihr zugute, dass die vielbeschäftigte Lady Southdown, ihre Sitzungen mit Ministern und ihre Korrespondenz mit allen Missionaren in Afrika, Asien und Australasien usw. die ehrwürdige Gräfin sehr beanspruchten, sodass sie nur wenig Zeit für ihre Enkelin, die kleine Matilda, und ihren Enkel, Master Pitt Crawley, hatte. Letzterer war ein schwaches Kind und es war nur mit gewaltigen Dosen an Calomel, dass Lady Southdown ihn überhaupt am Leben erhalten konnte. Sir Pitt zog sich in jene Räume zurück, in denen Lady Crawley zuvor ausgezogen war, und wurde hier von Miss Hester, dem Mädchen, das befördert worden war, ständig versorgt und umsorgt. Welche Liebe, welche Treue, welche Beständigkeit gibt es, die der einer Krankenschwester mit guten Löhnen gleichkommt? Sie richten Kissen her, sie machen Pfeilwurzelpulver; sie stehen nachts auf; sie ertragen Beschwerden und Murren; sie sehen die Sonne draußen scheinen und wollen nicht ins Freie gehen; sie schlafen auf Sesseln und essen ihre Mahlzeiten in Einsamkeit; sie verbringen lange Abende damit, nichts zu tun, während sie die Glut und das Getränk des Patienten in der Kanne betrachten; sie lesen die Wochenzeitung die ganze Woche über; und Law's Serious Call oder The Whole Duty of Man reicht ihnen als Literatur für das ganze Jahr aus - und wir streiten mit ihnen, weil wenn ihre Verwandten sie einmal pro Woche besuchen kommen, ein wenig Gin in ihrem Wäschekorb eingeschmuggelt wird. Ladies, welche Liebe eines Mannes würde ein Jahr lang die Pflege der geliebten Person ertragen? Währenddessen wird eine Krankenschwester für zehn Pfund pro Vierteljahr an Ihrer Seite stehen, und wir halten sie für überteuert. Zumindest beschwerte sich Herr Crawley ziemlich darüber, dass er Miss Hester die Hälfte dafür zahlte, dass sie sich ständig um den Baronet, seinen Vater, kümmerte. An sonnigen Tagen wurde dieser alte Herr in einem Stuhl auf die Terrasse hinausgebracht - demselben Stuhl, den Miss Crawley in Brighton hatte und der zusammen mit einer Reihe von Effekten von Lady Southdown nach Queen's Crawley transportiert worden war. Lady Jane ging immer an der Seite des alten Mannes und war offensichtlich seine Lieblingsperson. Er nickte ihr oft zu und lächelte, wenn sie hereinkam, und stieß unverständliche abwehrende Stöhngeräusche aus, wenn sie ging. Wenn sich die Tür hinter ihr schloss, weinte und schluchzte er - woraufhin das Gesicht und die Art von Hester, das immer äußerst freundlich und sanft war, während ihre Herrin anwesend war, sich sofort veränderten. Sie machte ihm Grimassen, ballte die Faust und schrie "Halt den Mund, du dummer alter Trottel" und drehte seinen Stuhl weg vom Feuer, das er gerne betrachtete - wodurch er nur noch mehr weinte. Denn das war alles, was von mehr als siebzig Jahren von Hinterlist, Kämpfen, Trinken, Intrigen, Sünde und Selbstsucht übrig geblieben war - ein wimmernder alter Idiot, der wie ein Baby ins Bett gebracht, verwöhnt, gereinigt und gefüttert wurde. Schließlich kam ein Tag, an dem die Beschäftigung der Krankenschwester vorbei war. Frühmorgens, als Pitt Crawley in seinem Büro die Bücher des Verwalters und Pächters durchsah, klopfte es an der Tür und Hester erschien und verbeugte sich und sagte: "Wenn es Ihnen recht ist, Sir Pitt, Sir Pitt ist heute Morgen gestorben, Sir Pitt. Ich habe gerade sein Toast zubereitet, Sir Pitt, für seinen Haferbrei, Sir Pitt, den er jeden Morgen pünktlich um sechs Uhr einnahm, Sir Pitt, und - ich dachte, ich hörte ein stöhnendes Geräusch, Sir Pitt - und - und - und -" Sie verbeugte sich erneut. Was war es, das Pitts blassgesichtige Wangen ganz rot werden ließ? Lag es daran, dass er endlich Sir Pitt war, mit einem Sitz im Parlament und vielleicht zukünftigen Ehren? "Ich werde das Anwesen jetzt mit dem Barvermögen abwickeln", dachte er und berechnete schnell dessen Belastungen und die Verbesserungen, die er vornehmen würde. Er würde das Geld seiner Tante zuvor nicht nutzen, falls Sir Pitt sich erholen sollte und seine Ausgaben vergeblich wären. In der Halle und im Pfarrhaus waren alle Jalousien heruntergelassen Lady Southdown erhob sich majestätisch wie Mrs. Siddons in der Rolle der Lady Macbeth und befahl, dass ihre Pferde vors Gespann gespannt werden sollten. Wenn ihr Sohn und ihre Tochter sie aus ihrem Haus vertrieben, würde sie ihre Sorgen an einem einsamen Ort verbergen und für ihre Bekehrung zu besseren Gedanken beten. "Wir werfen dich nicht aus unserem Haus, Mama", sagte die ängstliche Lady Jane flehend. "Ihr ladet Gesellschaft ein, der keine christliche Dame begegnen sollte, und ich werde morgen früh meine Pferde haben wollen." "Bitte schreiben Sie, Jane, nach meiner Diktatur", sagte Sir Pitt und erhob sich, warf sich in eine befehlerische Haltung wie das Porträt eines Gentleman in der Ausstellung. "Schreib: 'Queen's Crawley, 14. September 1822 - Mein lieber Bruder'." Als Lady Macbeth, die auf ein Zeichen von Schwäche oder Zögern von ihrem Schwiegersohn gewartet hatte, diese entscheidenden und schrecklichen Worte hörte, erhob sie sich mit ängstlichem Blick und verließ fluchtartig die Bibliothek. Lady Jane schaute zu ihrem Mann auf, als ob sie ihrer Mutter gerne folgen und sie beruhigen würde, aber Pitt verbot seiner Frau, sich zu bewegen. "Sie wird nicht gehen", sagte er. "Sie hat ihr Haus in Brighton vermietet und ihre letzten Dividenden ausgegeben. Eine Gräfin, die in einer Herberge lebt, ist eine ruinierte Frau. Ich habe lange auf eine Gelegenheit gewartet, diesen entscheidenden Schritt zu unternehmen, meine Liebe. Denn wie du sicher bemerkst, kann es in einer Familie nicht zwei Anführer geben. Und jetzt, wenn es dir recht ist, setzen wir die Diktation fort. 'Mein lieber Bruder, die traurige Nachricht, die ich meiner Familie überbringen muss, wird bereits lange erwartet von ...'" Kurz gesagt, da Pitt sein Königreich erreicht hatte und durch gutes Glück oder Verdienst fast das gesamte Vermögen, das seine anderen Verwandten erwartet hatten, erworben hatte, war er fest entschlossen, seine Familie freundlich und respektabel zu behandeln und Queen's Crawley wieder zu einem richtigen Zuhause zu machen. Es gefiel ihm zu denken, dass er sein Oberhaupt sein würde. Er beabsichtigte, den enormen Einfluss, den seine überzeugenden Talente und seine Position in der Grafschaft zweifellos erlangen würden, zu nutzen, um seinen Bruder unterzubringen und seine Cousins angemessen zu versorgen. Vielleicht hatte er auch einen kleinen Stich des Bedauerns, als er daran dachte, dass er nun der Besitzer von allem war, was sie erhofft hatten. Im Laufe seiner dreitägigen Regentschaft änderte er sein Auftreten und seine Pläne wurden vollkommen klar: Er wollte gerecht und ehrlich regieren, Lady Southdown absetzen und mit allen Verwandten freundlichstmögliche Beziehungen haben. Also diktierter er einen Brief an seinen Bruder Rawdon - einen feierlichen und ausführlichen Brief, voller kluger Beobachtungen, formuliert in den längsten Worten, und erstaunlich die einfache kleinen Sekretärin, die unter den Befehlen ihres Mannes schrieb. "Was für ein Redner er sein wird", dachte sie, "wenn er ins Parlament eintritt" (zu diesem Thema und zur Tyrannei von Lady Southdown hatte Pitt seiner Frau schon manchmal Andeutungen im Bett gemacht). "Wie weise und gut und was für ein Genie mein Mann ist! Ich dachte, er sei ein bisschen kühl, aber wie gut und was für ein Genie!" Tatsächlich hatte Pitt Crawley jeden einzelnen Wort des Briefes auswendig gelernt und ihn mit diplomatischer Geheimhaltung gründlich studiert, lange bevor er sich entschied, ihn seiner erstaunten Frau mitzuteilen. Dieser Brief, mit einem riesigen schwarzen Rand und Siegel versehen, wurde daher von Sir Pitt Crawley an seinen Bruder Colonel in London geschickt. Rawdon Crawley war über den Erhalt des Briefes nur halb erfreut. "Was bringt es, an diesen dummen Ort zu fahren?", dachte er. "Ich ertrage es nicht, nach dem Abendessen alleine mit Pitt zu sein, und Hin- und Rückfahrt mit Pferden werden uns zwanzig Pfund kosten." Er brachte den Brief, wie er alle Schwierigkeiten tat, zu Becky, in ihr Schlafzimmer - mit ihrem Schokolade, das er jeden Morgen zubereitete und ihr brachte. Er stellte das Tablett mit Frühstück und den Brief auf den Frisiertisch, vor dem Becky saß und ihr blondes Haar kämmte. Sie nahm den Brief mit schwarzem Rand auf und nachdem sie ihn gelesen hatte, sprang sie auf und rief "Hurra!" und schwenkte den Brief über ihrem Kopf. "Hurra?", sagte Rawdon und war erstaunt über die kleine Gestalt, die in einem flauschigen flannelbade Rock herumtanzte, mit ungebändigten goldgelockten Haaren. "Er hat uns nichts hinterlassen, Becky. Ich habe meinen Anteil bekommen, als ich volljährig wurde." "Du wirst niemals volljährig, du dummer alter Mann", antwortete Becky. "Geh jetzt zu Madam Brunoy, denn ich brauche Trauerkleidung: besorge dir eine Trauerkante für deinen Hut und eine schwarze Weste - ich glaube, du hast keine; bestelle sie für morgen, damit wir am Donnerstag abreisen können." "Du willst wirklich gehen?", warf Rawdon ein. "Natürlich will ich gehen. Nächstes Jahr soll mich Lady Jane am Hof vorstellen. Dein Bruder soll dir einen Sitz im Parlament verschaffen, du dummer alter Kerl. Lord Steyne soll deinen vote bekommen und deinen, mein Lieber, alter dummer Mann. Und du wirst irischer Sekretär oder Westindischer Gouverneur oder Schatzmeister oder Konsul oder so etwas sein." "Das Reisen wird ein haufen Geld kosten", murrte Rawdon. "Wir könnten den Wagen von Southdown nehmen, der bei der Beerdigung dabei sein sollte, da er mit der Familie verwandt ist. Aber nein - ich habe vor, dass wir mit dem Kutschwagen fahren. Das gefällt ihnen besser. Es wirkt bescheidener..." "Gehst du natürlich auch, Rawdy?" fragte der Colonel. "Schon gut. Warum einen zusätzlichen Platz bezahlen? Er ist zu groß, um zwischen uns wie ein geschnürtes Bündel zu reisen. Er kann hier im Kinderzimmer bleiben und Briggs kann ihm eine Trauerkutte machen. Geh und tu, wie ich dir befehle. Und du sagst am besten deinem Diener Sparks, dass Sir Pitt gestorben ist und du etwas Ansehnliches erben wirst, wenn die Angelegenheiten geregelt sind. Das wird er Raggles erzählen, der nach Geld gedrängt hat, und es wird den armen Raggles trösten." Und so begann Becky, ihren Schokolade zu schlürfen. Als am Abend der treue Lord Steyne eintraf, fand er Becky und ihre Begleiterin, die niemand anderes als unsere Freundin Briggs war, damit beschäftigt, alle möglichen schwarzen Stoffe für den traurigen Anlass zu zerschneiden, aufzutrennen, zu schneiden und zu zerreissen. "Miss Briggs und ich sind voller Trauer und Verzweiflung über den Verlust unseres Vaters", sagte Rebecca. "Sir Pitt Crawley ist tot, My Lord. Wir haben den ganzen Vormittag unsere Haare gerauft, und jetzt zerreißen wir unsere alten Kleider." "Oh, Rebecca, wie kannst du nur..." war alles, was Briggs sagen konnte, als sie die Augen verdrehte. "Oh, Rebecca, wie kannst du nur..." wiederholte mein Lord. "Also ist dieser alte Schurke tot, was? Er hätte ein Peer sein können, wenn er seine Karten besser gespielt hätte. Mr. Pitt hatte ihn fast dazu gebracht; aber er ist immer zur falschen Zeit ausgestiegen. Was für ein alter Silenus!" "Ich hätte Silenus' Witwe sein können", sagte Rebecca. "Erinnerst du dich, Miss Briggs, wie du durch die Tür geguckt und den alten Sir Pitt auf den Knien vor mir gesehen hast?" Miss Briggs, unsere alte Freundin, errötete sehr bei dieser Erinnerung und freute sich, als Lord Steyne ihr befahl, nach unten zu gehen und ihm eine Tasse Tee zu machen. Briggs war der Wächter, den Rebecca als Hüter ihrer Unschuld und ihres Rufes engagiert hatte. Miss Crawley hatte ihr Briggs versuchte, bei ihren Verwandten auf dem Land zu leben, stellte jedoch fest, dass dieser Versuch vergeblich war, nachdem sie an die bessere Gesellschaft gewöhnt war, in der sie sich befand. Briggs' Freunde, kleine Handwerker in einer Kleinstadt, stritten sich heftiger und offener um Briggs' Vierzigpfundjahresgehalt als Miss Crawleys Verwandte um deren Erbe. Briggs' Bruder, ein radikaler Hutmacher und Lebensmittelhändler, nannte seine Schwester eine stolze Aristokratin, weil sie keinen Teil ihres Kapitals für den Kauf von Waren für seinen Laden aufwenden wollte; wahrscheinlich hätte sie es getan, aber ihre Schwester, eine dissidente Schuhmacherfrau, die im Streit mit dem Hutmacher und Lebensmittelhändler, der in eine andere Kapelle ging, lag, zeigte auf, wie ihr Bruder kurz vor dem Bankrott stand und nahm Briggs vorübergehend bei sich auf. Der dissidente Schuhmacher wollte, dass Miss Briggs seinen Sohn aufs College schickte und ihn zu einem Gentleman machte. Zwischen den beiden Familien haben sie einen großen Teil ihrer privaten Ersparnisse von ihr bekommen und schließlich floh sie nach London, verfolgt von den Verfluchungen beider, und entschloss sich, wieder eine Anstellung als Dienstmädchen zu suchen, da dies unendlich weniger belastend war als die Freiheit. Und sie inserierte in den Zeitungen, dass eine "Dame mit angenehmen Umgangsformen, die sich an die beste Gesellschaft gewöhnt hat, daran interessiert war, usw.", und nahm ihren Wohnsitz bei Mr. Bowls in der Half Moon Street, um das Ergebnis der Anzeige abzuwarten. So traf sie auf Rebecca. Eines Tages fuhr Mrs. Rawdons schickes kleines Wagen mit den Ponys die Straße hinunter, gerade als Miss Briggs erschöpft an Mr. Bowls Tür ankam, nach einem mühsamen Spaziergang zum Times Büro in der City, um ihre Anzeige zum sechsten Mal aufzugeben. Rebecca fuhr und erkannte sofort die Dame mit den angenehmen Umgangsformen und da sie eine vollkommen gutmütige Frau war, wie wir gesehen haben, und Briggs mochte, hielt sie die Ponys vor der Haustür an, übergab dem Kutscher die Zügel und sprang aus dem Wagen, um beide Hände von Briggs zu ergreifen, bevor die Dame mit den angenehmen Umgangsformen von dem Schock, einen alten Freund zu sehen, wieder zu sich gekommen war. Briggs weinte, und Becky lachte sehr viel und küsste die Dame mit den angenehmen Umgangsformen, als sie den Flur betraten, und dann das vordere Wohnzimmer von Mrs. Bowls mit den roten moiré Vorhängen und dem runden Spiegel, über dem der angekettete Adler auf den Rücken des im Fenster angekündigten Zimmers zur Vermietung starrte. Briggs erzählte ihre ganze Geschichte unter diesen völlig unnötigen Schluchzern und Ausrufen des Erstaunens, mit denen Frauen ihres sanften Wesens eine alte Bekanntschaft begrüßen oder eine zufällige Begegnung auf der Straße betrachten; denn obwohl Menschen sich jeden Tag treffen, gibt es einige, die darauf bestehen, Wunder zu entdecken; und Frauen, auch wenn sie sich nicht mögen, fangen an zu weinen, wenn sie sich treffen und bedauern und erinnern sich an die Zeit, als sie das letzte Mal gestritten haben. Kurz gesagt, Briggs erzählte ihre ganze Geschichte, und Becky gab eine Erzählung ihres eigenen Lebens mit ihrer gewohnten Einfachheit und Aufrichtigkeit. Mrs. Bowls, die frühere Firkin, kam und hörte grimmig im Flur dem hysterischen Schluchzen und Gekicher zu, das im vorderen Wohnzimmer stattfand. Becky war noch nie eine ihrer Favoritinnen gewesen. Seitdem das Ehepaar in London sesshaft geworden war, waren sie bei ihren früheren Freunden im Haus Raggles verkehrt und mochten die Schilderungen des Unternehmens des Colonels nicht. "Ich würde ihm nicht vertrauen, Ragg, mein Junge", bemerkte Bowls; und als Mrs. Rawdon aus dem Wohnzimmer trat, grüßte die Frau dennoch die Dame nur mit einer sehr sauren Verbeugung; und ihre Finger waren wie so viele Würstchen, kalt und leblos, als sie sie in Anerkennung gegenüber Mrs. Rawdon ausstreckte, die darauf bestand, der früheren Dienerin die Hand zu schütteln. Sie wirbelte in die Piccadilly und nickte mit dem süßesten Lächeln Miss Briggs zu, die unter der Anzeigekarte am Fenster nickte, und im nächsten Moment war sie im Park, gefolgt von einer halben Dutzend Dandys, die hinter ihrem Wagen hercanterten. Als sie erfuhr, wie es um ihre Freundin stand und wie ein bequemes Erbe von Miss Crawley für unsere Dame kein Problem darstellte, bildete Becky sofort einige wohltätige kleine häusliche Pläne für sie. Das war genau die richtige Begleitung für ihr Haushalt, und sie lud Briggs ein, noch am selben Abend zum Abendessen zu kommen, um Beckys süßes kleines Liebling Rawdon zu sehen. Mrs. Bowls warnte ihre Mieterin davor, in die Höhle des Löwen zu gehen, "dich wird es reuen, Miss B., merkt euch meine Worte, und so sicher wie mein Name Bowls ist." Und Briggs versprach, sehr vorsichtig zu sein. Das Resultat dieser Vorsicht war, dass sie in der nächsten Woche bei Mrs. Rawdon einzog und Rawdon Crawley noch innerhalb von sechs Monaten eine Leibrente von sechshundert Pfund auslieh. 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.

Mr. Pitt kehrt nach Queen's Crawley zurück und übernimmt im Grunde genommen die Rolle des Erben, obwohl Sir Pitt technisch gesehen noch am Leben ist. Er findet den Besitz in allerlei komplizierten Hypotheken, Klagen und anderen Geschäftsangelegenheiten verstrickt und versucht, den Schlamassel zu entwirren, den sein Vater angerichtet hat. Mr. Horrocks und seine Tochter werden nicht verhaftet, sondern kaufen und betreiben die Taverne der Stadt. Lady Southdown zieht mit ihrer Tochter und ihrem Schwiegersohn nach Queen's Crawley und fängt an, sie alle, einschließlich ihrer beiden Kinder, herumzukommandieren. Schließlich stirbt Sir Pitt einige Monate später. Sein Sohn, Mr. Pitt, ist nun der neue Sir Pitt. Wir nennen ihn jungen Sir Pitt, um Verwechslungen zu vermeiden. Junger Sir Pitt möchte einen Brief an seinen Bruder Rawdon schreiben, um ihm vom Tod ihres Vaters zu berichten. Er lädt ihn ein, in Queen's Crawley zu bleiben. Jane fragt, ob sie auch Becky einladen können. Junger Sir Pitt sagt natürlich, aber Lady Southdown sagt auf keinen Fall. Schließlich ist es an der Zeit, dass der junge Sir Pitt sich behauptet. Er sagt Lady Southdown, sie könne es sich an den Hut stecken und er werde der einzige Herr im Haus sein. Sie versucht, seine Drohung zu ignorieren und gibt vor zu gehen... aber er blufft nicht, also bleibt sie. Junger Sir Pitt diktiert dann einen Brief an Rawdon und lässt Jane es nach seiner Diktierung niederschreiben. Der Brief ist lang, komplex, wunderschön formuliert, voller Zitate und einfach unglaublich. Jane ist total beeindruckt von der Intelligenz ihres Ehemannes. Sie ahnt nicht, dass er diesen Brief tatsächlich vor Wochen geschrieben und sich seitdem alles auswendig gelernt hat, nur um sie zu beeindrucken. Becky ist begeistert, als sie den Brief erhält. Rawdon ist ein wenig mürrisch, dass er aufs Land fahren muss, aber Becky erzählt ihm von ihren Plänen: "Ich meine, dass Lady Jane mich nächstes Jahr am Hof vorstellen wird. Ich meine, dass dein Bruder dir einen Sitz im Parlament gibt, du alter dumme Kerl. Ich meine, dass Lord Steyne deine und seine Stimme bekommen wird, mein Lieber, du alter dummer Mann; und dass du ein irischer Sekretär sein wirst, oder ein Gouverneur in Westindien; oder ein Schatzmeister, oder ein Konsul, oder so etwas." Sie plant, mit Rawdon zu gehen und Rawdon Jr. zurückzulassen. Beim nächsten Besuch von Lord Steyne findet er Becky und ihre Begleiterin damit beschäftigt, alle Kleider in offizielle Trauerkleidung umzuarbeiten. Ihre Begleiterin entpuppt sich als... Briggs! Sie ist zurück! Okay, du hast recht, meh.

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: The weather was bad during the latter days of the voyage. The wind, obstinately remaining in the north-west, blew a gale, and retarded the steamer. The Rangoon rolled heavily and the passengers became impatient of the long, monstrous waves which the wind raised before their path. A sort of tempest arose on the 3rd of November, the squall knocking the vessel about with fury, and the waves running high. The Rangoon reefed all her sails, and even the rigging proved too much, whistling and shaking amid the squall. The steamer was forced to proceed slowly, and the captain estimated that she would reach Hong Kong twenty hours behind time, and more if the storm lasted. Phileas Fogg gazed at the tempestuous sea, which seemed to be struggling especially to delay him, with his habitual tranquillity. He never changed countenance for an instant, though a delay of twenty hours, by making him too late for the Yokohama boat, would almost inevitably cause the loss of the wager. But this man of nerve manifested neither impatience nor annoyance; it seemed as if the storm were a part of his programme, and had been foreseen. Aouda was amazed to find him as calm as he had been from the first time she saw him. Fix did not look at the state of things in the same light. The storm greatly pleased him. His satisfaction would have been complete had the Rangoon been forced to retreat before the violence of wind and waves. Each delay filled him with hope, for it became more and more probable that Fogg would be obliged to remain some days at Hong Kong; and now the heavens themselves became his allies, with the gusts and squalls. It mattered not that they made him sea-sick--he made no account of this inconvenience; and, whilst his body was writhing under their effects, his spirit bounded with hopeful exultation. Passepartout was enraged beyond expression by the unpropitious weather. Everything had gone so well till now! Earth and sea had seemed to be at his master's service; steamers and railways obeyed him; wind and steam united to speed his journey. Had the hour of adversity come? Passepartout was as much excited as if the twenty thousand pounds were to come from his own pocket. The storm exasperated him, the gale made him furious, and he longed to lash the obstinate sea into obedience. Poor fellow! Fix carefully concealed from him his own satisfaction, for, had he betrayed it, Passepartout could scarcely have restrained himself from personal violence. Passepartout remained on deck as long as the tempest lasted, being unable to remain quiet below, and taking it into his head to aid the progress of the ship by lending a hand with the crew. He overwhelmed the captain, officers, and sailors, who could not help laughing at his impatience, with all sorts of questions. He wanted to know exactly how long the storm was going to last; whereupon he was referred to the barometer, which seemed to have no intention of rising. Passepartout shook it, but with no perceptible effect; for neither shaking nor maledictions could prevail upon it to change its mind. On the 4th, however, the sea became more calm, and the storm lessened its violence; the wind veered southward, and was once more favourable. Passepartout cleared up with the weather. Some of the sails were unfurled, and the Rangoon resumed its most rapid speed. The time lost could not, however, be regained. Land was not signalled until five o'clock on the morning of the 6th; the steamer was due on the 5th. Phileas Fogg was twenty-four hours behind-hand, and the Yokohama steamer would, of course, be missed. The pilot went on board at six, and took his place on the bridge, to guide the Rangoon through the channels to the port of Hong Kong. Passepartout longed to ask him if the steamer had left for Yokohama; but he dared not, for he wished to preserve the spark of hope, which still remained till the last moment. He had confided his anxiety to Fix who--the sly rascal!--tried to console him by saying that Mr. Fogg would be in time if he took the next boat; but this only put Passepartout in a passion. Mr. Fogg, bolder than his servant, did not hesitate to approach the pilot, and tranquilly ask him if he knew when a steamer would leave Hong Kong for Yokohama. "At high tide to-morrow morning," answered the pilot. "Ah!" said Mr. Fogg, without betraying any astonishment. Passepartout, who heard what passed, would willingly have embraced the pilot, while Fix would have been glad to twist his neck. "What is the steamer's name?" asked Mr. Fogg. "The Carnatic." "Ought she not to have gone yesterday?" "Yes, sir; but they had to repair one of her boilers, and so her departure was postponed till to-morrow." "Thank you," returned Mr. Fogg, descending mathematically to the saloon. Passepartout clasped the pilot's hand and shook it heartily in his delight, exclaiming, "Pilot, you are the best of good fellows!" The pilot probably does not know to this day why his responses won him this enthusiastic greeting. He remounted the bridge, and guided the steamer through the flotilla of junks, tankas, and fishing boats which crowd the harbour of Hong Kong. At one o'clock the Rangoon was at the quay, and the passengers were going ashore. Chance had strangely favoured Phileas Fogg, for had not the Carnatic been forced to lie over for repairing her boilers, she would have left on the 6th of November, and the passengers for Japan would have been obliged to await for a week the sailing of the next steamer. Mr. Fogg was, it is true, twenty-four hours behind his time; but this could not seriously imperil the remainder of his tour. The steamer which crossed the Pacific from Yokohama to San Francisco made a direct connection with that from Hong Kong, and it could not sail until the latter reached Yokohama; and if Mr. Fogg was twenty-four hours late on reaching Yokohama, this time would no doubt be easily regained in the voyage of twenty-two days across the Pacific. He found himself, then, about twenty-four hours behind-hand, thirty-five days after leaving London. The Carnatic was announced to leave Hong Kong at five the next morning. Mr. Fogg had sixteen hours in which to attend to his business there, which was to deposit Aouda safely with her wealthy relative. On landing, he conducted her to a palanquin, in which they repaired to the Club Hotel. A room was engaged for the young woman, and Mr. Fogg, after seeing that she wanted for nothing, set out in search of her cousin Jeejeeh. He instructed Passepartout to remain at the hotel until his return, that Aouda might not be left entirely alone. Mr. Fogg repaired to the Exchange, where, he did not doubt, every one would know so wealthy and considerable a personage as the Parsee merchant. Meeting a broker, he made the inquiry, to learn that Jeejeeh had left China two years before, and, retiring from business with an immense fortune, had taken up his residence in Europe--in Holland the broker thought, with the merchants of which country he had principally traded. Phileas Fogg returned to the hotel, begged a moment's conversation with Aouda, and without more ado, apprised her that Jeejeeh was no longer at Hong Kong, but probably in Holland. Aouda at first said nothing. She passed her hand across her forehead, and reflected a few moments. Then, in her sweet, soft voice, she said: "What ought I to do, Mr. Fogg?" "It is very simple," responded the gentleman. "Go on to Europe." "But I cannot intrude--" "You do not intrude, nor do you in the least embarrass my project. Passepartout!" "Monsieur." "Go to the Carnatic, and engage three cabins." Passepartout, delighted that the young woman, who was very gracious to him, was going to continue the journey with them, went off at a brisk gait to obey his master's order. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Schiff wird in einigen wirklich rauen Wetterbedingungen hin- und hergeworfen, aber Phileas Fogg bleibt ruhig und pragmatisch wie immer. Die Rangoon legt einen Tag zu spät in Hongkong an und Fogg sorgt sich, dass er das Schiff nach Yokohama verpassen wird. Aber ein Lotse informiert ihn, dass die Carnatic rechtzeitig abfahren wird, um ihn an Bord zu nehmen. Glück gehabt. Fogg bringt Aouda ins Club Hotel und macht sich dann auf die Suche nach ihrem Verwandten. Er stellt fest, dass der Onkel die Stadt verlassen hat - schade - und jetzt wird die heiße indische Prinzessin Phileas nach Europa begleiten müssen. Mann, das ist so unpraktisch. Passepartout erhält den Auftrag, drei Kabinen auf der Carnatic zu reservieren.

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: HAVING fully resolved to leave the vessel clandestinely, and having acquired all the knowledge concerning the bay that I could obtain under the circumstances in which I was placed, I now deliberately turned over in my mind every plan to escape that suggested itself, being determined to act with all possible prudence in an attempt where failure would be attended with so many disagreeable consequences. The idea of being taken and brought back ignominiously to the ship was so inexpressibly repulsive to me, that I was determined by no hasty and imprudent measures to render such an event probable. I knew that our worthy captain, who felt, such a paternal solicitude for the welfare of his crew, would not willingly consent that one of his best hands should encounter the perils of a sojourn among the natives of a barbarous island; and I was certain that in the event of my disappearance, his fatherly anxiety would prompt him to offer, by way of a reward, yard upon yard of gaily printed calico for my apprehension. He might even have appreciated my services at the value of a musket, in which case I felt perfectly certain that the whole population of the bay would be immediately upon my track, incited by the prospect of so magnificent a bounty. Having ascertained the fact before alluded to, that the islanders,--from motives of precaution, dwelt altogether in the depths of the valleys, and avoided wandering about the more elevated portions of the shore, unless bound on some expedition of war or plunder, I concluded that if I could effect unperceived a passage to the mountain, I might easily remain among them, supporting myself by such fruits as came in my way until the sailing of the ship, an event of which I could not fail to be immediately apprised, as from my lofty position I should command a view of the entire harbour. The idea pleased me greatly. It seemed to combine a great deal of practicability with no inconsiderable enjoyment in a quiet way; for how delightful it would be to look down upon the detested old vessel from the height of some thousand feet, and contrast the verdant scenery about me with the recollection of her narrow decks and gloomy forecastle! Why, it was really refreshing even to think of it; and so I straightway fell to picturing myself seated beneath a cocoanut tree on the brow of the mountain, with a cluster of plantains within easy reach, criticizing her nautical evolutions as she was working her way out of the harbour. To be sure there was one rather unpleasant drawback to these agreeable anticipations--the possibility of falling in with a foraging party of these same bloody-minded Typees, whose appetites, edged perhaps by the air of so elevated a region, might prompt them to devour one. This, I must confess, was a most disagreeable view of the matter. Just to think of a party of these unnatural gourmands taking it into their heads to make a convivial meal of a poor devil, who would have no means of escape or defence: however, there was no help for it. I was willing to encounter some risks in order to accomplish my object, and counted much upon my ability to elude these prowling cannibals amongst the many coverts which the mountains afforded. Besides, the chances were ten to one in my favour that they would none of them quit their own fastnesses. I had determined not to communicate my design of withdrawing from the vessel to any of my shipmates, and least of all to solicit any one to accompany me in my flight. But it so happened one night, that being upon deck, revolving over in my mind various plans of escape, I perceived one of the ship's company leaning over the bulwarks, apparently plunged in a profound reverie. He was a young fellow about my own age, for whom I had all along entertained a great regard; and Toby, such was the name by which he went among us, for his real name he would never tell us, was every way worthy of it. He was active, ready and obliging, of dauntless courage, and singularly open and fearless in the expression of his feelings. I had on more than one occasion got him out of scrapes into which this had led him; and I know not whether it was from this cause, or a certain congeniality of sentiment between us, that he had always shown a partiality for my society. We had battled out many a long watch together, beguiling the weary hours with chat, song, and story, mingled with a good many imprecations upon the hard destiny it seemed our common fortune to encounter. Toby, like myself, had evidently moved in a different sphere of life, and his conversation at times betrayed this, although he was anxious to conceal it. He was one of that class of rovers you sometimes meet at sea, who never reveal their origin, never allude to home, and go rambling over the world as if pursued by some mysterious fate they cannot possibly elude. There was much even in the appearance of Toby calculated to draw me towards him, for while the greater part of the crew were as coarse in person as in mind, Toby was endowed with a remarkably prepossessing exterior. Arrayed in his blue frock and duck trousers, he was as smart a looking sailor as ever stepped upon a deck; he was singularly small and slightly made, with great flexibility of limb. His naturally dark complexion had been deepened by exposure to the tropical sun, and a mass of jetty locks clustered about his temples, and threw a darker shade into his large black eyes. He was a strange wayward being, moody, fitful, and melancholy--at times almost morose. He had a quick and fiery temper too, which, when thoroughly roused, transported him into a state bordering on delirium. It is strange the power that a mind of deep passion has over feebler natures. I have seen a brawny, fellow, with no lack of ordinary courage, fairly quail before this slender stripling, when in one of his curious fits. But these paroxysms seldom occurred, and in them my big-hearted shipmate vented the bile which more calm-tempered individuals get rid of by a continual pettishness at trivial annoyances. No one ever saw Toby laugh. I mean in the hearty abandonment of broad-mouthed mirth. He did smile sometimes, it is true; and there was a good deal of dry, sarcastic humour about him, which told the more from the imperturbable gravity of his tone and manner. Latterly I had observed that Toby's melancholy had greatly increased, and I had frequently seen him since our arrival at the island gazing wistfully upon the shore, when the remainder of the crew would be rioting below. I was aware that he entertained a cordial detestation of the ship, and believed that, should a fair chance of escape present itself, he would embrace it willingly. But the attempt was so perilous in the place where we then lay, that I supposed myself the only individual on board the ship who was sufficiently reckless to think of it. In this, however, I was mistaken. When I perceived Toby leaning, as I have mentioned, against the bulwarks and buried in thought, it struck me at once that the subject of his meditations might be the same as my own. And if it be so, thought I, is he not the very one of all my shipmates whom I would choose: for the partner of my adventure? and why should I not have some comrade with me to divide its dangers and alleviate its hardships? Perhaps I might be obliged to lie concealed among the mountains for weeks. In such an event what a solace would a companion be? These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and I wondered why I had not before considered the matter in this light. But it was not too late. A tap upon the shoulder served to rouse Toby from his reverie; I found him ripe for the enterprise, and a very few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between us. In an hour's time we had arranged all the preliminaries, and decided upon our plan of action. We then ratified our engagement with an affectionate wedding of palms, and to elude suspicion repaired each to his hammock, to spend the last night on board the Dolly. The next day the starboard watch, to which we both belonged, was to be sent ashore on liberty; and, availing ourselves of this opportunity, we determined, as soon after landing as possible, to separate ourselves from the rest of the men without exciting their suspicions, and strike back at once for the mountains. Seen from the ship, their summits appeared inaccessible, but here and there sloping spurs extended from them almost into the sea, buttressing the lofty elevations with which they were connected, and forming those radiating valleys I have before described. One of these ridges, which appeared more practicable than the rest, we determined to climb, convinced that it would conduct us to the heights beyond. Accordingly, we carefully observed its bearings and locality from the ship, so that when ashore we should run no chance of missing it. In all this the leading object we had in view was to seclude ourselves from sight until the departure of the vessel; then to take our chance as to the reception the Nukuheva natives might give us; and after remaining upon the island as long as we found our stay agreeable, to leave it the first favourable opportunity that offered. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jetzt, da Tommo sich entschieden hat, von seinem Posten auf dem Schiff zu fliehen, beginnt er mit den Vorbereitungen. Er beschließt, dass er, wenn er zu den Bergen gelangen und bei den freundlichen Happars bleiben kann, sein Schiff wegfahren sehen und dann an die Küste zurückkehren kann, um eine Mitfahrgelegenheit mit einem anderen Schiff nach Hause zu finden. Alles, was er tun muss, ist, diesen furchterregenden Typees aus dem Weg zu gehen. Tommo plant allein und heimlich abzureisen, aber als er eines Abends mit seinem Kameraden Toby abhängt, wird offensichtlich, dass auch Toby unglücklich auf dem Schiff ist. Tommo beschließt, ihm den Plan zu erzählen und ihn einzuladen. Innerhalb einer Stunde hat Toby sich der Fluchtplanung angeschlossen und die beiden Freunde verbringen den nächsten Tag damit, Informationen zu sammeln.

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: [San Luigi's Park.] Enter PEDRINGANO with a pistol. PED. Now, Pedringano, bid thy pistol hold; And hold on, Fortune! Once more favour me! Give but success to mine attempting spirit, And let me shift for taking of mine aim. Here is the gold! This is the gold propos'd! It is no dream that I adventure for, But Pedringano is posses'd thereof. And he that would not strain his conscience For him that thus his liberal purse hath stretch'd, Unworthy such a favour, may he fail, And, wishing, want, when such as I prevail! As for the fear of apprehension, I know, if need should be, my noble lord Will stand between me and ensuing harms. Besides, this place is free from all suspect. Here therefore will I stay and take my stand. Enter the WATCH. I WATCH. I wonder much to what intent it is That we are thus expressly charg'd to watch. II WATCH. This by commandment in the king's own name. III WATCH. But we were never wont to watch and ward So near the duke his brother's house before. II WATCH. Content yourself, stand close, there's somewhat in't. Enter SERBERINE. SER. [aside] Here, Serberine, attend and stay thy pace; For here did Don Lorenzo's page appoint That thou by his command shouldst meet with him. How fit a place, if one were so dispos'd, Methinks this corner is to close with one. PED. [aside] Here comes the bird that I must seize upon; Now, Pedringano, or never play the man! SER. [aside] I wonder that his lordship stays so long, Or wherefore should he send for me so late. PED. For this, Serberine; and thou shalt ha't! Shoots. So, there he lies; my promise is perform'd. The WATCH. I WATCH. Hark, gentlemen, this is a pistol shot! II WATCH. And here's one slain; stay the murderer! PED. Now, by the sorrows of the souls in hell, He strives with the WATCH. Who first lays hands on me, I'll be his priest! III WATCH. Sirrah, confess, and therein play the priest. Why hast thou thus unkindly kill'd the man? PED. Why, because he walk'd abroad so late. III WATCH. Come sir, you had been better kept your bed Then have committed this misdeed so late. II WATCH. Come to the marshall's with the murderer! I WATCH. On to Hieronimo's! help me here To bring the murder'd body with us too. PED. Hieronimo? Carry me before whom you will; What e'er he be, I'll answer him and you. And do your worst, for I defy you all! Exeunt. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Diese Szene zeigt Lorenzos neuesten Plan in Aktion. Pedringano betritt die Szene und redet mit sich selbst darüber, warum er das tut, was er tut - er ist nur wegen des Geldes dabei, y'all. Der ahnungslose Serberine kommt daher und denkt, er würde nur mit seinem Mörderkollegen abhängen. Stattdessen nähert sich Pedringano ihm mit einer Pistole. Bang! Gerade als Pedringano Serberine erschlägt, springen Lorenzos Wachen aus den Büschen und verhaften Pedringano wegen Mordes. Pedringano wird dann zu keinem Geringeren als zum Ritter Marschall Hieronimo gebracht.

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: THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the writer's room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. The soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. For years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. No, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. The old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long life, a great many notions in his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. And then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and I know people. At least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end he wrote a book which he called "The Book of the Grotesque." It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. By remembering it I have been able to understand many people and things that I was never able to understand before. The thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer's book. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Schriftsteller wird als alter Mann mit weißem Schnurrbart beschrieben, der Schwierigkeiten hat, aus seinen zu hohen Fenstern zu schauen. Dafür wurde ein Schreiner geschickt, um das Bett auf Fensterhöhe zu bringen. Nach einigen allgemeinen Gesprächen beginnt der Schreiner, der ein Soldat im Bürgerkrieg war, darüber zu schwelgen und fängt schließlich an zu weinen. Nach seinem Abschied legt sich der Schriftsteller ganz ruhig auf sein Bett. Der Schriftsteller hat einen Traum, der wie Tagträumen ist, da er noch bei Bewusstsein ist. Er sieht Figuren, die alle grotesk sind. Aber all diese Figuren sind nicht schrecklich, einige sind amüsant, einige schön und eine von ihnen ist eine Frau ohne feste Form. Nachdem der Zug der Grotesken an seinem Gesichtsfeld vorbeigezogen ist, steht der alte Mann auf und beginnt zu schreiben. Diese Arbeit nennt er "Das Buch der Grotesken". Der Autor behauptet, das Buch gelesen zu haben, das niemals veröffentlicht wurde. Das Thema hinter dem Buch ist, dass es am Anfang der Welt viele Gedanken gab, aber keine Wahrheit. Der Mensch schuf die Wahrheiten selbst, wie die Wahrheit der Jungfräulichkeit, der Leidenschaft, des Reichtums und der Armut, der Sparsamkeit und des Verschwendertums usw. Dann kommen die Menschen und wählen eine oder manchmal sogar ein Dutzend dieser Wahrheiten aus. Laut dem alten Schriftsteller wird ein Mensch, sobald er versucht, die Wahrheit zu seinem Eigenen zu machen und sein Leben danach zu leben, zu einer Karikatur und die Wahrheit selbst wird zu einer Falschheit. Der alte Schriftsteller selbst läuft Gefahr, zu einer Karikatur zu werden, wenn er das Buch nicht veröffentlicht. Und was den Schreiner betrifft, er ist das, was man einen gewöhnlichen Mann nennt und daher der liebenswerteste der Karikaturen im Buch des Schriftstellers.

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: Akt III. Szene I. Forres. Ein Raum im Palast. [Banquo tritt ein.] BANQUO. Du hast es jetzt - König, Cawdor, Glamis, alles, Wie es die seltsamen Frauen versprochen haben; und, ich befürchte, Du hast dich auf übelste Weise dafür eingesetzt; doch es wurde gesagt, Es sollte sich nicht in deiner Nachkommenschaft behaupten; Aber dass ich selbst die Wurzel und der Vater Von vielen Königen sein sollte. Wenn von ihnen Wahrheit kommt, - Wie sie auf dich, Macbeth, strahlen ihre Reden, - Warum sollten sie nicht auch meine Orakel sein, Und mich mit Hoffnung erfüllen? Doch schweigen; nicht mehr. {Sennet ertönt. Macbeth tritt als König ein, Lady Macbeth als Königin; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies und Bedienstete.] MACBETH. Hier ist unser Ehrengast. LADY MACBETH. Wenn er vergessen worden wäre, Es wäre ein Loch in unserem großen Fest gewesen, Und alles unangemessen. MACBETH. Heute Abend veranstalten wir ein feierliches Abendessen, Sir, Und ich werde um Ihre Anwesenheit bitten. BANQUO. Euer Hoheit befehlt es mir; meinen Pflichten Bin ich mit einer unlöslichen Bindung Für immer verbunden. MACBETH. Reiten Sie heute Nachmittag? BANQUO. Ja, mein gnädiger Herr. MACBETH. Wir hätten Ihren guten Rat sonst gewünscht, - Der immer ernsthaft und erfolgreich war, - In dem heutigen Rat; aber den nehmen wir uns für morgen vor. Ist es weit, das Sie reiten? BANQUO. So weit, mein Herr, wie es die Zeit erfüllen wird Von jetzt bis zum Abendessen: Wenn mein Pferd sich nicht verbessert, Muss ich mir die Nacht ausleihen, Für eine dunkle Stunde oder zwei. MACBETH. Versäumen Sie nicht unser Fest. BANQUO. Mein Herr, ich werde nicht. MACBETH. Wir hören, dass unsere blutigen Verwandten Sich in England und Irland versteckt haben; nicht gestehend, Ihre grausamen Vatermorde, sie füllen ihre Zuhörer Mit seltsamen Erfindungen: aber darüber morgen; Wenn wir dazu Gründe haben werden, Die uns gemeinsam fordern. Eilen Sie zu Ihrem Pferd: Auf Wiedersehen, Bis Sie heute Abend zurückkehren. Begleitet Sie Fleance? BANQUO. Ja, mein gnädiger Herr: Unsere Zeit fordert es. MACBETH. Ich wünsche Ihnen schnelle und sichere Pferde; Und so empfehle ich Sie ihren Rücken. Auf Wiedersehen.-- [Banquo geht ab.] Jeder soll Herr über seine Zeit sein Bis sieben Uhr abends; um den Empfang geselliger zu gestalten, Werden wir alleine bleiben, bis es Zeit zum Abendessen ist. Bis dahin, sei Gott mit euch! [Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladies, u.a. gehen ab.] Sirrah, ein Wort mit Ihnen: Kümmern Sie sich um diese Männer, Wie wir es wünschen? DIENER. Sie sind, mein Herr, vor dem Palasttor. MACBETH. Bringt sie vor uns. [Der Diener geht ab.] So zu sein bedeutet nichts; Aber sicher so zu sein: Unsere Furcht in Bezug auf Banquo Geht tief, und in seiner königlichen Natur Herrscht das, was gefürchtet werden sollte: Er wagt viel; Und in dieser furchtlosen Einstellung seines Geistes Hat er eine Weisheit, die seinen Mut lenkt Um sicher zu handeln. Außer ihm ist niemand, Dessen Existenz ich fürchte: Und unter ihm Wird mein Genie gezüchtigt; so wie es heißt, Dass Mark Antonys von Caesar gezüchtigt wurde. Er schimpfte mit den Schwestern Als sie mir zuerst den Namen des Königs gaben Und befahl ihnen, mit ihm zu sprechen; dann, wie ein Prophet, Erklärten sie ihn zum Vater einer Linie von Königen: Auf meinem Kopf legten sie eine nutzlose Krone Und steckten ein unfruchtbares Zepter in meine Hand, Das dann mit ungewöhnlicher Hand Entfernt wurde, kein Sohn von mir folgte. Wenn das so ist, Habe ich meinen Geist für Banquos Nachkommen verschmutzt; Für sie habe ich den gnädigen Duncan ermordet; Hass in das Gefäß meines Friedens gegeben Nur für sie; und mein ewiges Juwel Dem gemeinsamen Feind der Menschheit gegeben, Um sie zu Königen zu machen, die Nachkommen von Banquo! Lieber so, Schicksal, bringe dich in die Schlacht, Und kämpfe für mich bis zum Äußersten! Wer ist da?-- [Der Diener kehrt mit zwei Mördern zurück.] Geh jetzt zur Tür und bleib dort, bis wir rufen. [Der Diener geht ab.] War es nicht gestern, als wir miteinander sprachen? ERSTER MÖRDER. Ja, bitte Eure Hoheit. MACBETH. Dann haben Sie jetzt darüber nachgedacht? Wisst ihr, dass es er ist, der euch in der Vergangenheit festgehalten hat So unter der Macht des Glücks; Den ihr für unseren unschuldigen Selbst hieltet: Dies habe ich Ihnen bewiesen In unserer letzten Konferenz, die in Ihrer Bestätigung bestand Wie man euch getäuscht hat, wie ihr behindert wurdet, die Instrumente, Die mit ihnen zusammenarbeiteten, und alles andere, was Um eine halbe Seele und um eine verwirrte Meinung Zu sagen: „Das haben sie mit Banquo gemacht.“ ERSTER MÖRDER. Das habt ihr uns klar gemacht. MACBETH. Das habe ich getan; und ging noch weiter, was nun Unser zweites Treffen ist. Findet ihr es So leicht, Geduld zu haben in eurer Natur, Dass ihr das ignorieren könnt? Seid ihr so fromm, Um für diesen guten Mann und für seine Nachkommen zu beten, Dessen schwere Hand euch ins Grab gezwungen hat Und eure Zukunft verarmt hat? ERSTER MÖRDER. Wir sind Männer, meine Königin. MACBETH. Ja, in der Katalogliste werdet ihr als Männer eingetragen; Genau wie Hunde und Windhunde, Mischlinge, Spaniels, Köter, Wasserhunde und Halbwölfe werden alle Hunde genannt: die gewählte Gruppe Unterscheidet die Schnellen, die Langsamen, die Listigen, Die Hausmeister, die Jäger, jeder Entsprechend der Gabe, die spendable Natur In ihm verschlossen hat; womit er Eine besondere Ergänzung erhält, durch die Liste In der alle gleich geschrieben sind: und so bei den Menschen. Wenn ihr also einen Platz in der Liste habt, Nicht in der schlechtesten Reihe der Männlichkeit, sagt es; Und ich werde dieses Geschäft in eure Brust legen, Dessen Ausführung euren Feind besiegt; Euch an unser Herz und unsere Liebe fesselt, Wir tragen unsere Gesundheit aber krank in seinem Leben, Das in seinem Tod vollkommen wäre. ZWEITER MÖRDER. Ich bin einer, mein Herr, Den die schändlichen Schläge und Stöße der Welt So zornig gemacht haben, dass es mir egal ist, Was ich tue, um der Welt zu schaden. ERSTER MÖRDER. Und ich ein anderer, So müde von Katastrophen, geschunden von Glück, Dass ich mein Leben auf jede Chance setzen würde, Es zu verbessern oder davon befreit zu werden. MACBETH. Beide von euch Wissen, dass Banquo euer Feind war. BEIDE MÖRDER. Ja, mein Herr. MACBETH. Er ist auch mein Feind; und in solcher blutiger Entfernung, Dass jede Minute seines Lebens Gegen die nächste in meiner Nähe drängt; und obwohl ich Mit unbekümmerter Macht ihn aus meinem Anblick fegen könnte, Und meinen Willen dazu bekennen könnte, darf ich nicht, Wegen bestimmter Freunde, die sowohl seine als auch meine sind, Deren Liebe ich nicht fallen lassen kann, sondern seinen Fall betrauern, Den ich selbst herbeigeführt habe LADY MACBETH. Es ist alles vergebens, alles ist vergeudet, Wo unsere Begierde ohne Zufriedenheit erreicht wird: Es ist sicherer das zu sein was wir zerstören, Als, durch Zerstörung, in zweifelhafter Freude zu leben. [Macbeth tritt ein.] Wie geht es jetzt, mein Herr! Warum bist du allein, Verbringst deinen traurigsten Fantasien Gesellschaft; Benutzt diese Gedanken, die in der Tat gestorben sein sollten, Mit denen sie sich beschäftigen? Dinge, für die es ohnehin keine Abhilfe gibt, Sollten keine Beachtung finden: Was getan ist, ist getan. MACBETH. Wir haben die Schlange entstellt, aber nicht getötet; Sie wird sich erholen und sie selbst sein; während unsere böse Absicht Gefahr läuft, von ihrem früheren Gift bedroht zu werden. Aber lasst die Weltordnung gestört sein, Damit beide Welten leiden, Bevor wir in Angst essen und schlafen, In der Pein dieser furchterregenden Träume, Die uns jede Nacht erschüttern: Es ist besser mit den Toten zu sein, Die wir, um unseren Frieden zu erreichen, in den Frieden geschickt haben, Als im Folterquälende des Geistes zu lügen, In ruhelosem Rausch. Duncan liegt in seinem Grab; Nach dem fiebrigen Fieber des Lebens schläft er gut; Der Verrat hat sein Schlimmstes getan: Weder Stahl, noch Gift, Häusliche Bosheit, ausländische Belagerung, nichts, Kann ihn weiter berühren. LADY MACBETH. Komm schon; Sanft, mein Herr, verdecke dein zerklüftetes Aussehen; Sei heute Abend strahlend und fröhlich unter deinen Gästen. MACBETH. So werde ich, Liebste; und so, bitte ich, sei du: Gedenke an Banquo; Zeige ihn hervor, sowohl mit den Augen als auch mit der Zunge: Währenddessen ist es unsicher, dass wir Unsere Ehren in diesen schmeichelnden Strömen baden; Und wir machen unsere Gesichter zu Masken für unsere Herzen, Verkleiden, was wir sind. LADY MACBETH. Du musst damit aufhören. MACBETH. Oh, mein Geist ist voller Skorpione, liebe Frau! Du weißt, dass Banquo, und sein Sohn Fleance, noch leben. LADY MACBETH. Aber in ihnen ist das Abbild der Natur nicht ewig. MACBETH. Es gibt dennoch Trost; sie sind angreifbar; Dann sei du vergnügt: bevor die Fledermaus Ihren zurückgezogenen Flug beginnt, bevor Ruf zu schwarzer Hekate Der von Scherben getragene Käfer mit seinem schläfrigen Summen Die gähnende Glocke der Nacht geläutet hat, wird geschehen Eine Handlung von schrecklicher Bedeutung. LADY MACBETH. Was muss getan werden? MACBETH. Sei unschuldig auf dieses Wissen, meine liebste Schatz, Bis du die Tat billigst. Komm, undurchsichtige Nacht, Vertäte das zarte Auge des erbarmungswürdigen Tages; Und mit deiner blutigen und unsichtbaren Hand Zerreiß und zerstücke jenes große Band, Das mich blass hält! Es wird dunkler; und die Krähe Macht sich auf in den düsteren Wald: Gute Dinge des Tages beginnen zu blass und schläfrig zu werden; Während die schwarzen Agenten der Nacht ihre Beute erwecken.- Du wunderst dich über meine Worte: aber halte dich still; Schlechte Anfänge stärken sich selbst durch Übel: Also bitte, komm mit mir. [Sie gehen ab.] SZENE III. Derselbe Ort. Ein Park oder Rasen, mit einem Tor zum Palast. [Es treten drei Mörder auf.] ERSTER MÖRDER. Aber wer hat dich gebeten, dich uns anzuschließen? DRITTER MÖRDER. Macbeth. ZWEITER MÖRDER. Er braucht unser Misstrauen nicht; da er Unsere Vorgehensweisen und was wir tun müssen In die richtige Richtung weist. ERSTER MÖRDER. Dann steh zu uns. Der Westen schimmert noch mit den letzten Strahlen des Tages: Jetzt spurt der verspätete Reisende eilig Um rechtzeitig beim Gasthaus anzukommen; und in der Nähe nähert sich Der Gegenstand unseres Wachens. DRITTER MÖRDER. Hör! Ich höre Pferde. BANQUO. [Im Hintergrund.] Gebe uns ein Licht, dort! ZWEITER MÖRDER. Dann ist es er; der Rest Der Erwarteten Befindet sich bereits am Hof. ERSTER MÖRDER. Seine Pferde fahren fort. DRITTER MÖRDER. Fast eine Meile; aber er geht normalerweise Vom Tor des Palastes aus dorthin, Machen es zu ihrem Spaziergang. ZWEITER MÖRDER. Ein Licht, ein Licht! DRITTER MÖRDER. Er ist es. ERSTER MÖRDER. Stürzt euch darauf. [Banquo tritt ein, und Fleance mit einer Fackel.] BANQUO. Heute Nacht wird es regnen. ERSTER MÖRDER. Lasst es ruhig regnen. [Greift Banquo an.] BANQUO. Oh, Verrat! Flieht, guter Fleance, flieht, flieht, flieht! Du kannst Rache nehmen.-Oh, Sklave! [Er stirbt. Fleance entkommt.] DRITTER MÖRDER. Wer hat das Licht ausgelöscht? ERSTER MÖRDER. War er nicht in einer bestimmten Himmelsrichtung? DRITTER MÖRDER. Es gibt nur einen Toten: der Sohn ist geflohen. ZWEITER MÖRDER. Wir haben die beste Hälfte unseres Vorhabens verloren. ERSTER MÖRDER. Gut, lasst uns gehen und sagen, wie viel erreicht wurde. [Sie gehen ab.] SZENE IV. Derselbe Ort. Ein Saal im Palast. Ein Bankett ist vorbereitet. [Makbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lenox, Lords und Gefolge treten auf.] MACBETH. Ihr kennt eure Ränge: setzt euch. Zuerst und zuletzt der herzliche Willkommensgruß. LORDS. Vielen Dank, Eure Majestät. MACBETH. Wir wollen uns in die Gesellschaft mischen, Und den bescheidenen Gastgeber spielen. Unsere Gastgeberin bewahrt ihren Rang; aber zur rechten Zeit Werden wir ihren freundlichen Empfang verlangen. LADY MACBETH. Sprich es für mich aus, mein Herr, zu all unseren Freunden; Denn mein Herz spricht, dass sie willkommen sind. MACBETH. Sieh, sie begegnen dir mit ihrem dankerfüllten Herzen.- Auf beiden Seiten herrscht Gleichheit: Hier werde ich in der Mitte sitzen. [Der erste Mörder tritt an die Tür.] Seid fröhlich und ausgelassen; bald werden wir trinken An diesem runden Tisch.-Da ist Blut auf deinem Gesicht. MÖRDER. Es ist das von Banquo. MACBETH. Es ist besser, du hast es als er innen. Ist er beseitigt? MÖRDER. Mein Herr, seine Kehle ist durchgeschnitten; das habe ich für ihn getan. MACBETH. Du bist der beste der Schlächter; und doch ist auch er gut, Der das Gleiche für Fleance getan hat: Wenn du es getan hast, Bist du unübertroffen. MÖRDER. Hoheit, Fleance konnte entkommen. MACBETH. Dann beginnt wieder meine Krankheit: Ich wäre sonst vollkommen gewesen; Fest wie Marmor, gegründet wie der Felsen; So groß und allgemein wie die Luft. Aber jetzt bin ich eingekerkert, eingesperrt, gefangen, In freche Zweifel und Ängste. Aber Banquo's sicher? MÖRDER. Ja, mein guter Herr: Sicherheit in einem Grab LADY MACBETH. Oh, rechtes Material! Dies ist das genaue Gemälde deiner Furcht: Dies ist der luftgezogene Dolch, den du erwähnt hast, Der dich zu Duncan führte. Oh, diese Unzulänglichkeiten und Anfänge, Täuscher echter Furcht, würden gut passen In die Erzählung einer Frau am Feuer im Winter, Genehmigt von ihrer Großmutter. Schande selbst! Warum machst du solche Gesichter? Wenn alles getan ist, Siehst du nur einen Stuhl. MACBETH. Bitte, schau dort! Sieh! Wie sagst du?-- Warum, was ist mir das? Wenn du nicken kannst, sprich auch.-- Wenn Beinhäuser und unsere Gräber Diejenigen zurückschicken müssen, die wir begraben, Dann sollen unsere Monumente Die Mägen der Geier sein. [Geist verschwindet.] LADY MACBETH. Was, völlig entmannt durch Dummheit? MACBETH. Wenn ich hier stehe, sah ich ihn. LADY MACBETH. Pfui, um Himmels willen! MACBETH. Blut ist schon geflossen, in vergangenen Zeiten, Bevor menschliche Verordnungen das sanfte Gemeinwesen gereinigt haben; Ja, und auch danach wurden Morde begangen, Zu schrecklich für das Gehör: Die Zeit war, Dass, wenn das Gehirn aus war, der Mann sterben würde Und es damit ein Ende hatte; aber jetzt stehen sie wieder auf, Mit zwanzig tödlichen Morden auf ihren Häuptern, Und stoßen uns von unseren Hockern. Das ist seltsamer Als ein solcher Mord. LADY MACBETH. Mein würdiger Lord, Deine edlen Freunde vermissen dich. MACBETH. Ich vergesse es:-- Staune nicht über mich, meine sehr verehrten Freunde; Ich habe ein merkwürdiges Leiden, das nichts ist Für diejenigen, die mich kennen. Komm, Liebe und Gesundheit für alle; Dann werde ich mich setzen.--Gib mir etwas Wein, fülle es voll.-- Ich trinke auf die allgemeine Freude am ganzen Tisch, Und auf unseren lieben Freund Banquo, den wir vermissen: Wäre er hier! Auf alle und ihn, wir dürsten, Und jeder für jeden. HERREN. Unsere Pflichten und der Toast. [Geist taucht wieder auf.] MACBETH. Verschwinde! Und verlass meinen Anblick! Lass die Erde dich verbergen! Deine Knochen sind ohne Mark, dein Blut ist kalt; Du hast keine Neugier in den Augen, Mit denen du starrst! LADY MACBETH. Denk daran, liebe Freunde, Aber als etwas Gewöhnliches: Es ist nichts anderes, Nur dass es den Spaß an der Zeit verdirbt. MACBETH. Was ein Mann darf, das traue ich mich; Komm heran wie der wilde russische Bär, Das gepanzerte Nashorn oder der Hyrcanische Tiger; Nimm jede Gestalt an, außer dieser, und meine festen Nerven Werden niemals zittern: Oder lebe wieder, Und fordere mich in der Wüste mit deinem Schwert heraus; Wenn ich dann zittere, halte mich Für das Kleinkind eines Mädchens. Weg, schrecklicher Schatten! Unwirkliche Verhöhnung, verschwinde! [Geist verschwindet.] Warum so;--wenn er weg ist, Bin ich wieder ein Mann.--Bitte, setzt euch hin. LADY MACBETH. Du hast den Spaß verdorben, das gute Zusammensein zerstört, Mit bewundernswerter Unordnung. MACBETH. Können solche Dinge sein, Und uns überwältigen wie eine Sommerwolke, Ohne unser besonderes Erstaunen? Du machst mich fremd Selbst gegenüber meiner eigenen Haltung, Wenn ich jetzt bedenke, dass ihr solche Anblicke ertragen könnt, Und die natürliche Röte eurer Wangen beibehalten könnt, Während meine vor Angst erblasst sind. ROSS. Welche Anblicke, mein Herr? LADY MACBETH. Bitte, schweige; er wird immer schlimmer; Frage macht ihn wütend: Gute Nacht auf einmal:-- Zögert nicht beim Gehen, Aber geht auf der Stelle. LENNOX. Gute Nacht; und bessere Gesundheit Dem König! LADY MACBETH. Eine freundliche gute Nacht an alle! [Alle Fürsten und Diener ab.] MACBETH. Es wird Blut benötigt; sie sagen, Blut fordert Blut: Steine sind bekannt, sich zu bewegen, und Bäume zu sprechen; Hellseher und verständige Leute haben Durch Eichelhäher und Dohlen Raben, Den geheimsten Blutmann ans Licht gebracht.--Was ist die Nacht? LADY MACBETH. Fast im Konflikt mit dem Morgen, welches welches ist. MACBETH. Wie sagst du, dass Macduff seine Anwesenheit leugnet Auf unsere große Bitte? LADY MACBETH. Hast du ihm geschickt, mein Herr? MACBETH. Ich habe es gehört; aber ich werde schicken: Kein einziger von ihnen, außer ihm, Lebt in seinem Haus unter meinem Einfluss; Ich werde morgen zu den Hexen gehen, (und früh werde ich gehen) zu den seltsamen Schwestern: Mehr werden sie sprechen; denn jetzt bin ich entschlossen zu erfahren, Durch welch schlechteste Mittel das Schlechteste erreicht wird. Zu meinem eigenen Wohl werden sie alle Gründe zurückstellen: Ich stecke so tief in Blut, Dass es jetzt so mühsam ist, wieder herauszukommen, Wie weiter zu waten: Ich habe seltsame Dinge im Sinn, Die zur Hand kommen werden; Die müssen ausgeführt werden, bevor sie überprüft werden können. LADY MACBETH. Dir fehlt die Jahreszeit aller Naturen, Schlaf. MACBETH. Komm, wir werden schlafen gehen. Meine seltsame und eigene Selbsttäuschung Ist die Anfangsangst, die harten Gebrauch braucht:-- Wir sind in der Tat noch jung im Handeln. [Alle ab.] Szene V. Die Heide. [Donner. Die drei Hexen treten auf und treffen auf Hekate.] ERSTE HEXE. Warum, wie jetzt, Hekate? Siehst du wütend aus. HEKATE. Habe ich nicht Grund dazu, ihr Hexen, Frech und übermütig? Wie konntet ihr es wagen Mit Macbeth Handel zu treiben In Rätseln und Totensachen; Und ich, die Herrin eurer Zauberformeln, Die heimliche Planerin allen Unheils, Wurde nie gerufen, meinen Teil zu übernehmen Um die Herrlichkeit unserer Kunst zu zeigen? Und was noch schlimmer ist, alles, was ihr getan habt, War nur für einen eigensinnigen Sohn, Boshaft und zornig; der, wie auch andere tun, Aus Liebe zu seinen eigenen Zwecken liebt, nicht für euch. Aber bessert es jetzt: Macht euch aus dem Staub, Und trefft mich am Abgrund des Acheron Treffen Sie mich morgen früh: dorthin wird er Kommen, um sein Schicksal zu erfahren. Stellt eure Schiffe und Zaubersprüche bereit, Eure Charmes und alles andere. Ich gehe in die Luft; diese Nacht werde ich verbringen Zu einem düsteren und tödlichen Ende. Große Dinge müssen vor Mittag vollbracht werden: An der Ecke des Mondes Hängt ein dunstiger und tiefgründiger Tropfen; Ich werde es fangen, bevor es auf den Boden fällt: Und das, verdampft von magischen Geschicklichkeiten, Wird künstliche Geister erwecken, Die durch die Kraft ihrer Täuschung Ihn in seine Verwirrung treiben sollen: Er wird dem Schicksal trotzen, den Tod verachten und tragen Seine Hoffnungen über Weisheit, Anmut und Angst hinweg: Und ihr alle wisst, Sicherheit Ist der größte Feind der Sterblichen. [Musik und Gesang drinnen "Komm weg, komm weg" usw.] Hört! Ich werde gerufen; Mein kleiner Geist, sieh, Sitzt in einer nebligen Wolke und wartet auf mich. [Ab.] ERSTE HEXE. Komm, lass uns uns beeilen; sie wird bald zurück sein. [Alle ab.] Szene VI. Forres. Ein Zimmer im Palast LORD. Der Sohn von Duncan, von dem dieser Tyrann das Recht der Geburt hält, lebt am englischen Hof und wird von dem frommen Edward mit solcher Anmut empfangen, dass die Bosheit des Schicksals ihm nichts von seinem hohen Ansehen nimmt: Dorthin ist Macduff gegangen, um den heiligen König zu bitten, auf seine Hilfe hin Northumberland und den kriegslustigen Siward zu wecken: Damit wir, mit Hilfe von ihnen – mit Ihm oben, um die Arbeit zu besiegeln – unseren Tischen wieder Speisen geben können, Schlaf in unseren Nächten; befreit von unseren blutigen Messern bei Festen und Banketten; treue Huldigung erweisen und freie Ehren empfangen – alles, wonach wir uns jetzt sehnen. Und dieser Bericht hat den König so aufgebracht, dass er sich auf einen Kriegsversuch vorbereitet. LENNOX. Hat er Macduff geschickt? LORD. Ja, und mit einem klaren "Herr, nicht ich", wendet mir der nebelhafte Bote den Rücken zu und summt, als wollte er sagen: "Du wirst die Zeit bereuen, in der du mich mit dieser Antwort belastet hast." LENNOX. Und das könnte ihn durchaus zu Vorsicht raten, Abstand zu halten, soweit es seine Weisheit ermöglicht. Ein heiliger Engel möge zum englischen Hof fliegen und seine Botschaft offenbaren, bevor er kommt; dass ein schneller Segen bald zu diesem leidenden Land zurückkehren möge unter einem verfluchten Hand! LORD. Ich werde ihm meine Gebete schicken. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Allein am Hof von Macbeth äußert Banquo seinen Verdacht, dass Macbeth Duncan getötet hat, um die Prophezeiungen der Hexen zu erfüllen. Er überlegt, dass vielleicht auch die Visionen der Hexen für seine eigene Zukunft wahr werden, schiebt diesen Gedanken aber beiseite. Macbeth und Lady Macbeth betreten mit Fanfaren, zusammen mit Lennox und Ross, den Raum. Macbeth kündigt an, dass er am Abend ein Bankett veranstalten wird und dass Banquo als Ehrengast geehrt wird. Banquo sagt, dass er am Nachmittag reiten muss, aber zum Bankett zurückkehren wird. Macbeth sagt ihm, dass Malcolm und Donalbain nicht gestehen werden, ihren Vater getötet zu haben. Nachdem er bestätigt hat, dass Fleance Banquo auf seiner Reise begleiten wird, wünscht Macbeth ihm eine sichere Fahrt. Allein ruft Macbeth die beiden Mörder herbei, die er angestellt hat. Während er auf sie wartet, äußert er seine größte Sorge in diesem Moment - dass die Prophezeiung der Hexen auch für Banquo wahr werden wird und seine Kinder Könige werden. Er wird solche Sorgen beenden, indem er zwei Männer anheuert, um Banquo und Fleance zu töten. Die Männer sind keine professionellen Mörder, sondern arme Männer, die als Söldner arbeiten wollen. Macbeth hat ihren aktuellen Zustand der Armut bereits Banquo angelastet. Er sagt ihnen nun, dass während Banquo genauso sehr sein Feind ist wie ihrer, treue Freunde von Banquo verhindern, dass er Banquo selbst tötet. Macbeth geht dann ins Detail, wie der Mord ablaufen soll: Sie müssen ihn angreifen, wenn er von seinem Ausflug zurückkehrt - in einer bestimmten Entfernung vom Palast - und sie müssen gleichzeitig auch Fleance töten. Akt 3, Szene 2 Allein auf der Bühne drückt Lady Macbeth ihre Unzufriedenheit aus: Es scheint kein Ende ihres Verlangens nach Macht zu geben und sie fühlt sich unsicher und ängstlich. Macbeth kommt herein und sieht verstört aus, und sie rät ihm, nicht weiter über die begangenen Verbrechen nachzudenken. Aber Macbeth erklärt, dass ihre Arbeit noch nicht getan ist: Er verbringt immer noch jeden wachen Moment in Angst und ist jede Nacht in Alpträumen verwickelt. Er beneidet sogar Duncan, der jetzt friedlich in seinem Grab schläft. Lady Macbeth warnt ihn, sich fröhlich vor ihren Abendgästen zu geben. Sie versucht ihn auch zu trösten, indem sie ihm in Erinnerung ruft, dass Banquo und Fleance keineswegs unsterblich sind. Macbeth antwortet ihr, indem er sagt, dass in der Nacht "eine schreckliche Tat" begangen wird, aber er wird nicht die Details verraten. Akt 3, Szene 3 Die beiden Mörder bekommen Verstärkung von einem Dritten, der sagt, dass er ebenfalls von Macbeth angeheuert wurde. Man hört Pferde näherkommen und Banquo und Fleance treten auf. Die Mörder greifen Banquo an, aber Fleance gelingt die Flucht. Die Mörder verlassen die Szene, um Macbeth Bericht zu erstatten. Akt 3, Szene 4 Bei dem Bankett kommt ein Mörder an und berichtet Macbeth, als die Gäste anfangen einzutreffen. Er teilt Macbeth mit, dass Banquo tot ist, aber Fleance entkommen ist. Erschüttert bedankt sich Macbeth bei ihm für das, was er getan hat, und vereinbart ein weiteres Treffen am nächsten Tag. Der Mörder geht und Macbeth kehrt zum Fest zurück. Blickend über den Tisch erklärt Macbeth, dass das Bankett perfekt wäre, wenn nur Banquo anwesend wäre. An diesem Punkt erscheint Banquos Geist unbemerkt und nimmt Macbeths Platz ein. Die Gäste drängen Macbeth, sich zu setzen und mit ihnen zu essen, aber Macbeth sagt, dass der Tisch voll ist. Als Lennox auf Macbeths leeren Stuhl zeigt, ist Macbeth schockiert, Banquos Geist zu sehen. Er spricht den Geist an und sagt: "Du kannst nicht sagen, dass ich es getan habe. Schüttle niemals / Deine blutigen Haare vor mir." Verwirrt von seinem Verhalten denken die Gäste, dass er krank ist. Lady Macbeth beruhigt sie jedoch und sagt, dass er ähnliche Anfälle seit seiner Jugend hatte und bald gesund sein wird. Sie zieht Macbeth beiseite und versucht, ihn zu beruhigen, indem sie behauptet, dass die Vision nur eine "Verängstigung des Geistes" ist - genauso wie der Dolch, den er zuvor gesehen hat. Ignorierend, fordert Macbeth den Geist auf zu sprechen, aber er verschwindet. Nachdem Lady Macbeth ihn dafür gescholten hat, dass er "geschwächte Narrheit" zeigt, kehrt Macbeth zu seinen Gästen zurück und behauptet, dass er "eine seltsame Schwäche" hat, die sie ignorieren sollten. Gerade als die Party weitergeht und Macbeth einen Toast auf Banquo ausspricht, taucht der Geist erneut auf. Als Macbeth wieder in einer Rede auf den Geist ausbricht, versucht Lady Macbeth, die Dinge mit den Gästen zu glätten. Auf Macbeths Ausruf, dass er Anblicke sieht, die seine Wangen "gespenstisch vor Angst erblassen lassen", fragt Ross, was Macbeth damit meint. Lady Macbeth bittet die Gäste, zu gehen, da Macbeths "Krankheit" anscheinend immer schlimmer wird. Allein mit Lady Macbeth äußert Macbeth seine tiefen Ängste und schwört, zu den Hexen zurückzukehren. Akt 3, Szene 5 Auf der Heide treffen sich die Hexen mit Hekate, der Königin der Hexen, die sie dafür tadelt, sich ohne sie in Macbeths Angelegenheiten einzumischen oder ihm spektakuläre magische Schauspiele zu zeigen. Sie sagt ihnen, dass Macbeth sie morgen besuchen wird und dass sie ihm eine dramatischere Vorstellung bieten müssen. Akt 3, Szene 6 Lennox und ein weiterer Lord diskutieren Politik. Lennox kommentiert sarkastisch die jüngsten Todesfälle von Duncan und Banquo. Er deutet an, dass es unwahrscheinlich scheint, dass Malcolm und Donalbain unmenschlich genug wären, um ihren Vater zu töten. Außerdem scheint Macbeths Tötung der Leibwächter sehr praktisch zu sein, da sie wahrscheinlich das Töten von Duncan geleugnet hätten. Lennox schlägt vor, dass wenn Malcolm, Donalbain und Fleance im Gefängnis von Macbeth wären, sie wahrscheinlich jetzt auch tot wären. Er enthüllt auch, dass Macduff nicht an Macbeths Festmahl teilgenommen hat und deshalb angeklagt wurde. Der Herr, mit dem Lennox spricht, bemerkt, dass Macduff sich Malcolm am englischen Hof angeschlossen hat. Die beiden Männer haben anscheinend Siward gebeten, mit einer Armee gegen Macbeth vorzugehen. Lennox und der Lord senden ihre Gebete an Macduff und Malcolm.

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: ACT I It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present] would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window is an armchair. Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the articles in the papers. Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of character. STEPHEN. What's the matter? LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen. Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes up The Speaker. LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all your attention. STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think. STEPHEN. Not at all, mother. LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter with it. STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain instead]. LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen? STEPHEN. Of course, mother. LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional. LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor boy, did you think I was angry with you? STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy. LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively] Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am only a woman? STEPHEN [amazed] Only a-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the responsibility. STEPHEN. I! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June. You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted your time most scandalously. Well, advise me. STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the household-- LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order the dinner. STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are getting quite beyond me. STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do know is so painful--it is so impossible to mention some things to you--[he stops, ashamed]. LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father. STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes. LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about the girls. STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged. LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a year. STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income by his own exertions, they may double the increase. LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head over ears in love with her. STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but-- LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like. STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus--quite content with the best of everything! They cost more than your extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something for you. STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better arrange that for myself. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody. Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent]. Now don't sulk, Stephen. STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do with--with--with my father? LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from? It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on somewhere. STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get up revivals, spoilt my Bible--your first birthday present to me--by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my father was making millions by selling cannons. LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they were afraid. STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law. LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married. STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true? LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated. STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this! LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated. LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another foundling. That was what I couldn't stand. STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for--for--for-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly. STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak to you about such things! LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your question properly. STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best I can. LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could approve of. STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my father wanting to set me aside for another son. LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of interrupting me. STEPHEN. But you said-- LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen, and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city. That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft. STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons? LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that. There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing over my son. STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of managing a cannon foundry. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay him a salary. STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle, just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently! STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken up, mother. I am sorry. LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope; and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral disagreement. STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: that's all. LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]! Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you understand the situation, what do you advise me to do? STEPHEN. Well, what can you do? LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow. STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his money. LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes from Andrew. STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute something. He had a very good bargain, I think. STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his cannons, then! LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any more for myself. STEPHEN. Nor do I. LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is it not? STEPHEN. No. LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen! STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined-- LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders. STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another penny. LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have some natural affection for them. STEPHEN. Ask him here!!! LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I ask him? STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all. LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you? STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do without his money. LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat] Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my father is coming here to-night--that he may be here at any moment? LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once. [Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't show it. Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself as--and indeed actually is--considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cruelty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her and stops at the door. BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in? LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill. BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct nowadays. Are they to come in? LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves. BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself. Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara]. LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better from Charles Lomax. CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you if you are really converted. CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I believe. LOMAX. Ripping. LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction]. LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles. SARAH. Are you serious, mother? LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara. BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned. LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles? LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable English for us? CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same phrase. LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't. LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission, Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house? CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything you do. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say? SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here? LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you; but there are limits. SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind. LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it. LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles. LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean--at least-- LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me, children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us. LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid. LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly--er-- [impatiently] Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That comes of your provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly tell me where I was. CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not seen his children since they were babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that. LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to your father. BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of you. LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was. Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed disorder. MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up. MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes]. LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is? LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us. LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really-- MORRISON [at the door] The--er--Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in confusion]. Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in the middle of the room behind the settee. Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man, with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is also a little shy in his present very delicate situation. LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older. UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of courtship] Time has stood still with you. LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family. UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax]. LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet you again, my boy. LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know--[Overcome] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew: do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you have? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I--. They have grown so much--er. Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since, of course--er-- LADY BRITOMART [decisively] Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. UNDERSHAFT. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. That is Charles Lomax, who is engaged to Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. LOMAX. Not at all. Delighted, I assure you. LADY BRITOMART. This is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [bowing] Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Stephen. Then [going to Cusins] you must be my son. [Taking Cusins' hands in his] How are you, my young friend? [To Lady Britomart] He is very like you, my love. CUSINS. You flatter me, Mr Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. [Very explicitly] That is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen Undershaft, your son. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Stephen, I beg your pardon. STEPHEN. Not at all. UNDERSHAFT. Mr Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining so precisely. [Turning to Sarah] Barbara, my dear-- SARAH [prompting him] Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. Sarah, of course. [They shake hands. He goes over to Barbara] Barbara--I am right this time, I hope. BARBARA. Quite right. [They shake hands]. LADY BRITOMART [resuming command] Sit down, all of you. Sit down, Andrew. [She comes forward and sits on the settle. Cusins also brings his chair forward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for another]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you, my love. LOMAX [conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft] Takes you some time to find out exactly where you are, don't it? UNDERSHAFT [accepting the chair] That is not what embarrasses me, Mr Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of an intrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a discreet stranger, I may appear a callous father. LADY BRITOMART. There is no need for you to play any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sincere and natural. UNDERSHAFT [submissively] Yes, my dear: I daresay that will be best. [Making himself comfortable] Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all? LADY BRITOMART. You need not do anything, Andrew. You are one of the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself. Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in agonized neighings. LADY BRITOMART [outraged] Charles Lomax: if you can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room. LOMAX. I'm awfully sorry, Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon my soul! [He sits on the settee between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome]. BARBARA. Why don't you laugh if you want to, Cholly? It's good for your inside. LADY BRITOMART. Barbara: you have had the education of a lady. Please let your father see that; and don't talk like a street girl. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a gentleman; and I was never educated. LOMAX [encouragingly] Nobody'd know it, I assure you. You look all right, you know. CUSINS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr Undershaft. Greek scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other languages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hallmark is to silver. BARBARA. Dolly: don't be insincere. Cholly: fetch your concertina and play something for us. LOMAX [doubtfully to Undershaft] Perhaps that sort of thing isn't in your line, eh? UNDERSHAFT. I am particularly fond of music. LOMAX [delighted] Are you? Then I'll get it. [He goes upstairs for the instrument]. UNDERSHAFT. Do you play, Barbara? BARBARA. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teaching me the concertina. UNDERSHAFT. Is Cholly also a member of the Salvation Army? BARBARA. No: he says it's bad form to be a dissenter. But I don't despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and take the collection in his hat. LADY BRITOMART. It is not my doing, Andrew. Barbara is old enough to take her own way. She has no father to advise her. BARBARA. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Your father there has a great many children and plenty of experience, eh? BARBARA [looking at him with quick interest and nodding] Just so. How did you come to understand that? [Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina]. LADY BRITOMART. Come in, Charles. Play us something at once. LOMAX. Righto! [He sits down in his former place, and preludes]. UNDERSHAFT. One moment, Mr Lomax. I am rather interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire. LOMAX [shocked] But not your sort of blood and fire, you know. UNDERSHAFT. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies. BARBARA. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter--the West Ham shelter--and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can you play anything? UNDERSHAFT. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orchestral society, and performed passably on the tenor trombone. LOMAX [scandalized] Oh I say! BARBARA. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. LOMAX [to Barbara, still rather shocked] Yes; but what about the cannon business, don't you know? [To Undershaft] Getting into heaven is not exactly in your line, is it? LADY BRITOMART. Charles!!! LOMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, don't it? The cannon business may be necessary and all that: we can't get on without cannons; but it isn't right, you know. On the other hand, there may be a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army--I belong to the Established Church myself--but still you can't deny that it's religion; and you can't go against religion, can you? At least unless you're downright immoral, don't you know. UNDERSHAFT. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr Lomax-- LOMAX [hastily] I'm not saying anything against you personally, you know. UNDERSHAFT. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at the foundry, we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. LOMAX [leniently] Well, the more destructive war becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr Lomax, I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their business in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experiments and researches in improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. My morality--my religion--must have a place for cannons and torpedoes in it. STEPHEN [coldly--almost sullenly] You speak as if there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. UNDERSHAFT. For me there is only one true morality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manufacture aerial battleships. There is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not the same true morality. LOMAX [overtaxed] Would you mind saying that again? I didn't quite follow it. CUSINS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as physically. UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. LOMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. STEPHEN. In other words, some men are honest and some are scoundrels. BARBARA. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. UNDERSHAFT. Indeed? Are there any good men? BARBARA. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop calling one another names the better. You needn't talk to me: I know them. I've had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels, criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county councillors, all sorts. They're all just the same sort of sinner; and there's the same salvation ready for them all. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons? BARBARA. No. Will you let me try? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day after to see me in my cannon works? BARBARA. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons? BARBARA. I will take my chance of that. UNDERSHAFT. And I will take my chance of the other. [They shake hands on it]. Where is your shelter? BARBARA. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your works? UNDERSHAFT. In Perivale St Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. LOMAX. Hadn't I better play something? BARBARA. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. LOMAX. Well, that's rather a strong order to begin with, don't you know. Suppose I sing Thou'rt passing hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. BARBARA. It's too melancholy. You get saved, Cholly; and you'll pass hence, my brother, without making such a fuss about it. LADY BRITOMART. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety. UNDERSHAFT. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It is the only one that capable people really care for. LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] Well, if you are determined to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for prayers. [General amazement. Stephen rises in dismay]. LOMAX [rising] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT [rising] I am afraid I must be going. LADY BRITOMART. You cannot go now, Andrew: it would be most improper. Sit down. What will the servants think? UNDERSHAFT. My dear: I have conscientious scruples. May I suggest a compromise? If Barbara will conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will even take part, if a trombone can be procured. LADY BRITOMART. Don't mock, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT [shocked--to Barbara] You don't think I am mocking, my love, I hope. BARBARA. No, of course not; and it wouldn't matter if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting for a lark. [Rising] Come along. Come, Dolly. Come, Cholly. [She goes out with Undershaft, who opens the door for her. Cusins rises]. LADY BRITOMART. I will not be disobeyed by everybody. Adolphus: sit down. Charles: you may go. You are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your countenance. LOMAX. Oh I say! [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART [continuing] But you, Adolphus, can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your staying. CUSINS. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the family prayer book that I couldn't bear to hear you say. LADY BRITOMART. What things, pray? CUSINS. Well, you would have to say before all the servants that we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you doing yourself such an unjustice, and Barbara such an injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done my best. I shouldn't dare to marry Barbara--I couldn't look you in the face--if it were true. So I must go to the drawingroom. LADY BRITOMART [offended] Well, go. [He starts for the door]. And remember this, Adolphus [he turns to listen]: I have a very strong suspicion that you went to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in which you systematically humbug me. I have found you out. Take care Barbara doesn't. That's all. CUSINS [with unruffled sweetness] Don't tell on me. [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: if you want to go, go. Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you were a thousand miles away. SARAH [languidly] Very well, mamma. [She goes]. Lady Britomart, with a sudden flounce, gives way to a little gust of tears. STEPHEN [going to her] Mother: what's the matter? LADY BRITOMART [swishing away her tears with her handkerchief] Nothing. Foolishness. You can go with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the servants. STEPHEN. Oh, you mustn't think that, mother. I--I don't like him. LADY BRITOMART. The others do. That is the injustice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them things they want, to set them tasks, to punish them when they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals their affection from her. STEPHEN. He has not stolen our affection from you. It is only curiosity. LADY BRITOMART [violently] I won't be consoled, Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. [She rises and goes towards the door]. STEPHEN. Where are you going, mother? LADY BRITOMART. To the drawingroom, of course. [She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the concertina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when the door opens]. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. No. Certainly not. [She goes. He sits down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expression of strong dislike]. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Stück beginnt, als die entfremdete Ehefrau von Andrew Undershaft, Lady Britomart, Stephen, ihren Sohn, zu einer Besprechung ruft. Lady Britomart ist so dominant und Stephen ist so eingeschüchtert, dass er praktisch sprachlos ist. Sie korrigiert sofort sein Verhalten und erinnert ihn daran, dass er jetzt vierundzwanzig Jahre alt ist und somit ein erwachsener Mann ist, und dass er fast die ganze Welt bereist hat; daher ist es jetzt an der Zeit, dass er einige der Verantwortlichkeiten für die geschäftlichen Angelegenheiten der Familie übernimmt. Stephen wird zunehmend eingeschüchtert von seiner Mutter und behauptet, dass er bewusst vermieden hat, sich in die Angelegenheiten der Familie einzumischen. Stephen hat aus Respekt vor den Gefühlen seiner Mutter besonders widerwillig den Namen seines Vaters erwähnt; allerdings ist genau das der Punkt, den Lady Britomart besprechen möchte. Sie sagt: "Wir können nicht unser ganzes Leben weitermachen, ohne ihn zu erwähnen." Sie beginnt dann, die Probleme, mit denen sie konfrontiert sind, darzulegen, und die Notwendigkeit, über Stephens Vater, Andrew Undershaft, den reichen Waffenhersteller, zu sprechen, der seine Familie seit dem kleinen Kindesalter der Kinder nicht mehr gesehen hat. Als Lady Britomart das "Familienproblem" umreißt, erfahren wir, dass Stephens zwei Schwestern Heiratspläne haben. Sarah Undershaft hat eine gute Partie gemacht, aber ihr Verlobter kann nicht an sein Vermögen kommen, bis er fünfunddreißig Jahre alt ist. In der Zwischenzeit müssen das Paar mehr als seine derzeitigen achthundert Pfund pro Jahr haben, um in der ihnen gewohnten Weise leben zu können. Noch schlimmer ist, dass Barbara Undershaft, die so vielversprechend war, eine glänzende Heirat einzugehen, stattdessen der Heilsarmee beigetreten ist und ihre Abende mit einem "griechischen Professor" verbringt, den Barbara laut Lady Britomart "auf der Straße aufgegabelt" hat und der vorgibt, Heilsarmist zu sein und für Barbara öffentlich die große Armeetrommel spielt, weil er sich "über beide Ohren in sie verliebt hat". Lady Britomart besteht jedoch darauf, dass sie selbst keine Snobistin ist; deshalb wird ein griechischer Professor einen anständigen und vorzeigbaren Ehemann abgeben, denn niemand hat etwas gegen klassisches Griechisch einzuwenden, aber dieses Paar wird auch Geld brauchen, da Professoren bekanntermaßen "arm wie Kirchenmäuse" sind. Und außerdem ist es ein bekannter "Fakt", laut Lady Britomart, dass raffinierte, poetische Menschen wie Adolphus Cusins mehr Geld brauchen als andere Menschen, weil sie zu esoterisch sind, um Geld zu verstehen; daher werden sie eine große Summe Geld für ihre Ehe brauchen. Schließlich sagt Lady Britomart zu Stephen, dass sie erwartet, dass er bald heiratet; er ist schon lange genug Junggeselle gewesen. Mit den obigen Erklärungen und dem Wissen, dass Lady Britomarts Vater, der Earl of Stevenage, alle seine Ressourcen braucht, um seine Position in der Gesellschaft aufrechtzuerhalten, fragt sie sich: Woher soll das Geld kommen? Sie weist Stephen dann darauf hin, dass immer irgendwo Krieg herrscht und dass Stephens Vater daher sicherlich fabelhaft reich sein muss. Stephen stimmt zu und weist darauf hin, wie bekannt der Name Undershaft ist und wie sehr er unter vielen unangenehmen Kommentaren gelitten hat, weil sein Name mit dem "Blut und der Zerstörung" der Undershaft-Munition verbunden ist. Tatsächlich stimmen sie beide überein, dass die Firma Undershaft und Lazarus den Großteil der Munition Europas kontrolliert und über den Arm des Gesetzes hinausreicht; daher hat Andrew seine Macht genutzt, um seine eigenen exzentrischen Moral- und Ethikkonzepte zu etablieren. Hier ist es wichtig zu bemerken, dass Lady Britomart erklärt, dass sie Andrew Undershaft verlassen hat, weil er aus einem einzigen Grund zum Chef der Undershaft-Konzerne geworden ist - weil er nicht der rechtmäßige Erbe war: Er war unehelich, ein Findelkind - und es war seit Jahrhunderten Tradition, das Geschäft an ein anderes Findelkind zu übergeben. Daher wurde Lady Britomart sehr empört, als Andrew bestand, dass er seinen Reichtum einem anderen Findelkind überlassen würde, anstelle seines leiblichen Sohnes Stephen. Zudem hat Andrew trotz eines ganz und gar moralischen Lebens Dinge befürwortet, die seine Frau für unmoralisch hält: "Also konnte ich Andrew nicht vergeben, dass er Unmoral predigte, während er Moral praktizierte". Daher hat sie Andrew verlassen, um die Kinder vor seinen skandalösen und unkonventionellen Moral- und Meinungsansichten zu schützen. Allerdings waren sie immer finanziell von ihm abhängig, und obwohl Stephen naiv schockiert ist, seine Mutter so offen sprechen zu hören, weist Lady Britomart darauf hin, dass sie Undershaft gebeten hat, heute Abend hierher zu kommen, um die finanziellen Vereinbarungen zu besprechen, die für die Heiraten notwendig sein werden. Daher wird Undershaft jeden Moment eintreffen. Diese bevorstehende Ankunft verursacht wie zu erwarten weitere Bestürzung bei Stephen.

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: SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol Enter two OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol FIRST OFFICER. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships? SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. FIRST OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud and loves not the common people. SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see't. FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him, and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes- to flatter them for their love. SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country; and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it. FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a worthy man. Make way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the TRIBUNES OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, COMINIUS the Consul. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work perform'd By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits] FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state's defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people, We do request your kindest ears; and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body, To yield what passes here. SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly. BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd them at. MENENIUS. That's off, that's off; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak? BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it. MENENIUS. He loves your people; But tie him not to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away] Nay, keep your place. FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame to hear What you have nobly done. CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. BRUTUS. Sir, I hope My words disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But your people, I love them as they weigh- MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down. CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit MENENIUS. Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter- That's thousand to one good one- when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius. COMINIUS. I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver. If it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others; our then Dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him; he bestrid An o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met, And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell below his stem. His sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli like a planet. Now all's his. When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit Re-quick'ned what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd Both field and city ours he never stood To ease his breast with panting. MENENIUS. Worthy man! FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him. COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at, And look'd upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it. MENENIUS. He's right noble; Let him be call'd for. FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd To make thee consul. CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services. MENENIUS. It then remains That you do speak to the people. CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me o'erleap that custom; for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing. SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony. MENENIUS. Put them not to't. Pray you go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form. CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people. BRUTUS. Mark you that? CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!' Show them th' unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had receiv'd them for the hire Of their breath only! MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't. We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People, Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour. SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour! [Flourish. Cornets. Then exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS] BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people. SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give. BRUTUS. Come, we'll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place I know they do attend us. Exeunt Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Im Senatssaal im Capitol bereiten zwei Beamte den Raum für die Senatoren vor und diskutieren, ob Coriolanus als Konsul gewählt werden soll. Coriolanus tritt mit den Senatoren und Tribunen ein. Während Cominius eine Rede hält, in der er Coriolanus' heroische Taten in der Schlacht schildert, verlässt Coriolanus peinlich berührt den Raum. Als die Rede vorbei ist, erinnern die Senatoren Coriolanus daran. Sie sagen ihm, dass sie ihn zwar gerne zum Konsul machen möchten, er aber zuerst das demütige Toga anlegen, mit dem Volk sprechen und ihnen seine Wunden zeigen muss, um ihre Stimmen zu gewinnen. Coriolanus bittet darum, von dieser Tradition abweichen zu dürfen, da er es entwürdigend findet, sich zu brüsten. Aber Menenius und die anderen Senatoren sagen, dass er keine Wahl hat, und begleiten ihn zum Marktplatz.

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: Akt V. Szene 2. Das griechische Lager. Vor CALCHAS' Zelt. DIOMEDES betritt die Bühne. DIOMEDES. Was, seid ihr hier oben? Sprich. CALCHAS. [Aus dem Zelt] Wer ruft? DIOMEDES. Diomedes. Ich glaube, Calchas. Wo ist deine Tochter? CALCHAS. [Aus dem Zelt] Sie kommt zu dir. TROILUS und ULYSSES treten ein, in einiger Entfernung gefolgt von THERSITES. ULYSSES. Steh, wo die Fackel uns nicht entdecken kann. CRESSIDA tritt ein. TROILUS. Cressida tritt zu ihm heraus. DIOMEDES. Wie geht's dir, meine Pflicht? CRESSIDA. Jetzt, mein süßer Beschützer! Hör, ein Wort mit dir. [Flüstert] TROILUS. Ja, so vertraut! ULYSSES. Sie würde jeden Mann sofort verzaubern. THERSITES. Und jeder Mann könnte sie singen, wenn er ihren Felsen erklimmen kann; sie ist bekannt. DIOMEDES. Wirst du dich erinnern? CRESSIDA. Erinnern? Ja. DIOMEDES. Nein, tu es wirklich, Und lass deinen Geist mit deinen Worten verbunden sein. TROILUS. Worauf soll sie sich erinnern? ULYSSES. Hör zu! CRESSIDA. Süßer, lieber Grieche, versuche mich nicht weiter zur Torheit zu verleiten. THERSITES. Gaunerei! DIOMEDES. Nun gut, dann ... CRESSIDA. Ich sage dir was ... DIOMEDES. Halt, halt! komm, sag es mir; du bist ein Meineidiger- CRESSIDA. Glaube mir, ich kann nicht. Was hättest du, dass ich tun sollte? THERSITES. Ein Zauberkunststück, um heimlich offen zu sein. DIOMEDES. Was hast du geschworen, mir zu geben? CRESSIDA. Flehe, halte mich nicht an meinen Schwur; Sag mir irgendetwas zu tun, außer das, süßer Grieche. DIOMEDES. Gute Nacht. TROILUS. Halt, Geduld! ULYSSES. Wie jetzt, Troer! CRESSIDA. Diomedes! DIOMEDES. Nein, nein, gute Nacht; ich werde nicht länger dein Nar sein. TROILUS. Dein Bestes muss. CRESSIDA. Hör! ein Wort in dein Ohr. TROILUS. Oh Pest und Wahnsinn! ULYSSES. Ihr seid bewegt, Prinz; lasst uns gehen, bitte, Damit sich dein Unmut nicht zu wütender Rede ausweitet. Dieser Ort ist gefährlich; Die Zeit richtig tödlich; Ich bitte dich, geh. TROILUS. Sieh her, ich bitte dich. ULYSSES. Nein, mein Herr, geh weg; Du gerätst in große Verwirrung; komm, mein Herr. TROILUS. Ich bitte dich, bleib. ULYSSES. Du hast keine Geduld; komm. TROILUS. Ich bitte dich, bleib; bei der Hölle und all den Qualen der Hölle, Ich werde kein Wort sagen. DIOMEDES. Und so, gute Nacht. CRESSIDA. Nun, aber du gehst im Zorn. TROILUS. Kümmert dich das? Oh, verwelkte Wahrheit! ULYSSES. Wie jetzt, mein Herr? TROILUS. Bei Zeus, ich werde geduldig sein. CRESSIDA. Beschützer! Warum, Grieche! DIOMEDES. Pfui, pfui! Lebewohl! Du beschwindelst uns. CRESSIDA. Glaub mir, das tue ich nicht. Komm noch einmal her. ULYSSES. Du zitterst, mein Herr, wegen etwas; willst du gehen? Du wirst ausbrechen. TROILUS. Sie streichelt seine Wange. ULYSSES. Komm, komm. TROILUS. Nein, bleib; bei Zeus, ich werde kein Wort sagen: Zwischen meinem Willen und allen Vergehen Steht eine Wache der Geduld. Bleib noch ein wenig hier. THERSITES. Wie der Teufel, der Wollust mit seinem fetten Hintern und seiner Kartoffelfinger zusammenkitzelt! Brate, Lust, brate! DIOMEDES. Aber wirst du, dann? CRESSIDA. Ja, bei meiner Treue, werde ich es tun; vertraue mir sonst nicht. DIOMEDES. Gib mir ein Zeichen als Gewähr. CRESSIDA. Ich werde dir eins holen. Sie geht ab. ULYSSES. Du hast Geduld geschworen. TROILUS. Fürchte dich nicht, mein Herr; Ich werde nicht ich selbst sein, noch werde ich wahrnehmen, Was ich fühle. Ich bin ganz Geduld. CRESSIDA tritt erneut ein. THERSITES. Jetzt das Versprechen; jetzt, jetzt, jetzt! CRESSIDA. Hier, Diomed, behalte diesen Ärmel. TROILUS. Oh Schönheit! Wo ist dein Glaube? ULYSSES. Mein Herr! TROILUS. Ich werde geduldig sein, äußerlich werde ich es sein. CRESSIDA. Du schaust auf diesen Ärmel; betrachte ihn gut. Er liebte mich - oh falsche Hure! - Gib ihn mir zurück. DIOMEDES. Wem gehörte er? CRESSIDA. Es ist egal, jetzt habe ich ihn wieder. Ich werde dich morgen Nacht nicht treffen. Ich bitte dich, Diomed, besuche mich nicht mehr. THERSITES. Jetzt wird sie scharf. Gut gesagt, Schleifstein. DIOMEDES. Ich werde ihn nehmen. CRESSIDA. Was, das? DIOMEDES. Ja, das. CRESSIDA. Oh alle Götter! Oh hübsches, hübsches Versprechen! Dein Herr liegt jetzt in seinem Bett An dich und mich denkend und seufzend und küsst meinen Handschuh, Und gibt ihm liebliche Erinnerungsküsse, So wie ich dich küsse. Nein, reiße ihn nicht von mir weg; Wer ihn nimmt, nimmt auch mein Herz. DIOMEDES. Dein Herz hatte ich bereits; dies folgt ihm. TROILUS. Ich hatte Geduld geschworen. CRESSIDA. Du sollst es nicht haben, Diomed; kein Glaube, mein Wort, Ich werde dir etwas anderes geben. DIOMEDES. Ich werde das haben. Wem gehörte es? CRESSIDA. Es ist egal. DIOMEDES. Komm, sag mir, wem es gehörte. CRESSIDA. Es gehörte jemandem, der mich mehr liebte als du. Aber jetzt, da du es hast, nimm es. DIOMEDES. Wem gehörte es? CRESSIDA. Bei all den Hüterinnen Dianas dort drüben Und bei ihr selbst, ich werde dir nicht sagen, wem. DIOMEDES. Morgen werde ich es auf meinem Helm tragen Und seinen Geist betrüben, der es nicht herausfordert. TROILUS. Wärest du der Teufel und trügest es an deinem Horn, Es würde herausgefordert werden. CRESSIDA. Nun gut, es ist getan, es ist vorbei; und doch ist es das nicht; Ich werde mein Wort nicht halten. DIOMEDES. Warum, dann lebe wohl; Du wirst Diomed nie wieder verspotten. CRESSIDA. Du darfst nicht gehen. Man kann kein Wort sprechen, Aber es provoziert dich sofort. DIOMEDES. Mir gefällt dieses Scherzen nicht. THERSITES. Mir auch nicht, beim Pluto; aber das, was dir nicht gefällt, Gefällt mir am besten. DIOMEDES. Nun, soll ich kommen? Die Stunde - CRESSIDA. Ja, komm, oh Jupiter! Komm. Ich werde geplagt sein. DIOMEDES. Leb wohl bis dahin. CRESSIDA. Gute Nacht. Ich bitte dich, komm. Abgang DIOMEDES Troilus, leb wohl! Ein Auge sieht noch auf dich; Aber mit meinem Herzen sieht das andere Auge. Ach, arme Frauen! Diesen Fehler finde ich an uns, Der Irrtum unserer Augen lenkt unseren Verstand. Was der Irrtum lenkt, muss irren; O, dann schließe, Dass Geister von den Augen beherrscht, voller Schändlichkeit sind. Abgang THERSITES. Einen Beweis für Stärke hätte sie nicht deutlicher machen können, Es sei denn, sie sagte 'Mein Verstand ist jetzt eine Hure geworden.' ULYSSES. Alles ist erledigt, mein Herr. TROILUS. Ja. ULYSSES. Warum bleiben wir dann hier? TROILUS. Um eine Aufzeichnung für meine Seele zu machen Von jedem Wort, das hier gesprochen wurde. Aber wenn ich erzähle, wie diese beiden zusammenwirkten, Werde ich dann nicht lügen, indem ich eine Wahrheit verbreite? Obwohl ich noch Glauben in meinem Herzen habe, Eine so hartnäckige Hoffnung, Die Zeugen von Augen und Ohren umkehrt; Als ob diese Sinne betrügerische Funktionen hätten, Die nur dazu geschaffen wurden, um zu verleumden. War Cressida hier? ULYSSES. Ich kann nicht zaubern, Trojaner. TROILUS. Sie war nicht hier, das ist sicher. ULYSSES. Ganz sicher war sie hier. TROILUS. Warum sollte meine Verneinung nach Wahnsinn schmecken? ULYSSES. Auch meine nicht, mein Herr. Cressida war gerade hier. TROILUS. Glaube es nicht wegen der Weiblichkeit. Denke, wir hatten Mütter; gib keinen Vorteil Den störrischen Kritikern, die, ohne ein Thema zu haben, Für Verderbtheit bereit sind, das allgemeine Geschlecht Nach Cressidas Maßstab zu beurteilen. Denke lieber, dass dies nicht Cressida ist. ULYSSES. Was hat sie getan, Prinz, dass unsere Mütter beschmutzt werden können? TROILUS. Gar nichts, außer dass dies sie ist. THERSITES. Wird er sich vor seinen eigenen Augen brüsten? TROILUS. Diese sie? Nein, das ist Diomedes' Cressida. Wenn die Schönheit eine Seele hat, ist sie es nicht; Wenn Seelen Gelübde lenken, wenn Gelübde heilige Handlungen sind, Wenn Heiligkeit den Göttern gefällt, Wenn Einheit überhaupt eine Ordnung hat, Dann ist sie es nicht gewesen. Oh Wahnsinn des Wortwechsels, Wodurch sich Ursachen selbst aufstellen und gegen sich selbst stellen! Doppelte Autorität! Wo Vernunft widersprechen kann, Ohne Verdammnis, und der Verlust alle Vernunft annehmen kann, Ohne Widerspruch: Das ist und ist nicht Cressida. In meiner Seele tobt ein Kampf Dieser seltsamen Natur, dass eine untrennbare Sache Weiter ist als der Himmel und die Erde getrennt; Und doch die weitläufige Breite dieser Trennung Lässt keinen Anlass für einen so subtilen Punkt zu, Wie ein zerbrochenes Gewebe von Ariadnes, Um einzutreten. Beispiel, oh Beispiel! Stark wie Plutos Tore: Cressida ist mein, gebunden mit den Banden des Himmels. Beispiel, oh Beispiel! Stark wie der Himmel selbst: Die Bande des Himmels sind gerutscht, aufgelöst und gelöst; Und mit einem anderen Knoten, fest gebunden, Die Bruchstücke ihres Glaubens, Überreste ihrer Liebe, Das Fragment, die Stücke und fettigen Überbleibsel Von ihrem allzu verzehrten Glauben sind mit Diomedes verbunden. ULYSSES. Kann der würdige Troilus halbgebunden sein Mit dem, was hier seine Leidenschaft ausdrückt? TROILUS. Ja, Grieche; und das wird gut bekannt gemacht werden In Zeichen so rot wie Mars sein Herz, Entzündet von Venus. Nie hat ein junger Mann Mit so ewiger und so fester Seele gefantasiert. Hör zu, Grieche: So sehr ich Cressida liebe, So sehr hasse ich ihren Diomed mit all meinem Gewicht. Dieser Ärmel gehört mir, den er auf seinem Helm tragen wird; Wäre es ein Helm, geschmiedet von Vulcans Geschick Würde mein Schwert hineinbeißen. Nicht der furchterregende Wasserstrahl Den die Seemänner den Hurrikan nennen, Zusammengefasst in der Masse von der allmächtigen Sonne, Würde mit größerem Lärm Neptuns Ohr verwirren In seinem Untergang als mein ermutigtes Schwert Das auf Diomedes fällt. THERSITES. Er wird es für seine Lust kitzeln. TROILUS. Oh Cressida! Oh falsche Cress Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Diomedes betritt den Raum und fragt Calchas, wo seine Tochter sei. Calchas sagt, dass sie bald bei ihm sein wird. Troilus und Ulysses kommen herein. Thersites folgt ihnen aus der Ferne. Ulysses warnt Troilus, sich an einem Ort aufzuhalten, wo ihn die Fackel nicht erreichen kann. Cressida betritt den Raum. Troilus bemerkt, dass Cressida hinausgeht, um Diomedes zu treffen. Sie flüstert ihm etwas ins Ohr. Troilus ist überrascht über ihre Vertrautheit mit Diomedes. Ulysses, der sich an Cressidas früheres Verhalten erinnert, sagt, dass sie jeden Mann auf den ersten Blick faszinieren wird. Thersites, wie immer obszön, sagt, dass jeder Mann Cressida behandeln kann, wenn er ihr Zeichen aufnehmen kann - das Zeichen, das die Notenlinien identifiziert und somit die Tonhöhe der Noten festlegt, aber auch das weibliche Geschlechtsteil. Er sagt, dass sie für das bekannt und erkannt wird, was sie ist - das heißt, einer schlechten Reputation. Diomedes fragt Cressida, ob sie sich erinnern wird. Cressida sagt, dass sie es tun wird. Troilus fragt sich, woran sie sich erinnern soll. Cressida nennt Diomedes süßer griechischer Schatz und bittet ihn, sie nicht weiter in Versuchung zu führen. Als Cressida versucht, sich schwer zu erzielen, schiebt Diomedes sie beiseite und sagt: Fo, fo, komm, erzähl eine Lüge; du hast deinen Schwur gebrochen. Er sagt ihr, dass sie, nachdem sie bereits wirksam untreu gewesen ist, jetzt kaum noch auf ihr Ehrenwort pochen kann. Cressida sagt ihm, dass sie tatsächlich nicht halten kann, was auch immer zwischen ihnen vereinbart wurde, und fragt, was sie tun soll. Thersites nennt diese Entwicklung einen Taschenspielertrick: alleine heimlich sein. Er meint, das sei eine Täuschung, eine Kunstfertigkeit von fast unmöglicher Geschicklichkeit, die versucht, sexuell zugänglich und gleichzeitig privat zu sein. Diomedes fragt Cressida, was sie ihm versprochen hat zu geben. Cressida fleht ihn an, sie nicht an ihr Versprechen zu binden. "Gib mir alles, aber das nicht, süßer Grieche", sagt sie. Diomedes wünscht ihr knapp eine gute Nacht. Troilus wird langsam unkontrollierbar: "Warte, Geduld!" sagt er. Ulysses fragt ihn, was los ist. Cressida ruft nach Diomedes. Diomedes sagt noch einmal gute Nacht und sagt, dass er nicht länger ihr Dummkopf sein wird. Troilus kommentiert bitter, dass er, Diomedes, besser weiterhin Cressidas Narr sein muss. Cressida versucht, Diomedes etwas ins Ohr zu flüstern. Troilus wird immer besorgter und murmelt: "Oh Seuche und Wahnsinn!" Ulysses, der Troilus' Zustand bemerkt, schlägt vor, dass sie gehen, bevor sein Unmut in zornigen Ausdrücken umschlägt. Der Ort ist gefährlich und die Zeit ist tödlich, sagt er und bittet ihn zu gehen. Troilus will nicht gehen. Er besteht darauf, dass sie bleiben und zuschauen. Ulysses ist anderer Meinung - er sorgt sich um Troilus' geistige und emotionale Störung. Aber Troilus besteht trotzdem auf dem Bleiben. Ulysses sagt, dass Troilus nicht die Geduld hat, das Geschehen zu beobachten. Troilus bittet darum, dass sie bleiben. Er verspricht bei der Hölle und all ihren Qualen, kein Wort zu sagen. Diomedes sagt Cressida gute Nacht. Cressida will ihn nicht gehen lassen, da er im Zorn geht. Troilus ist ungläubig und fragt sich, ob das Cressida traurig macht. Als Ulysses wieder scheint, ihn wegzuziehen, schwört er bei Jove, dass er geduldig sein wird. Cressida versucht Diomedes zurückzuhalten, der damit droht zu gehen, da er von ihrer Wendung und ihrem Zweifel angewidert ist. Cressida besteht darauf, dass sie nicht zweifelt und bittet ihn zurückzukommen.

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: Cornets. Enter King Henry, leaning on the Cardinals shoulder, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Louell: the Cardinall places himselfe vnder the Kings feete on his right side. King. My life it selfe, and the best heart of it, Thankes you for this great care: I stood i'th' leuell Of a full-charg'd confederacie, and giue thankes To you that choak'd it. Let be cald before vs That Gentleman of Buckinghams, in person, Ile heare him his confessions iustifie, And point by point the Treasons of his Maister, He shall againe relate. A noyse within crying roome for the Queene, vsher'd by the Duke of Norfolke. Enter the Queene, Norfolke and Suffolke: she kneels. King riseth from his State, takes her vp, kisses and placeth her by him. Queen. Nay, we must longer kneele; I am a Suitor King. Arise, and take place by vs; halfe your Suit Neuer name to vs; you haue halfe our power: The other moity ere you aske is giuen, Repeat your will, and take it Queen. Thanke your Maiesty That you would loue your selfe, and in that loue Not vnconsidered leaue your Honour, nor The dignity of your Office; is the poynt Of my Petition Kin. Lady mine proceed Queen. I am solicited not by a few, And those of true condition; That your Subiects Are in great grieuance: There haue beene Commissions Sent downe among 'em, which hath flaw'd the heart Of all their Loyalties; wherein, although My good Lord Cardinall, they vent reproches Most bitterly on you, as putter on Of these exactions: yet the King, our Maister Whose Honor Heauen shield from soile; euen he escapes not Language vnmannerly; yea, such which breakes The sides of loyalty, and almost appeares In lowd Rebellion Norf. Not almost appeares, It doth appeare; for, vpon these Taxations, The Clothiers all not able to maintaine The many to them longing, haue put off The Spinsters, Carders, Fullers, Weauers, who Vnfit for other life, compeld by hunger And lack of other meanes, in desperate manner Daring th' euent too th' teeth, are all in vprore, And danger serues among them Kin. Taxation? Wherein? and what Taxation? My Lord Cardinall, You that are blam'd for it alike with vs, Know you of this Taxation? Card. Please you Sir, I know but of a single part in ought Pertaines to th' State; and front but in that File Where others tell steps with me Queen. No, my Lord? You know no more then others? But you frame Things that are knowne alike, which are not wholsome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions (Whereof my Soueraigne would haue note) they are Most pestilent to th' hearing, and to beare 'em, The Backe is Sacrifice to th' load; They say They are deuis'd by you, or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation Kin. Still Exaction: The nature of it, in what kinde let's know, Is this Exaction? Queen. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience, but am boldned Vnder your promis'd pardon. The Subiects griefe Comes through Commissions, which compels from each The sixt part of his Substance, to be leuied Without delay; and the pretence for this Is nam'd, your warres in France: this makes bold mouths, Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze Allegeance in them; their curses now Liue where their prayers did: and it's come to passe, This tractable obedience is a Slaue To each incensed Will: I would your Highnesse Would giue it quicke consideration; for There is no primer basenesse Kin. By my life, This is against our pleasure Card. And for me, I haue no further gone in this, then by A single voice, and that not past me, but By learned approbation of the Iudges: If I am Traduc'd by ignorant Tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The Chronicles of my doing: Let me say, 'Tis but the fate of Place, and the rough Brake That Vertue must goe through: we must not stint Our necessary actions, in the feare To cope malicious Censurers, which euer, As rau'nous Fishes doe a Vessell follow That is new trim'd; but benefit no further Then vainly longing. What we oft doe best, By sicke Interpreters (once weake ones) is Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft Hitting a grosser quality, is cride vp For our best Act: if we shall stand still, In feare our motion will be mock'd, or carp'd at, We should take roote here, where we sit; Or sit State-Statues onely Kin. Things done well, And with a care, exempt themselues from feare: Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear'd. Haue you a President Of this Commission? I beleeue, not any. We must not rend our Subiects from our Lawes, And sticke them in our Will. Sixt part of each? A trembling Contribution; why we take From euery Tree, lop, barke, and part o'th' Timber: And though we leaue it with a roote thus hackt, The Ayre will drinke the Sap. To euery County Where this is question'd, send our Letters, with Free pardon to each man that has deny'de The force of this Commission: pray looke too't; I put it to your care Card. A word with you. Let there be Letters writ to euery Shire, Of the Kings grace and pardon: the greeued Commons Hardly conceiue of me. Let it be nois'd, That through our Intercession, this Reuokement And pardon comes: I shall anon aduise you Further in the proceeding. Exit Secret[ary]. Enter Surueyor. Queen. I am sorry, that the Duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure Kin. It grieues many: The Gentleman is Learn'd, and a most rare Speaker, To Nature none more bound; his trayning such, That he may furnish and instruct great Teachers, And neuer seeke for ayd out of himselfe: yet see, When these so Noble benefits shall proue Not well dispos'd, the minde growing once corrupt, They turne to vicious formes, ten times more vgly Then euer they were faire. This man so compleat, Who was enrold 'mongst wonders; and when we Almost with rauish'd listning, could not finde His houre of speech, a minute: He, (my Lady) Hath into monstrous habits put the Graces That once were his, and is become as blacke, As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by Vs, you shall heare (This was his Gentleman in trust) of him Things to strike Honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practises, whereof We cannot feele too little, heare too much Card. Stand forth, & with bold spirit relate what you Most like a carefull Subiect haue collected Out of the Duke of Buckingham Kin. Speake freely Sur. First, it was vsuall with him; euery day It would infect his Speech: That if the King Should without issue dye; hee'l carry it so To make the Scepter his. These very words I'ue heard him vtter to his Sonne in Law, Lord Aburgany, to whom by oth he menac'd Reuenge vpon the Cardinall Card. Please your Highnesse note This dangerous conception in this point, Not frended by his wish to your High person; His will is most malignant, and it stretches Beyond you to your friends Queen. My learn'd Lord Cardinall, Deliuer all with Charity Kin. Speake on; How grounded hee his Title to the Crowne Vpon our faile; to this poynt hast thou heard him, At any time speake ought? Sur. He was brought to this, By a vaine Prophesie of Nicholas Henton Kin. What was that Henton? Sur. Sir, a Chartreux Fryer, His Confessor, who fed him euery minute With words of Soueraignty Kin. How know'st thou this? Sur. Not long before your Highnesse sped to France, The Duke being at the Rose, within the Parish Saint Laurence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners, Concerning the French Iourney. I replide, Men feare the French would proue perfidious To the Kings danger: presently, the Duke Said, 'twas the feare indeed, and that he doubted 'Twould proue the verity of certaine words Spoke by a holy Monke, that oft, sayes he, Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit Iohn de la Car, my Chaplaine, a choyce howre To heare from him a matter of some moment: Whom after vnder the Commissions Seale, He sollemnly had sworne, that what he spoke My Chaplaine to no Creature liuing, but To me, should vtter, with demure Confidence, This pausingly ensu'de; neither the King, nor's Heyres (Tell you the Duke) shall prosper, bid him striue To the loue o'th' Commonalty, the Duke Shall gouerne England Queen. If I know you well, You were the Dukes Surueyor, and lost your Office On the complaint o'th' Tenants; take good heed You charge not in your spleene a Noble person, And spoyle your nobler Soule; I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you Kin. Let him on: Goe forward Sur. On my Soule, Ile speake but truth. I told my Lord the Duke, by th' Diuels illusions The Monke might be deceiu'd, and that 'twas dangerous For this to ruminate on this so farre, vntill It forg'd him some designe, which being beleeu'd It was much like to doe: He answer'd, Tush, It can do me no damage; adding further, That had the King in his last Sicknesse faild, The Cardinals and Sir Thomas Louels heads Should haue gone off Kin. Ha? What, so rancke? Ah, ha, There's mischiefe in this man; canst thou say further? Sur. I can my Liedge Kin. Proceed Sur. Being at Greenwich, After your Highnesse had reprou'd the Duke About Sir William Blumer Kin. I remember of such a time, being my sworn seruant, The Duke retein'd him his. But on: what hence? Sur. If (quoth he) I for this had beene committed, As to the Tower, I thought; I would haue plaid The Part my Father meant to act vpon Th' Vsurper Richard, who being at Salsbury, Made suit to come in's presence; which if granted, (As he made semblance of his duty) would Haue put his knife into him Kin. A Gyant Traytor Card. Now Madam, may his Highnes liue in freedome, And this man out of Prison Queen. God mend all Kin. Ther's somthing more would out of thee; what say'st? Sur. After the Duke his Father, with the knife He stretch'd him, and with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible Oath, whose tenor Was, were he euill vs'd, he would outgoe His Father, by as much as a performance Do's an irresolute purpose Kin. There's his period, To sheath his knife in vs: he is attach'd, Call him to present tryall: if he may Finde mercy in the Law, 'tis his; if none, Let him not seek't of vs: By day and night Hee's Traytor to th' height. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der König lehnt sich auf Wolseys Schulter und bedankt sich bei ihm, dass er Buckinghams verräterischen Plan vereitelt hat. Er bittet darum, dass Buckinghams Befragter, der gegen seinen Herrn ausgesagt hat, vor ihn gebracht wird, damit er seine Aussage hören kann. Königin Katherine betritt mit den Herzögen von Norfolk und Suffolk den Raum und kniet vor dem König nieder. Der König begrüßt sie und bittet sie aufzustehen, aber sie besteht darauf, auf den Knien zu bleiben, da sie eine Bitte an ihn richten möchte. Sie erklärt, dass sie von seinen Untertanen gebeten wurde, beim König zu intervenieren, da sie über die Erhebung neuer Steuern verärgert sind. Die Menschen machen besonders Wolsey dafür verantwortlich, der die Steuern eingeleitet hat, aber auch der König wird dafür verantwortlich gemacht. Sie fürchtet, dass ein Aufstand ausbrechen wird. Norfolk unterstützt ihr Argument und sagt, dass Arbeitgeber gezwungen waren, ihre Mitarbeiter zu entlassen, um die Steuern zu bezahlen, was zu einer verzweifelten Klasse von Arbeitslosen und hungernden Menschen geführt hat. Der König sagt, er wisse nichts von der neuen Steuer. Katherine erklärt, dass jeder Untertan angeblich ein Sechstel seines Wertes zahlen soll, um die Kriege des Königs in Frankreich zu finanzieren, und dass dadurch ehemals loyale Untertanen feindlich gesinnt werden. Der König gibt an, mit der Steuer unzufrieden zu sein. Wolsey protestiert, dass die Steuer einstimmig vom gesamten königlichen Rat erhoben und von den Richtern genehmigt wurde; seine Stimme sei nur eine unter vielen gewesen. Er sagt, dass man aufgrund von bösartiger Kritik nicht von notwendigen Maßnahmen absehen solle. Er fügt hinzu, dass unsere besten Handlungen oft am meisten kritisiert werden und unsere schlechtesten am meisten gelobt werden. Der König entgegnet, dass sorgfältig überlegte Maßnahmen keine Angst in der Bevölkerung erzeugen. Er glaubt, dass die Steuer viel zu hart ist, und befiehlt Wolsey, sie aufzuheben und Briefe an jeden Bezirk zu schicken, in denen eine kostenlose Begnadigung für jeden Mann ausgestellt wird, der sich geweigert hat zu zahlen. Wolsey gibt diesen Befehl an seinen Sekretär weiter, sagt ihm jedoch, das Gerücht zu verbreiten, dass auf Wolseys Bitte hin der König die Steuer aufgehoben habe. Buckinghams ehemaliger Befragter kommt herein. Katherine bedauert, dass er dem König unangenehm ist. Der König lobt Buckinghams edle Eigenschaften, sagt aber, dass er korrupt geworden ist. Er fordert den Befragten auf, seine Aussage zu wiederholen, damit Katherine sie hören kann. Der Befragte sagt, dass Buckingham seinem Schwiegersohn, Lord Abergavenny, gesagt hat, dass er den Thron für sich beanspruchen würde, falls der König ohne männlichen Erben sterben sollte. Ein Mönch, Nicholas Henton, hatte Buckingham ermutigt, zu glauben, dass er König werden könnte. Katherine weist darauf hin, dass Buckingham den Befragten entlassen hatte, als sich seine Pächter über ihn beschwert hatten. Sie warnt davor, dass der Befragte möglicherweise falsche Aussagen mache, um sich an seinem früheren Herrn zu rächen. Aber der König bittet den Befragten fortzufahren. Der Befragte schwört, die Wahrheit zu sagen. Er fährt fort zu sagen, dass Buckingham gesagt hat, dass er im Falle des Todes des Königs Wolsey und Sir Thomas Lovell hinrichten lassen würde, um seinen Weg zum Thron frei zu machen. Der Befragte behauptet auch, dass Buckingham eine Geschichte über seinen Vater erzählt hat, der geplant hatte, Richard III. zu töten, um ihn daran zu hindern, den Thron an sich zu reißen, was jedoch fehlschlug, als er keinen Zutritt zu Richard erlangen konnte. Buckingham, so sagt der Befragte, hatte geschworen, seinen Vater zu übertreffen und König Heinrich VIII. zu töten. Der König ist überzeugt, dass Buckingham ein Verräter ist, und ordnet an, dass er sofort vor Gericht gestellt wird.

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: Wir könnten ungefähr eine viertel Meile gegangen sein, und mein Taschentuch war völlig durchnässt, als der Kurier plötzlich anhielt. Als ich hinaussah, um den Grund dafür festzustellen, sah ich zu meiner Verblüffung, wie Peggotty aus einer Hecke hervorstürmte und in den Wagen kletterte. Sie nahm mich in beide Arme und drückte mich an sich, bis der Druck auf meiner Nase äußerst schmerzhaft war, obwohl ich erst später daran dachte, als ich feststellte, wie empfindlich sie war. Peggotty sprach kein einziges Wort. Indem sie einen ihrer Arme losließ, steckte sie ihn bis zum Ellbogen in ihre Tasche und holte einige Papiertüten mit Kuchen heraus, die sie mir in die Taschen steckte, sowie eine Geldbörse, die sie mir in die Hand drückte, aber kein einziges Wort sagte sie. Nach einer weiteren und letzten Umarmung mit beiden Armen stieg sie aus dem Wagen und rannte davon; und mein Glaube ist und war immer, dass an ihrem Kleid nicht ein einziger Knopf fehlte. Ich hob einen von mehreren herumrollenden Knöpfen auf und schätzte ihn als Erinnerungsstück für lange Zeit. Der Kurier sah mich an, als ob er wissen wollte, ob sie zurückkommt. Ich schüttelte den Kopf und sagte, ich glaube nicht. "Komm hoch", sagte der Kurier zu dem faulen Pferd; das kam dann auch herauf. Nachdem ich mittlerweile so viel geweint hatte, wie ich nur konnte, dachte ich, es hat keinen Sinn mehr, weiter zu weinen, besonders da weder Roderick Random noch dieser Kapitän der Royal British Navy jemals in belastenden Situationen geweint hatte, soweit ich mich erinnern konnte. Der Kurier sah mich in diesem Entschluss und schlug vor, dass mein Taschentuch zum Trocknen auf den Rücken des Pferdes gelegt werden sollte. Ich bedankte mich und stimmte zu; und so klein es unter diesen Umständen auch aussah. Jetzt hatte ich Zeit, die Börse genauer zu betrachten. Es war eine steife Ledergeldbörse mit einem Druckknopf, und darin waren drei glänzende Schillinge, die Peggotty offensichtlich mit Kreide aufgehellt hatte, um mich noch mehr zu erfreuen. Aber ihr kostbarster Inhalt waren zwei halbe Kronen, die zusammen in einem Stück Papier zusammengefaltet waren, auf dem meine Mutter mit ihrer eigenen Hand geschrieben hatte: "Für Davy. Mit meiner Liebe." Ich war so überwältigt davon, dass ich den Kurier bat, mir mein Taschentuch noch einmal zu reichen; aber er meinte, ich käme besser ohne es aus, und ich dachte wirklich, dass dem so ist, also wischte ich mir die Augen mit meinem Ärmel ab und hielt mich zurück. Auch gut, obwohl ich aufgrund meiner vorherigen Emotionen immer wieder von einem stürmischen Schluchzen ergriffen wurde. Nachdem wir eine Weile langsam gefahren waren, fragte ich den Kurier, ob er den ganzen Weg fährt. "Den ganzen Weg wohin?" fragte der Kurier. "Dorthin", sagte ich. "Wo ist dort?" fragte der Kurier. "In der Nähe von London", sagte ich. "Wenn das Pferd," sagte der Kurier und zog am Zügel, um es zu zeigen, "nicht vor der Hälfte der Strecke tot wäre." "Fahren Sie dann nur bis Yarmouth?" fragte ich. "Etwa so", sagte der Kurier. "Und dort bringe ich Sie zum Postkutschenwagen, und der Postkutschenwagen bringt Sie an den Ort, wo immer das ist." Da dies eine Menge war, die der Kurier (dessen Name Mr. Barkis war) zu sagen hatte - er war, wie ich in einem früheren Kapitel bemerkte, von phlegmatischer Temperament, und nicht gerade gesprächig - bot ich ihm einen Kuchen als Zeichen der Aufmerksamkeit an, den er in einem Zug aß, genau wie ein Elefant, und der auf seinem bulligen Gesicht nicht mehr Eindruck machte als auf das eines Elefanten. "Hat SIE sie gemacht?", sagte Mr. Barkis und lehnte sich immer nach vorne, auf seine schlurfende Art, an die Trittkante des Wagens mit einem Arm auf jedem Knie. "Peggotty, meinen Sie, Sir?" "Ah!", sagte Mr. Barkis. "Sie." "Ja. Sie macht unsere ganze Nascherei und kocht für uns." "Ja wirklich?", sagte Mr. Barkis. Er formte seinen Mund, als wollte er pfeifen, aber er pfiff nicht. Er saß da und starrte auf die Ohren des Pferdes, als sähe er dort etwas Neues, und so saß er eine beträchtliche Zeit lang da. Schließlich sagte er: "Keine Verehrer, glaub' ich?" "Süßigkeiten haben Sie gesagt, Mr. Barkis?" Denn ich dachte, er wollte etwas anderes zu essen haben und hatte gezielt auf diese Art von Erfrischung angespielt. "Herzen", sagte Mr. Barkis. "Süsse Herzen; niemand geht mit ihr!" "Mit Peggotty?" "Ah!", sagte er. "Sie." "Oh nein. Sie hatte nie einen Verehrer." "Wirklich nicht!", sagte Mr. Barkis. Wieder formte er seinen Mund, um zu pfeifen, und wieder pfiff er nicht, sondern saß da und starrte auf die Ohren des Pferdes. "Also macht sie", sagte Mr. Barkis nach einer langen Überlegungsphase, "alle Apfelkuchen, und kocht sie auch alle, nicht wahr?" Ich bestätigte, dass dies der Fall sei. "Nun, ich sag Ihnen mal was", sagte Mr. Barkis. "Vielleicht schreiben Sie an sie?" "Ich werde ihr auf jeden Fall schreiben", antwortete ich. "Ah!" sagte er und drehte langsam seine Augen zu mir. "Gut! Wenn Sie ihr schreiben, könnten Sie ihr vielleicht ausrichten, dass Barkis bereit ist? Würden Sie das tun?" "Dass Barkis bereit ist", wiederholte ich unschuldig. "Ist das die gesamte Nachricht?" "Ja", sagte er, nachdenklich. "Ja. Barkis ist bereit." "Aber Sie werden morgen wieder in Blunderstone sein, Mr. Barkis", sagte ich und geriet ein wenig ins Stottern bei dem Gedanken, dann weit weg von dort zu sein und Ihre eigene Nachricht so viel besser überbringen zu können." Da er diesen Vorschlag ablehnte und seinen vorherigen Wunsch erneut mit einem Kopfschütteln bestätigte und dabei sehr ernst sagte: "Barkis ist bereit". Das ist die Botschaft", übernahm ich bereitwillig ihre Übermittlung. Während ich am selben Nachmittag auf den Bus im Hotel in Yarmouth wartete, holte ich ein Blatt Papier und einen Tintenfass und schrieb einen Brief an Peggotty, der folgendermaßen lautete: "Liebe Peggotty. Ich bin hier sicher angekommen. Barkis ist bereit. Meine Liebe an Mama. Mit herzlichen Grüßen. P.S. Er sagt, er möchte, dass du weißt - BARKIS IST BEREIT." Nachdem ich mir diese Aufgabe vorab übernommen hatte, verfiel Mr. Barkis in vollkommenes Schweigen, und ich, der ich mich durch all das, was in letzter Zeit passiert war, ganz erschöpft fühlte, legte mich auf einen Sack im Wagen und schlief ein. Ich schlief fest, bis wir nach Yarmouth kamen. Der Ort war so neu und fremd für mich im Hof des Gasthofs, zu dem wir fuhren, dass ich sofort die latente Hoffnung aufgab, dort möglicherweise auf einige von Mr. Peggottys Familie zu treffen, vielleicht sogar auf die kleine Em'ly selbst. Der Bus stand glänzend in der Einfahrt, aber noch ohne Pferde; und in diesem Zustand sah es so aus, als ob nichts unwahrscheinlicher wäre, als dass er jemals nach London fahren würde. In diesen Gedanken versunken und mich fragend, was letztendlich aus meiner Tr Er brachte mir einige Koteletts und Gemüse und nahm die Deckel so energisch ab, dass ich befürchtete, ihm irgendwie Anstoß gegeben zu haben. Aber er beruhigte mich sehr, indem er mir einen Stuhl am Tisch hinstellte und sehr freundlich sagte: "Nun, sechs Fuß! Los geht's!" Ich bedankte mich und nahm meinen Platz am Tisch ein; jedoch fand ich es äußerst schwierig, mein Messer und meine Gabel mit der nötigen Geschicklichkeit zu benutzen oder mich nicht mit der Soße zu bespritzen, während er mir gegenüberstand und mich so intensiv anstarrte, dass ich jedes Mal, wenn ich seinen Blick erhaschte, furchtbar errötete. Nachdem er mich beim Verzehr des zweiten Koteletts beobachtet hatte, sagte er: "Hier ist ein halber Liter Bier für Sie. Möchten Sie es jetzt haben?" Ich bedankte mich und sagte "Ja". Daraufhin schenkte er es aus einem Krug in ein großes Glas ein, hielt es gegen das Licht und ließ es wunderschön aussehen. "Mein Gott!" sagte er. "Es scheint viel zu sein, oder?" "Ja, es scheint viel zu sein", antwortete ich mit einem Lächeln. Denn es war für mich einfach herrlich, ihn so angenehm zu finden. Er war ein Mann mit funkelnden Augen und Pickeln im Gesicht und seine Haare standen überall wild auf seinem Kopf. Als er mit einem Arm in die Hüfte gestützt dastand und das Glas mit der anderen Hand gegen das Licht hielt, wirkte er recht freundlich. "Gestern war hier ein Herr", sagte er. "Ein stämmiger Herr namens Topsawyer - vielleicht kennen Sie ihn?" "Nein", sagte ich, "ich glaube nicht -" "In Hosen und Stulpenstiefeln, einem breitkrempigen Hut, grauem Mantel, gepunktetem Halstuch", sagte der Kellner. "Nein", sagte ich schüchtern, "ich habe das Vergnügen nicht -" "Er kam hier rein", sagte der Kellner und betrachtete das helle Bier im Glas, "bestellte ein Glas von diesem Bier - WOLLTE es bestellen - ich sagte ihm, er solle es nicht trinken - er trank es und fiel um. Es war zu alt für ihn. Man sollte es nicht mehr ausschenken; das ist die Wahrheit." Mich schockierte diese traurige Geschichte sehr und ich sagte, ich sollte wohl lieber etwas Wasser haben. "Weißt du", sagte der Kellner und betrachtete immer noch das Bier im Glas, wobei er ein Auge zukniff, "unsere Leute mögen es nicht, wenn Dinge bestellt und dann zurückgelassen werden. Das verärgert sie. Aber ich werde es trinken, wenn Sie möchten. Ich bin daran gewöhnt und Gewöhnung zählt für alles. Ich glaube nicht, dass es mir schadet, wenn ich den Kopf in den Nacken lege und es schnell herunterschütte. Soll ich es tun?" Ich antwortete, er würde mir sehr damit verpflichten, wenn er es trinken würde, falls er dachte, er könne es sicher tun, aber auf keinen Fall anders. Als er tatsächlich den Kopf in den Nacken legte und es schnell hinunterschüttete, hatte ich eine schreckliche Angst, ich gestehe es, ihn das gleiche Schicksal erleiden zu sehen wie den bedauernswerten Herrn Topsawyer, und reglos auf dem Teppich liegen zu sehen. Aber es tat ihm nichts. Im Gegenteil, ich dachte, er wirkte danach noch frischer. "Was haben wir hier?" sagte er und steckte eine Gabel in mein Gericht. "Keine Koteletts?" "Koteletts", sagte ich. "Herr im Himmel!" rief er aus, "Ich wusste nicht, dass es Koteletts sind. Na, ein Kotelett ist genau das Richtige, um die schlechten Auswirkungen von dem Bier zu mindern! Ist das nicht glücklich?" Also nahm er ein Kotelett am Knochen in die eine Hand und eine Kartoffel in die andere und aß mit gutem Appetit davon, zu meiner großen Zufriedenheit. Später nahm er noch ein Kotelett und eine weitere Kartoffel und danach noch ein Kotelett und eine weitere Kartoffel. Als wir fertig waren, brachte er mir einen Pudding und setzte ihn mir vor, schien dann jedoch für einige Momente in Gedanken zu versinken. "Wie ist der Pie?" sagte er und wurde wieder munter. "Es ist ein Pudding", antwortete ich. "Pudding!" rief er aus. "Ach du meine Güte, so ist es! Was!" und betrachtete ihn genauer. "Du willst mir doch nicht sagen, dass es ein Pudding aus Teig ist?" "Ja, das ist er tatsächlich." "Ein Pudding aus Teig", sagte er und nahm einen Löffel in die Hand, "ist mein Lieblingspudding! Ist das nicht glücklich? Also komm her, Kleiner, und lass uns sehen, wer mehr essen kann." Der Kellner bekam sicherlich mehr Pudding. Er bat mich mehr als einmal hereinzukommen und zu gewinnen, aber mit seinem Tafellöffel gegen meinen Teelöffel, seinem Tempo gegen meines und seinem Appetit gegen meinen, blieb ich bereits mit dem ersten Bissen weit zurück und hatte keine Chance gegen ihn. Ich habe noch nie jemanden so sehr einen Pudding genießen sehen, denke ich, und er lachte noch, als er ganz aufgegessen war, als ob sein Genuss davon noch anhielt. Da er so freundlich und gesellig war, bat ich zu diesem Zeitpunkt um Feder, Tinte und Papier, um einen Brief an Peggotty zu schreiben. Er brachte es nicht nur sofort, sondern war auch so nett, während ich den Brief schrieb, über meine Schulter zu schauen. Als ich fertig war, fragte er mich, auf welche Schule ich gehen würde. "Irgendwo in der Nähe von London", antwortete ich, was alles war, was ich wusste. "Oh! Mein Gott!" sagte er bedrückt, "Das tut mir leid." "Warum?", fragte ich ihn. "Oh, Herrgott!" sagte er und schüttelte den Kopf, "das ist die Schule, wo sie einem Jungen die Rippen gebrochen haben - zwei Rippen - ein kleiner Junge war er. Ich würde sagen, er war - mal sehen - wie alt bist du, etwa?" Ich sagte ihm zwischen acht und neun. "Das ist genau sein Alter", sagte er. "Er war acht Jahre und sechs Monate alt, als sie ihm seine erste Rippe brachen; acht Jahre und acht Monate alt, als sie seine zweite brachen und ihn umbrachten." Ich konnte mir selbst gegenüber und auch gegenüber dem Kellner nicht verheimlichen, dass dies ein unangenehmer Zufall war, und erkundigte mich, wie es dazu kam. Seine Antwort war nicht ermutigend für meine Stimmung, denn sie bestand aus zwei düsteren Worten: "Mit Prügeln." Das Hupen des Kutschers im Hof war eine willkommene Ablenkung, die mich aufstehen und zögerlich fragen ließ, mit einer Mischung aus Stolz und Unsicherheit über meinen Geldbeutel (den ich aus meiner Tasche zog), ob ich etwas bezahlen müsse. "Es gibt ein Blatt Briefpapier", erwiderte er. "Hast du jemals ein Blatt Briefpapier gekauft?" Ich konnte mich nicht erinnern, dass ich jemals eins gekauft hätte. "Es ist teuer", sagte er, "wegen der Steuer. Dreipence. Das ist die Art, wie wir in diesem Land besteuert werden. Es gibt nichts anderes, außer dem Kellner. Die Tinte spielt keine Rolle. Da verliere ich." "Was sollten Sie... was sollte ich... wie viel müsste ich... was wäre richtig, dem Kellner zu geben, wenn es Ihnen recht ist?", stotterte ich und errötete. "Wenn ich keine Familie hätte und diese Familie nicht die Kuhpocken hätte", sagte der Kellner, "würde ich keinen Penny nehmen. Wenn ich nicht eine betagte Angehörige und eine liebenswerte Schwester unterstützen würde" - hier wurde der Kellner sehr aufgeregt -, "würde ich kein Fünffüflein nehmen. Wenn ich einen guten Platz Es war für mich ziemlich hart, muss ich sagen, ohne es zu verdienen, das Objekt von Witzen zwischen dem Kutscher und dem Wächter zu sein, weil der Kutsche dahinter zog, wegen meiner Anwesenheit dort, und weil es für mich praktischer wäre, mit dem Waggon zu reisen. Die Geschichte von meinem vermeintlichen Appetit ging auch bei den Passagieren draußen um, sie freuten sich ebenfalls darüber und fragten mich, ob ich in der Schule für zwei oder drei Brüder bezahlt werde und ob ich einen Vertrag habe oder regulär reise, mit anderen amüsanten Fragen. Aber das Schlimmste war, dass ich wusste, dass ich mich schämen würde, etwas zu essen, wenn sich eine Gelegenheit bietet, und dass ich nach einem eher leichten Mittagessen die ganze Nacht hungrig bleiben würde - denn ich hatte meine Kuchen in Eile im Hotel zurückgelassen. Meine Befürchtungen bewahrheiteten sich. Als wir zum Abendessen anhielten, konnte ich nicht den Mut aufbringen, etwas zu nehmen, obwohl ich es sehr gerne gehabt hätte, aber ich saß am Feuer und sagte, dass ich nichts möchte. Das rettete mich auch nicht vor weiteren Witzen; Denn ein heiserer Mann mit raubeinigem Gesicht, der fast die ganze Zeit aus einer Sandwich-Box gegessen hatte, außer wenn er aus einer Flasche trank, sagte, dass ich wie eine Boa-constrictor sei, der bei einer Mahlzeit genug nehme, um ihn lange satt zu machen; danach bekam er tatsächlich einen Ausschlag mit gekochtem Rindfleisch. Wir waren um drei Uhr nachmittags in Yarmouth gestartet und sollten gegen acht Uhr morgens in London eintreffen. Es war Sommerwetter und der Abend war sehr angenehm. Als wir durch ein Dorf fuhren, stellte ich mir vor, wie es in den Häusern drinnen aussah und was die Bewohner so trieben; und als Jungen hinter uns herliefen, sich hinten hochzogen und eine Weile dort schaukelten, fragte ich mich, ob ihre Väter noch am Leben waren und ob sie zu Hause glücklich waren. Ich hatte also viel zu denken, neben meiner ständig um das Ziel kreisenden Frage nach dem Ort, an den ich ging - was eine furchtbare Spekulation war. Manchmal erinnere ich mich, dass ich mich meinen Gedanken über mein Zuhause und Peggotty hingegeben habe und verworren versucht habe, mich daran zu erinnern, wie ich mich gefühlt habe und was für ein Junge ich früher war, bevor ich Mr. Murdstone gebissen habe: darüber konnte ich mich einfach nicht zufriedenstellen, es schien, als hätte ich ihn in einer so fernen Zeit gebissen. Die Nacht war nicht so angenehm wie der Abend, denn es wurde kühl; und da man mich zwischen zwei Herren (dem raubeinigen und einem anderen) platziert hatte, um zu verhindern, dass ich vom Kutschen falle, wurde ich fast von ihnen erstickt und komplett blockiert. Manchmal drückten sie mich so fest, dass ich nicht anders konnte, als 'Oh bitte!' auszurufen - was ihnen gar nicht gefiel, weil es sie weckte. Gegenüber von mir saß eine ältere Dame in einem großen Pelzmantel, die im Dunkeln mehr wie ein Heuhaufen als eine Dame aussah, so sehr war sie eingewickelt. Diese Dame hatte einen Korb bei sich und wusste lange Zeit nicht, wohin sie damit sollte, bis sie herausfand, dass er wegen meiner kurzen Beine unter mir Platz finden konnte. Das zwängte und verletzte mich so sehr, dass ich mich elend fühlte; aber wenn ich mich nur ein kleines bisschen bewegte und eine Flasche, die im Korb gegen etwas anderes klirrte (wie es garantiert geschah), gab sie mir den grausamsten Tritt mit dem Fuß und sagte: "Komm schon, zappel nicht so. Deine Knochen sind sicherlich jung genug!" Endlich ging die Sonne auf und dann schienen meine Gefährten ruhiger zu schlafen. Die Schwierigkeiten, mit denen sie die ganze Nacht gekämpft hatten und die sich in den schrecklichsten Atemnot- und Schnarchgeräuschen äußerten, sind nicht zu beschreiben. Je höher die Sonne stieg, desto leichter wurde ihr Schlaf und so wachten sie nach und nach auf. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich sehr überrascht war von dem Schauspiel, das dann jeder aufführte, als hätte niemand geschlafen, und von der außergewöhnlichen Entrüstung, mit der jeder den Vorwurf zurückwies. Bisher kann ich dieses seltsame Phänomen nicht verstehen, da ich immer wieder beobachtet habe, dass von allen menschlichen Schwächen, zu denen unsere gemeinsame Natur am wenigsten geneigt ist zuzugeben (ich kann mir nicht vorstellen, warum), die Schwäche, in einer Kutsche eingeschlafen zu sein, die geringste ist. Was für ein erstaunlicher Ort London für mich war, als ich es in der Ferne sah, und wie ich glaubte, dass sich dort ständig die Abenteuer meiner Lieblingshelden abspielten und wieder abspielten, und wie ich es in meinem Geist vage als voller Wunder und Bosheit vorstellte als alle Städte der Erde zusammen, muss ich hier nicht weiter ausführen. Wir näherten uns allmählich und kamen rechtzeitig in die Herberge im Bezirk Whitechapel, für die wir unterwegs waren. Ich weiß nicht, ob es der Blaue Bulle oder der Blaue Eber war; aber ich weiß, dass es irgendetwas Blaues war und dass sein Bild auf der Rückseite der Kutsche gemalt war. Der Blick des Wächters fiel auf mich, als er ausstieg, und er sagte an der Eingangstür des Büros: "Gibt es hier jemanden für einen Jüngling, eingebuchtet auf den Namen Murdstone, aus Blunderstone, Suffolk, der hier bleiben soll, bis er abgeholt wird?" Niemand antwortete. "Probieren Sie es mit Copperfield, wenn Sie bitte, Sir", sagte ich und sah hilflos nach unten. "Gibt es hier jemanden für einen Jüngling, eingebuchtet auf den Namen Murdstone, aus Blunderstone, Suffolk, der aber als Copperfield bekannt ist und hier bleiben soll, bis er abgeholt wird?" sagte der Wächter. "Es gibt doch wohl jemanden?" Nein. Es war niemand da. Ich schaute ängstlich um mich, aber die Frage machte keinen Eindruck auf die Umstehenden, außer einem Mann mit Gamaschen und einem Auge, der vorschlug, man solle mir besser ein Halsband aus Messing anlegen und mich im Stall anbinden. Eine Leiter wurde gebracht und ich stieg nach der Dame, die wie ein Heuhaufen aussah, hinunter, ohne mich zu rühren, bis ihr Korb entfernt wurde. Bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt waren alle Passagiere ausgestiegen, das Gepäck war sehr schnell abgeholt worden, die Pferde waren vor dem Gepäck herausgenommen worden, und nun wurde die Kutsche selbst von einigen Stallknechten weggerollt und zur Seite geschoben. Trotzdem erschien niemand, um den staubigen Jungen aus Blunderstone, Suffolk, in Empfang zu nehmen. Noch einsamer als Robinson Crusoe, der niemanden hatte, der ihn anschaute und sah, dass er einsam war, ging ich ins Büro und setzte mich auf die Waage, auf der sie das Gepäck wogen, nach Einladung des diensthabenden Beamten. Hier, während ich auf die Pakete, Päckchen und Bücher saß und den Geruch der Ställe einatmete (seitdem mit diesem Morgen assoziiert), begann ein Zug von furchtbarsten Gedanken durch meinen Kopf zu marschieren. Wenn niemand kommt, um mich abzuholen, wie lange würden sie zustimmen, mich hier zu behalten? Würden sie mich lange genug behalten, um sieben Schilling auszugeben? Sollte ich die Nacht in einer dieser hölzernen Kisten schlafen, mit dem anderen Gepäck, und mich morgens am Brunnen im Hof waschen? Oder sollte ich jede Nacht rausgeworfen werden und erwarten, dass ich wiederkomme, um abgeholt zu werden, wenn das Büro am nächsten Tag öffnet? Angenommen, es gab keinen Irrtum in der Sache und Herr Murdstone hatte Als ich mit diesem neuen Bekannten aus dem Büro ging, warf ich einen Blick auf ihn. Er war ein hagerer, blasser junger Mann mit hohlen Wangen und einem Kinn, das fast genauso schwarz war wie das von Herrn Murdstone. Aber da endete die Ähnlichkeit, denn seine Koteletten waren abrasiert und sein Haar, anstatt glänzend zu sein, war matt und trocken. Er trug einen Anzug aus schwarzer Kleidung, der auch ziemlich abgetragen und trocken war und an den Ärmeln und Beinen etwas zu kurz war. Er hatte einen weißen Halstuch an, das nicht gerade sauber war. Ich habe nicht angenommen und tue es immer noch nicht, dass dieses Halstuch die einzige Wäsche war, die er trug, aber es war alles, was er zeigte oder irgendwelche Anzeichen dafür gab. "Du bist der neue Junge?", sagte er. "Ja, Sir", sagte ich. Ich nahm an, dass ich es war. Ich wusste es nicht. "Ich bin einer der Lehrer in Salem House", sagte er. Ich verbeugte mich vor ihm und fühlte mich sehr eingeschüchtert. Ich schämte mich so sehr, etwas so Alltägliches wie meine Kiste bei einem Gelehrten und einem Lehrer in Salem House anzusprechen, dass wir einige Zeit lang vom Hof entfernt waren, bevor ich die Dreistigkeit hatte, es zur Sprache zu bringen. Auf meine demütige Andeutung hin, dass es für mich nützlich sein könnte, kehrten wir zurück und er sagte dem Schreiber, dass der Träger angewiesen wurde, sie um zwölf Uhr abzuholen. "Wenn es Ihnen recht ist, Sir", sagte ich, als wir etwa die gleiche Strecke wie zuvor zurückgelegt hatten, "ist es weit?" "Es liegt in der Nähe von Blackheath", sagte er. "Is das weit, Sir?", fragte ich schüchtern. "Es ist ein gutes Stück", sagte er. "Wir werden mit der Postkutsche fahren. Es sind etwa sechs Meilen." Ich war so erschöpft und müde, dass die Vorstellung, noch sechs Meilen durchzuhalten, zu viel für mich war. Ich wagte es ihm zu sagen, dass ich die ganze Nacht nichts gegessen hatte und dass ich ihm sehr dankbar sein würde, wenn er mir erlauben würde, etwas zu essen zu kaufen. Er schien überrascht darüber zu sein - ich sehe ihn jetzt anhalten und mich ansehen - und nachdem er einige Momente nachgedacht hatte, sagte er, dass er bei einer alten Person, die nicht weit entfernt wohnte, vorbeischauen wollte und dass es am besten wäre, wenn ich etwas Brot oder was auch immer mir am besten gefiel und gesund war, kaufe und mein Frühstück bei ihr mache, wo wir auch etwas Milch bekommen könnten. Also schauten wir in das Schaufenster eines Bäckers und nachdem ich eine Reihe von Vorschlägen gemacht hatte, alles zu kaufen, was in dem Laden verdorben war, und er einen nach dem anderen abgelehnt hatte, entschieden wir uns für ein schönes kleines Laib vollkorn Brot, das mich dreipence kostete. Dann kauften wir in einem Lebensmittelladen ein Ei und eine Scheibe "streaky bacon"; es blieb noch eine gute Menge Wechselgeld von den beiden glänzenden Schillingen übrig und ich fand London sehr preiswert. Mit diesen Vorräten gingen wir weiter durch einen großen Lärm und Tumult, der meinen müden Kopf jenseits jeder Beschreibung verwirrte, und über eine Brücke, die zweifellos die London Bridge war (ich glaube tatsächlich, dass er mir das gesagt hat, aber ich war halb eingeschlafen), bis wir zu dem Haus der armen Person kamen, das Teil eines Altenheims war, wie ich an ihrem Aussehen und an einer Inschrift auf einem Stein über dem Tor erkannte, die besagte, dass es für fünfundzwanzig arme Frauen eingerichtet wurde. Der Lehrer in Salem House hob den Riegel einer von vielen kleinen schwarzen Türen, die alle gleich aussahen und an einer Seite ein kleines Fenster mit Rautenglas hatten und über dem ein weiteres kleines Fenster mit Rautenglas war, und wir gingen in das kleine Haus einer dieser alten armen Frauen, die ein Feuer anblies, um eine kleine Kasserolle zum Kochen zu bringen. Als die alte Frau den Lehrer hereinkommen sah, hielt sie mit dem Blasebalg auf dem Knie inne und sagte etwas, das ich für "Mein Charley!" hielt, aber als sie mich auch hereinkommen sah, stand sie auf, rieb sich die Hände und verbeugte sich in einer verwirrten Art von halber Verbeugung. "Kannst du das Frühstück für diesen jungen Herrn zubereiten, bitte?", sagte der Lehrer in Salem House. "Kann ich?", sagte die alte Frau. "Ja, kann ich sicher!" "Wie geht es heute Mrs. Fibbitson?", fragte der Lehrer und blickte auf eine andere alte Frau in einem großen Stuhl am Feuer, die ein Bündel Kleider war und für die ich bis heute dankbar bin, dass ich mich nicht versehentlich auf sie gesetzt habe. "Ah, ihr geht es nicht gut", sagte die erste alte Frau. "Es ist einer ihrer schlechten Tage. Wenn das Feuer ausginge, durch irgendeinen Unfall, ich glaube wirklich, sie würde ebenfalls ausgehen und nie wieder zum Leben kommen." Als sie sie ansahen, schaute ich sie auch an. Obwohl es ein warmer Tag war, schien sie nur an das Feuer zu denken. Ich bildete mir ein, sie sei sogar eifersüchtig auf die Kasserolle darauf; und ich habe Grund zu wissen, dass sie ihre Verpflichtung, mein Ei zu kochen und meinen Speck zu braten, mit Verdruß übernommen hat; denn ich sah mit meinen eigenen enttäuschten Augen, wie sie mir einmal die Faust schüttelte, als diese kulinarischen Operationen im Gange waren und niemand sonst hinschaute. Die Sonne schien durch das kleine Fenster, aber sie saß mit dem Rücken und dem Rücken des großen Stuhls zu ihm und schützte das Feuer, als ob sie es eifrig warm halten würde, anstatt dass es sie warm hielt, und betrachtete es mit höchstem Misstrauen. Als die Vorbereitungen für mein Frühstück abgeschlossen waren und das Feuer entlastet wurde, freute sie sich so sehr, dass sie laut lachte - und ein wirklich unmelodisches Lachen hatte sie, muss ich sagen. Ich setzte mich zu meinem Laib Brot, meinem Ei und meiner Scheibe Bacon mit einer Schale Milch daneben und genoss eine sehr köstliche Mahlzeit. Während ich noch in vollem Genuss war, sagte die alte Frau im Haus zum Lehrer: "Hast du deine Flöte dabei?" "Ja", antwortete er. "Spiel doch darauf", sagte die alte Frau, freundlich bittend. "Mach schon!" Der Lehrer steckte daraufhin seine Hand unter die Röcke seines Mantels und holte seine Flöte in drei Teilen zum Vorschein, die er zusammenschraubte und sofort zu spielen begann. Mein Eindruck ist, nach vielen Jahren des Nachdenkens, dass es auf der Welt niemals jemanden gegeben haben kann, der schlechter gespielt hat. Er erzeugte die traurigsten Klänge, die ich je gehört habe, sei es durch natürliche oder künstliche Mittel. Ich weiß nicht, welche Melodien es waren - wenn überhaupt solche in der Darbietung vorkamen, woran ich zweifle - aber der Einfluss dieser Melodie auf mich war zunächst, dass ich an all meine Sorgen dachte, bis ich meine Tränen kaum zurückhalten konnte, dann nahm sie mir den Appetit und schließlich machte sie mich so schläfrig, dass ich meine Augen nicht offen halten konnte. Sie fingen wieder an sich zu schließen und ich fing an zu nicken, als die Erinnerung frisch in mir aufstieg. Noch einmal verschwindet das kleine Zimmer mit seinem offenen Eckvitrinenschrank und seinen quadratischen Stühlen mit der kantigen kleinen Treppe, die zum Raum darüber führt, und seinen drei Pfauenfedern, die über dem Kaminsims zur Schau gestellt sind - ich frage mich, was der Pfau wohl gedacht hätte, wenn er gewusst hätte, wozu sein Schmuck bestimmt Als ich anscheinend längere Zeit gedöst hatte, schraubte der Lehrer an der Salem House seine Flöte in drei Teile, packte sie wie zuvor ein und nahm mich mit. Der Wagen stand ganz in der Nähe und wir stiegen auf das Dach; aber ich war so todmüde, dass sie mich, als wir unterwegs anhielten, um jemand anderen aufzunehmen, in das Innere setzten, wo keine Passagiere waren, und wo ich tief schlief, bis ich den Wagen im Schneckentempo einen steilen Hügel hinauffahren hörte, umgeben von grünen Blättern. Schließlich hielt er an und war am Ziel angekommen. Ein kurzer Spaziergang brachte uns - ich meine den Lehrer und mich - zum Salem House, das von einer hohen Ziegelmauer umgeben war und sehr düster aussah. Über einer Tür in dieser Mauer befand sich ein Schild mit der Aufschrift SALEM HOUSE, und durch ein Gitter in dieser Tür wurden wir beobachtet, als wir klingelten, von einem mürrischen Gesicht, das sich herausstellte, als die Tür geöffnet wurde, gehörte einem stämmigen Mann mit einem Stiernacken, einem Holzbein, vorstehenden Schläfen und rundum kurz geschnittenem Haar. "Der neue Junge", sagte der Lehrer. Der Mann mit dem Holzbein betrachtete mich eingehend - das dauerte nicht lange, denn viel war nicht von mir zu sehen - verschloss das Tor hinter uns und zog den Schlüssel heraus. Als wir auf dem Weg zum Haus, zwischen einigen dunklen, schweren Bäumen, waren, rief er meinem Begleiter nach. "Hallo!" Wir schauten zurück und er stand vor der Tür einer kleinen Lodge, in der er wohnte, mit einem Paar Stiefel in seiner Hand. "Hier! Der Schuster war da", sagte er, "seit du weg warst, Mr. Mell, und er sagt, dass er sie nicht mehr reparieren kann. Er sagt, es ist kein Stück des Originalstiefels mehr übrig und fragt sich, was du erwartest." Mit diesen Worten warf er die Stiefel auf Mr. Mell zu, der ein paar Schritte zurückging, um sie aufzuheben, und betrachtete sie (sehr betrübt, fürchtete ich), als wir zusammen weitergingen. Dabei bemerkte ich zum ersten Mal, dass die Stiefel, die er trug, ziemlich abgenutzt waren und dass sein Strumpf an einer Stelle wie eine Knospe aufplatzte. Salem House war ein viereckiges Ziegelgebäude mit Flügeln; es sah karg und unfurnished aus. Alles um es herum war so ruhig, dass ich zu Mr. Mell sagte, ich vermutete, dass die Jungen nicht da waren; aber er schien überrascht zu sein, dass ich nicht wusste, dass es Ferienzeit war. Dass alle Jungen zu Hause waren. Dass Mr. Creakle, der Besitzer, mit Mrs. und Miss Creakle am Meer war; und dass ich in der Ferienzeit als Strafe für mein Fehlverhalten geschickt wurde, all das erklärte er mir, während wir weitergingen. Ich starrte in den Klassenraum, in den er mich führte, und empfand ihn als den traurigsten und trostlosesten Ort, den ich je gesehen hatte. Ich sehe es noch vor mir. Ein langer Raum mit drei langen Reihen von Schreibtischen und sechs Bänken und überall mit Haken für Hüte und Schiefertafeln besetzt. Fetzen von alten Schulheften und Übungen lagen auf dem schmutzigen Boden. Einige Seidenwurm-Häuser, aus den gleichen Materialien hergestellt, waren über die Schreibtische verteilt. Zwei elende kleine weiße Mäuse, von ihrem Besitzer zurückgelassen, liefen in einem muffigen Schloss aus Pappe und Draht auf und ab und suchten mit ihren roten Augen in allen Ecken nach etwas zu essen. Ein Vogel, in einem Käfig, nicht viel größer als er selbst, gibt hin und wieder ein trauriges Rasseln von sich, wenn er auf seinem zwei Zoll hohen Sitz hüpft oder davon fällt; aber er singt oder zwitschert nicht. Es herrscht ein eigenartig ungesunder Geruch im Raum, wie von schimmligen Cordhosen, frischer Luft beraubten Äpfeln und verrotteten Büchern. Es könnte nicht mehr Tinte darum gespritzt sein, wenn es von Anfang an ein Dachlose wäre und die Himmel, Schnee, Hagel und Tinte in den verschiedenen Jahreszeiten durch die Luft geweht hätten. Herr Mell hatte mich verlassen, während er seine irreparablen Stiefel nach oben brachte, und ich ging leise zum oberen Ende des Raumes und beobachtete dies, während ich mich dorthin schlich. Plötzlich stieß ich auf ein hübsch geschriebenes Pappplakat, das auf dem Schreibtisch lag und folgende Worte trug: "Pass auf ihn auf. Er beißt." Sofort stieg ich auf den Schreibtisch und fürchtete zumindest einen großen Hund darunter. Aber obwohl ich mit ängstlichen Augen herumschaute, konnte ich nichts von ihm sehen. Ich war immer noch damit beschäftigt, mich umzusehen, als Herr Mell zurückkam und mich fragte, was ich da oben machte? "Ich bitte um Entschuldigung, Sir", sagte ich, "ich suche den Hund." "Hund?" sagte er. "Welchen Hund?" "Ist das nicht ein Hund, Sir?" "Was ist kein Hund?" "Das muss man aufpassen, Sir; der beißt." "Nein, Copperfield", sagte er ernsthaft, "das ist kein Hund. Das ist ein Junge. Meine Anweisungen sind, Copperfield, dieses Plakat auf deinen Rücken zu legen. Es tut mir leid, dass ich so mit dir anfange, aber ich muss es tun." Damit nahm er mich mit nach unten und band das Plakat, das eigens für diesen Zweck angefertigt war, wie einen Rucksack auf meine Schultern, und wo immer ich danach hinkam, hatte ich den Trost, es zu tragen. Niemand kann sich vorstellen, was ich unter diesem Plakat gelitten habe. Ob andere Leute mich sehen konnten oder nicht, ich bildete mir immer ein, dass jemand es las. Es war keine Erleichterung, sich umzudrehen und niemanden zu finden; denn wo auch immer mein Rücken war, dort stellte ich mir vor, dass immer jemand war. Dieser grausame Mann mit dem Holzbein machte mein Leiden noch schlimmer. Er hatte Autorität; und wenn er mich je gegen einen Baum, eine Wand oder das Haus gelehnt sah, brüllte er aus der Tür seiner Loge mit gewaltiger Stimme: "Hallo, Sie da! Sie Copperfield! Zeigen Sie dieses Abzeichen deutlich, oder ich werde Ihnen melden!" Der Schulhof war ein kahler Kiesplatz, der sich zur Rückseite des Hauses und der Büros öffnete, und ich wusste, dass es von den Bediensteten gelesen wurde, und der Metzger las es, und der Bäcker las es; dass everybody, mit einem Wort, der morgens vor und zurück zum Haus kam, las, dass ich aufgepasst werden sollte, weil ich beiße. Ich erinnere mich daran, dass ich tatsächlich anfing, Angst vor mir selbst zu haben, als eine Art wilder Junge, der beißt. Es gab eine alte Tür auf diesem Schulhof, in die die Jungen ihre Namen zu schnitzen pflegten. Sie war vollständig mit solchen Inschriften bedeckt. In meiner Angst vor dem Ende der Ferien und ihrer Rückkehr konnte ich keinen Namen eines Jungen lesen, ohne mich zu erkundigen, in welchem Ton und mit welcher Betonung ER es lesen würde: "Pass auf ihn auf. Er beißt." Es gab einen Jungen - einen gewissen J. Steerforth -, der seinen Namen sehr tief und sehr oft eingeschnitten hatte, und von dem ich annahm, dass er ihn mit einer recht lauten Stimme lesen und anschließend an meinen Haaren ziehen würde. Es gab einen anderen Jungen, einen gewissen Tommy Traddles, vor dem ich mich davor fürchtete, dass er sich darüber lustig machen und vortäuschen würde, furchtbar Angst vor mir zu haben. Da war ein Dritter, George Demple, von dem ich mir vorstellte, dass er es singen würde. Ich habe als kleines, ängstliches Geschöpf auf diese Tür gestarrt, bis die Besitzer aller Namen - es waren damals fünfundvierzig Jungen in der Schule, sagte Mr. Mell - schienen mich mit allgemeinem Beifall nach Coventry zu schicken und jeder auf seine Art zu rufen: "Pass In der Monotonie meines Lebens und in meiner ständigen Befürchtung vor der Wiedereröffnung der Schule war es eine unerträgliche Qual! Ich hatte jeden Tag lange Aufgaben mit Mr. Mell zu erledigen, aber ich erledigte sie, da es hier keinen Mr. und Miss Murdstone gab, ohne Schande. Vor und nach ihnen lief ich herum - beaufsichtigt, wie ich erwähnt habe, von dem Mann mit dem Holzbein. Wie lebhaft erinnere ich mich an die Feuchtigkeit um das Haus herum, die grünen rissigen Pflastersteine im Hof, ein altes undichtes Wasserfass und die verfärbten Stämme einiger der düsteren Bäume, die scheinbar mehr im Regen getropft und weniger in der Sonne geweht hatten als andere Bäume! Um eins haben Mr. Mell und ich im oberen Teil eines langen kahlen Speisesaals voller Tische aus Tannenholz, der nach Fett riecht, zu Mittag gegessen. Dann hatten wir bis zum Tee mehr Aufgaben, den Mr. Mell aus einer blauen Teetasse und ich aus einem Zinnkrug trank. Den ganzen Tag über und bis sieben oder acht Uhr abends arbeitete Mr. Mell an seinem eigenen Einzelschreibtisch im Klassenzimmer fleißig mit Feder, Tinte, Lineal, Büchern und Schreibpapier und erstellte (wie ich festgestellt habe) die Rechnungen für das letzte Halbjahr. Als er seine Sachen für die Nacht weggeräumt hatte, nahm er seine Flöte heraus und blies hinein, bis ich fast dachte, er würde nach und nach sein ganzes Wesen in das große Loch oben hineinblasen und an den Tasten herausquellen. Ich stelle mir mein kleines Ich in den schwach beleuchteten Zimmern vor, wie ich mit dem Kopf auf meiner Hand sitze und mir die traurige Vorstellung von Mr. Mells Darbietung anhöre und die Lektionen für morgen lerne. Ich stelle mir vor, wie ich meine Bücher zuklappe und immer noch Mr. Mells trauriger Darbietung zuhöre und durch sie hindurch an das, was früher zu Hause war, und an das Blasen des Windes auf den Yarmouth Flats denke und mich sehr traurig und einsam fühle. Ich stelle mir vor, wie ich die Treppe zu den ungenutzten Zimmern hinaufgehe und auf meinem Bett sitze und um ein tröstendes Wort von Peggotty weine. Ich stelle mir vor, wie ich am Morgen die Treppe hinunterkomme und durch ein langes grässliches Fenster auf die Schulglocke schaue, die über einem Nebengebäude mit einem Wetterhahn darüber hängt, und die Zeit fürchte, wenn sie J. Steerforth und den Rest zur Arbeit ruft. Das ist nur zweitrangig, in meiner beunruhigenden Furcht, der Zeit, wenn der Mann mit dem Holzbein das verrostete Tor öffnet, um den furchterregenden Mr. Creakle einzulassen. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich in einer dieser Hinsichten eine sehr gefährliche Figur war, aber in allen trug ich dieselne Warnung auf meinem Rücken. Mr. Mell hat nie viel mit mir gesprochen, aber er war nie streng zu mir. Ich denke, wir waren Gesellschaft füreinander, ohne viel zu reden. Ich habe vergessen zu erwähnen, dass er manchmal mit sich selbst sprach, grinste, die Faust ballte, die Zähne zusammenbiss und sich auf unerklärliche Weise die Haare rauft. Aber er hatte diese Eigenheiten, und anfangs haben sie mich erschreckt, obwohl ich mich schnell daran gewöhnt habe. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Ich werde von zu Hause weggeschickt. Ein weinender David wird von dem Träger, Mr. Barkis, in seinem Wagen weggebracht. Als der Wagen wegfährt, springt Peggotty aus einer Hecke heraus und umarmt David. Sie gibt ihm einige Kuchen und eine Geldbörse mit gefaltetem Geld in einem liebevollen Brief von seiner Mutter, bevor sie davoneilt. David gibt Mr. Barkis einen seiner Kuchen. Als er hört, dass Peggotty sie gebacken hat und dass sie das ganze Kochen im Haus übernimmt, bittet Mr. Barkis David, ihr zu schreiben und ihr mitzuteilen, dass "Barkis bereit ist". Mr. Barkis bringt David in eine Herberge, wo er zu Abend essen und den Postkutschen nach London nehmen soll. Sein Essen steht auf den Namen Murdstone bereit. Der Kellner überlistet David und nimmt ihm das meiste von seinem Essen ab. Als David verrät, dass er auf dem Weg zu einer Schule in der Nähe von London ist, sagt der Kellner gedämpft, dass das die Schule ist, in der ein Junge an den Folgen von Schlägen starb, bei denen ihm die Rippen gebrochen wurden. Dann erzählt der Kellner David eine Geschichte vom Pech, die David dazu bringt, ihm etwas von seinem Geld als Trinkgeld zu geben. Der Kutscher und die anderen Fahrgäste glauben, dass David das riesige Essen alleine gegessen hat, und sie hänseln ihn wegen seiner vermeintlichen Fresssucht so sehr, dass David nicht den Mut aufbringt, unterwegs noch etwas zu essen. Er kommt in London sehr hungrig an und steigt aus, um festzustellen, dass niemand gekommen ist, um ihn abzuholen. Nach einiger Zeit taucht ein Mann namens Mr. Mell auf, um David abzuholen. Er ist einer der Lehrer an der Schule. Als er erfährt, dass David hungrig ist, bringt Mr. Mell ihn zum Frühstück in ein Waisenhaus, wo er eine der älteren Bewohnerinnen kennt. Mr. Mell bringt David zur Schule, Salem House. Es ist ruhig, da alle Jungen Ferien haben. Der Ort ist schmutzig und riecht ungesund. David findet ein Schild mit den Worten: "Pass auf ihn auf. Er beißt." Er denkt, es muss sich um einen gefährlichen Hund handeln, aber Mr. Mell sagt ihm, dass er es als Bestrafung dafür tragen soll, dass er Mr. Murdstone gebissen hat.

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: SZENE II. Eine Straße. Ein Herold tritt auf und verkündet; Menschen folgen. HEROLD. Es ist Othellos Wunsch, unserem noblen und tapferen General, dass angesichts gewisser Neuigkeiten, die gerade eingetroffen sind und lediglich das Verderben der türkischen Flotte bedeuten, jeder sich in Jubel versetzen soll; einige zum Tanzen, andere zum Entzünden von Feuer, jeder nach seiner Neigung, für welche Art von Spaß und Frohsinn er sich auch entscheidet; denn neben diesen erfreulichen Nachrichten wird auch seine Hochzeit gefeiert. So sehr war es sein Wunsch, verkündet zu werden. Alle Ämter sind offen, und es herrscht volle Freiheit zum Festen von dieser Stunde um fünf Uhr bis zur elften Glockenschläge. Der Himmel segne die Insel Zypern und unseren edlen General Othello! Abgang. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Ein Herold kündigt an, dass Othello für den Abend ein Fest plant, um die Sicherheit Zyperns vor den Türken und auch seine Hochzeit mit Desdemona zu feiern.

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: A charming introduction to a hermit's life! Four weeks' torture, tossing, and sickness! Oh, these bleak winds and bitter northern skies, and impassable roads, and dilatory country surgeons! And oh, this dearth of the human physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible intimation of Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till spring! Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago he sent me a brace of grouse--the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that I had a great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters and leeches? This is quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she had gone. Yes: I remember her hero had run off, and never been heard of for three years; and the heroine was married. I'll ring: she'll be delighted to find me capable of talking cheerfully. Mrs. Dean came. 'It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine,' she commenced. 'Away, away with it!' I replied; 'I desire to have--' 'The doctor says you must drop the powders.' 'With all my heart! Don't interrupt me. Come and take your seat here. Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. Draw your knitting out of your pocket--that will do--now continue the history of Mr. Heathcliff, from where you left off, to the present day. Did he finish his education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? or did he get a sizar's place at college, or escape to America, and earn honours by drawing blood from his foster-country? or make a fortune more promptly on the English highways?' 'He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr. Lockwood; but I couldn't give my word for any. I stated before that I didn't know how he gained his money; neither am I aware of the means he took to raise his mind from the savage ignorance into which it was sunk: but, with your leave, I'll proceed in my own fashion, if you think it will amuse and not weary you. Are you feeling better this morning?' 'Much.' 'That's good news.' * * * * * I got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrushcross Grange; and, to my agreeable disappointment, she behaved infinitely better than I dared to expect. She seemed almost over-fond of Mr. Linton; and even to his sister she showed plenty of affection. They were both very attentive to her comfort, certainly. It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. There were no mutual concessions: one stood erect, and the others yielded: and who can be ill-natured and bad-tempered when they encounter neither opposition nor indifference? I observed that Mr. Edgar had a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but if ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow cloudy at some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a frown of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a time spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing his lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be less touchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay as harmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. Catherine had seasons of gloom and silence now and then: they were respected with sympathising silence by her husband, who ascribed them to an alteration in her constitution, produced by her perilous illness; as she was never subject to depression of spirits before. The return of sunshine was welcomed by answering sunshine from him. I believe I may assert that they were really in possession of deep and growing happiness. It ended. Well, we _must_ be for ourselves in the long run; the mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering; and it ended when circumstances caused each to feel that the one's interest was not the chief consideration in the other's thoughts. On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a heavy basket of apples which I had been gathering. It had got dusk, and the moon looked over the high wall of the court, causing undefined shadows to lurk in the corners of the numerous projecting portions of the building. I set my burden on the house-steps by the kitchen-door, and lingered to rest, and drew in a few more breaths of the soft, sweet air; my eyes were on the moon, and my back to the entrance, when I heard a voice behind me say,--'Nelly, is that you?' It was a deep voice, and foreign in tone; yet there was something in the manner of pronouncing my name which made it sound familiar. I turned about to discover who spoke, fearfully; for the doors were shut, and I had seen nobody on approaching the steps. Something stirred in the porch; and, moving nearer, I distinguished a tall man dressed in dark clothes, with dark face and hair. He leant against the side, and held his fingers on the latch as if intending to open for himself. 'Who can it be?' I thought. 'Mr. Earnshaw? Oh, no! The voice has no resemblance to his.' 'I have waited here an hour,' he resumed, while I continued staring; 'and the whole of that time all round has been as still as death. I dared not enter. You do not know me? Look, I'm not a stranger!' A ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half covered with black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep-set and singular. I remembered the eyes. 'What!' I cried, uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly visitor, and I raised my hands in amazement. 'What! you come back? Is it really you? Is it?' 'Yes, Heathcliff,' he replied, glancing from me up to the windows, which reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no lights from within. 'Are they at home? where is she? Nelly, you are not glad! you needn't be so disturbed. Is she here? Speak! I want to have one word with her--your mistress. Go, and say some person from Gimmerton desires to see her.' 'How will she take it?' I exclaimed. 'What will she do? The surprise bewilders me--it will put her out of her head! And you _are_ Heathcliff! But altered! Nay, there's no comprehending it. Have you been for a soldier?' 'Go and carry my message,' he interrupted, impatiently. 'I'm in hell till you do!' He lifted the latch, and I entered; but when I got to the parlour where Mr. and Mrs. Linton were, I could not persuade myself to proceed. At length I resolved on making an excuse to ask if they would have the candles lighted, and I opened the door. They sat together in a window whose lattice lay back against the wall, and displayed, beyond the garden trees, and the wild green park, the valley of Gimmerton, with a long line of mist winding nearly to its top (for very soon after you pass the chapel, as you may have noticed, the sough that runs from the marshes joins a beck which follows the bend of the glen). Wuthering Heights rose above this silvery vapour; but our old house was invisible; it rather dips down on the other side. Both the room and its occupants, and the scene they gazed on, looked wondrously peaceful. I shrank reluctantly from performing my errand; and was actually going away leaving it unsaid, after having put my question about the candles, when a sense of my folly compelled me to return, and mutter, 'A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you ma'am.' 'What does he want?' asked Mrs. Linton. 'I did not question him,' I answered. 'Well, close the curtains, Nelly,' she said; 'and bring up tea. I'll be back again directly.' She quitted the apartment; Mr. Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it was. 'Some one mistress does not expect,' I replied. 'That Heathcliff--you recollect him, sir--who used to live at Mr. Earnshaw's.' 'What! the gipsy--the ploughboy?' he cried. 'Why did you not say so to Catherine?' 'Hush! you must not call him by those names, master,' I said. 'She'd be sadly grieved to hear you. She was nearly heartbroken when he ran off. I guess his return will make a jubilee to her.' Mr. Linton walked to a window on the other side of the room that overlooked the court. He unfastened it, and leant out. I suppose they were below, for he exclaimed quickly: 'Don't stand there, love! Bring the person in, if it be anyone particular.' Ere long, I heard the click of the latch, and Catherine flew up-stairs, breathless and wild; too excited to show gladness: indeed, by her face, you would rather have surmised an awful calamity. 'Oh, Edgar, Edgar!' she panted, flinging her arms round his neck. 'Oh, Edgar darling! Heathcliff's come back--he is!' And she tightened her embrace to a squeeze. 'Well, well,' cried her husband, crossly, 'don't strangle me for that! He never struck me as such a marvellous treasure. There is no need to be frantic!' 'I know you didn't like him,' she answered, repressing a little the intensity of her delight. 'Yet, for my sake, you must be friends now. Shall I tell him to come up?' 'Here,' he said, 'into the parlour?' 'Where else?' she asked. He looked vexed, and suggested the kitchen as a more suitable place for him. Mrs. Linton eyed him with a droll expression--half angry, half laughing at his fastidiousness. 'No,' she added, after a while; 'I cannot sit in the kitchen. Set two tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders. Will that please you, dear? Or must I have a fire lighted elsewhere? If so, give directions. I'll run down and secure my guest. I'm afraid the joy is too great to be real!' She was about to dart off again; but Edgar arrested her. '_You_ bid him step up,' he said, addressing me; 'and, Catherine, try to be glad, without being absurd. The whole household need not witness the sight of your welcoming a runaway servant as a brother.' I descended, and found Heathcliff waiting under the porch, evidently anticipating an invitation to enter. He followed my guidance without waste of words, and I ushered him into the presence of the master and mistress, whose flushed cheeks betrayed signs of warm talking. But the lady's glowed with another feeling when her friend appeared at the door: she sprang forward, took both his hands, and led him to Linton; and then she seized Linton's reluctant fingers and crushed them into his. Now, fully revealed by the fire and candlelight, I was amazed, more than ever, to behold the transformation of Heathcliff. He had grown a tall, athletic, well-formed man; beside whom my master seemed quite slender and youth-like. His upright carriage suggested the idea of his having been in the army. His countenance was much older in expression and decision of feature than Mr. Linton's; it looked intelligent, and retained no marks of former degradation. A half-civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified: quite divested of roughness, though stern for grace. My master's surprise equalled or exceeded mine: he remained for a minute at a loss how to address the ploughboy, as he had called him. Heathcliff dropped his slight hand, and stood looking at him coolly till he chose to speak. 'Sit down, sir,' he said, at length. 'Mrs. Linton, recalling old times, would have me give you a cordial reception; and, of course, I am gratified when anything occurs to please her.' 'And I also,' answered Heathcliff, 'especially if it be anything in which I have a part. I shall stay an hour or two willingly.' He took a seat opposite Catherine, who kept her gaze fixed on him as if she feared he would vanish were she to remove it. He did not raise his to her often: a quick glance now and then sufficed; but it flashed back, each time more confidently, the undisguised delight he drank from hers. They were too much absorbed in their mutual joy to suffer embarrassment. Not so Mr. Edgar: he grew pale with pure annoyance: a feeling that reached its climax when his lady rose, and stepping across the rug, seized Heathcliff's hands again, and laughed like one beside herself. 'I shall think it a dream to-morrow!' she cried. 'I shall not be able to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more. And yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don't deserve this welcome. To be absent and silent for three years, and never to think of me!' 'A little more than you have thought of me,' he murmured. 'I heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard below, I meditated this plan--just to have one glimpse of your face, a stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterwards settle my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on myself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; but beware of meeting me with another aspect next time! Nay, you'll not drive me off again. You were really sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause. I've fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you!' 'Catherine, unless we are to have cold tea, please to come to the table,' interrupted Linton, striving to preserve his ordinary tone, and a due measure of politeness. 'Mr. Heathcliff will have a long walk, wherever he may lodge to-night; and I'm thirsty.' She took her post before the urn; and Miss Isabella came, summoned by the bell; then, having handed their chairs forward, I left the room. The meal hardly endured ten minutes. Catherine's cup was never filled: she could neither eat nor drink. Edgar had made a slop in his saucer, and scarcely swallowed a mouthful. Their guest did not protract his stay that evening above an hour longer. I asked, as he departed, if he went to Gimmerton? 'No, to Wuthering Heights,' he answered: 'Mr. Earnshaw invited me, when I called this morning.' Mr. Earnshaw invited _him_! and _he_ called on Mr. Earnshaw! I pondered this sentence painfully, after he was gone. Is he turning out a bit of a hypocrite, and coming into the country to work mischief under a cloak? I mused: I had a presentiment in the bottom of my heart that he had better have remained away. About the middle of the night, I was wakened from my first nap by Mrs. Linton gliding into my chamber, taking a seat on my bedside, and pulling me by the hair to rouse me. 'I cannot rest, Ellen,' she said, by way of apology. 'And I want some living creature to keep me company in my happiness! Edgar is sulky, because I'm glad of a thing that does not interest him: he refuses to open his mouth, except to utter pettish, silly speeches; and he affirmed I was cruel and selfish for wishing to talk when he was so sick and sleepy. He always contrives to be sick at the least cross! I gave a few sentences of commendation to Heathcliff, and he, either for a headache or a pang of envy, began to cry: so I got up and left him.' 'What use is it praising Heathcliff to him?' I answered. 'As lads they had an aversion to each other, and Heathcliff would hate just as much to hear him praised: it's human nature. Let Mr. Linton alone about him, unless you would like an open quarrel between them.' 'But does it not show great weakness?' pursued she. 'I'm not envious: I never feel hurt at the brightness of Isabella's yellow hair and the whiteness of her skin, at her dainty elegance, and the fondness all the family exhibit for her. Even you, Nelly, if we have a dispute sometimes, you back Isabella at once; and I yield like a foolish mother: I call her a darling, and flatter her into a good temper. It pleases her brother to see us cordial, and that pleases me. But they are very much alike: they are spoiled children, and fancy the world was made for their accommodation; and though I humour both, I think a smart chastisement might improve them all the same.' 'You're mistaken, Mrs. Linton,' said I. 'They humour you: I know what there would be to do if they did not. You can well afford to indulge their passing whims as long as their business is to anticipate all your desires. You may, however, fall out, at last, over something of equal consequence to both sides; and then those you term weak are very capable of being as obstinate as you.' 'And then we shall fight to the death, sha'n't we, Nelly?' she returned, laughing. 'No! I tell you, I have such faith in Linton's love, that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn't wish to retaliate.' I advised her to value him the more for his affection. 'I do,' she answered, 'but he needn't resort to whining for trifles. It is childish and, instead of melting into tears because I said that Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone's regard, and it would honour the first gentleman in the country to be his friend, he ought to have said it for me, and been delighted from sympathy. He must get accustomed to him, and he may as well like him: considering how Heathcliff has reason to object to him, I'm sure he behaved excellently!' 'What do you think of his going to Wuthering Heights?' I inquired. 'He is reformed in every respect, apparently: quite a Christian: offering the right hand of fellowship to his enemies all around!' 'He explained it,' she replied. 'I wonder as much as you. He said he called to gather information concerning me from you, supposing you resided there still; and Joseph told Hindley, who came out and fell to questioning him of what he had been doing, and how he had been living; and finally, desired him to walk in. There were some persons sitting at cards; Heathcliff joined them; my brother lost some money to him, and, finding him plentifully supplied, he requested that he would come again in the evening: to which he consented. Hindley is too reckless to select his acquaintance prudently: he doesn't trouble himself to reflect on the causes he might have for mistrusting one whom he has basely injured. But Heathcliff affirms his principal reason for resuming a connection with his ancient persecutor is a wish to install himself in quarters at walking distance from the Grange, and an attachment to the house where we lived together; and likewise a hope that I shall have more opportunities of seeing him there than I could have if he settled in Gimmerton. He means to offer liberal payment for permission to lodge at the Heights; and doubtless my brother's covetousness will prompt him to accept the terms: he was always greedy; though what he grasps with one hand he flings away with the other.' 'It's a nice place for a young man to fix his dwelling in!' said I. 'Have you no fear of the consequences, Mrs. Linton?' 'None for my friend,' she replied: 'his strong head will keep him from danger; a little for Hindley: but he can't be made morally worse than he is; and I stand between him and bodily harm. The event of this evening has reconciled me to God and humanity! I had risen in angry rebellion against Providence. Oh, I've endured very, very bitter misery, Nelly! If that creature knew how bitter, he'd be ashamed to cloud its removal with idle petulance. It was kindness for him which induced me to bear it alone: had I expressed the agony I frequently felt, he would have been taught to long for its alleviation as ardently as I. However, it's over, and I'll take no revenge on his folly; I can afford to suffer anything hereafter! Should the meanest thing alive slap me on the cheek, I'd not only turn the other, but I'd ask pardon for provoking it; and, as a proof, I'll go make my peace with Edgar instantly. Good-night! I'm an angel!' In this self-complacent conviction she departed; and the success of her fulfilled resolution was obvious on the morrow: Mr. Linton had not only abjured his peevishness (though his spirits seemed still subdued by Catherine's exuberance of vivacity), but he ventured no objection to her taking Isabella with her to Wuthering Heights in the afternoon; and she rewarded him with such a summer of sweetness and affection in return as made the house a paradise for several days; both master and servants profiting from the perpetual sunshine. Heathcliff--Mr. Heathcliff I should say in future--used the liberty of visiting at Thrushcross Grange cautiously, at first: he seemed estimating how far its owner would bear his intrusion. Catherine, also, deemed it judicious to moderate her expressions of pleasure in receiving him; and he gradually established his right to be expected. He retained a great deal of the reserve for which his boyhood was remarkable; and that served to repress all startling demonstrations of feeling. My master's uneasiness experienced a lull, and further circumstances diverted it into another channel for a space. His new source of trouble sprang from the not anticipated misfortune of Isabella Linton evincing a sudden and irresistible attraction towards the tolerated guest. She was at that time a charming young lady of eighteen; infantile in manners, though possessed of keen wit, keen feelings, and a keen temper, too, if irritated. Her brother, who loved her tenderly, was appalled at this fantastic preference. Leaving aside the degradation of an alliance with a nameless man, and the possible fact that his property, in default of heirs male, might pass into such a one's power, he had sense to comprehend Heathcliff's disposition: to know that, though his exterior was altered, his mind was unchangeable and unchanged. And he dreaded that mind: it revolted him: he shrank forebodingly from the idea of committing Isabella to its keeping. He would have recoiled still more had he been aware that her attachment rose unsolicited, and was bestowed where it awakened no reciprocation of sentiment; for the minute he discovered its existence he laid the blame on Heathcliff's deliberate designing. We had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted and pined over something. She grew cross and wearisome; snapping at and teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her limited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of ill-health: she was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day, when she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast, complaining that the servants did not do what she told them; that the mistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar neglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left open, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a hundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily insisted that she should get to bed; and, having scolded her heartily, threatened to send for the doctor. Mention of Kenneth caused her to exclaim, instantly, that her health was perfect, and it was only Catherine's harshness which made her unhappy. 'How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fondling?' cried the mistress, amazed at the unreasonable assertion. 'You are surely losing your reason. When have I been harsh, tell me?' 'Yesterday,' sobbed Isabella, 'and now!' 'Yesterday!' said her sister-in-law. 'On what occasion?' 'In our walk along the moor: you told me to ramble where I pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff!' 'And that's your notion of harshness?' said Catherine, laughing. 'It was no hint that your company was superfluous? We didn't care whether you kept with us or not; I merely thought Heathcliff's talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears.' 'Oh, no,' wept the young lady; 'you wished me away, because you knew I liked to be there!' 'Is she sane?' asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. 'I'll repeat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it could have had for you.' 'I don't mind the conversation,' she answered: 'I wanted to be with--' 'Well?' said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the sentence. 'With him: and I won't be always sent off!' she continued, kindling up. 'You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!' 'You are an impertinent little monkey!' exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in surprise. 'But I'll not believe this idiotcy! It is impossible that you can covet the admiration of Heathcliff--that you consider him an agreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, Isabella?' 'No, you have not,' said the infatuated girl. 'I love him more than ever you loved Edgar, and he might love me, if you would let him!' 'I wouldn't be you for a kingdom, then!' Catherine declared, emphatically: and she seemed to speak sincerely. 'Nelly, help me to convince her of her madness. Tell her what Heathcliff is: an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation; an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone. I'd as soon put that little canary into the park on a winter's day, as recommend you to bestow your heart on him! It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and nothing else, which makes that dream enter your head. Pray, don't imagine that he conceals depths of benevolence and affection beneath a stern exterior! He's not a rough diamond--a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic: he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him, "Let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them;" I say, "Let them alone, because _I_ should hate them to be wronged:" and he'd crush you like a sparrow's egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn't love a Linton; and yet he'd be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations: avarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There's my picture: and I'm his friend--so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap.' Miss Linton regarded her sister-in-law with indignation. 'For shame! for shame!' she repeated, angrily. 'You are worse than twenty foes, you poisonous friend!' 'Ah! you won't believe me, then?' said Catherine. 'You think I speak from wicked selfishness?' 'I'm certain you do,' retorted Isabella; 'and I shudder at you!' 'Good!' cried the other. 'Try for yourself, if that be your spirit: I have done, and yield the argument to your saucy insolence.'-- 'And I must suffer for her egotism!' she sobbed, as Mrs. Linton left the room. 'All, all is against me: she has blighted my single consolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn't she? Mr. Heathcliff is not a fiend: he has an honourable soul, and a true one, or how could he remember her?' 'Banish him from your thoughts, Miss,' I said. 'He's a bird of bad omen: no mate for you. Mrs. Linton spoke strongly, and yet I can't contradict her. She is better acquainted with his heart than I, or any one besides; and she never would represent him as worse than he is. Honest people don't hide their deeds. How has he been living? how has he got rich? why is he staying at Wuthering Heights, the house of a man whom he abhors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came. They sit up all night together continually, and Hindley has been borrowing money on his land, and does nothing but play and drink: I heard only a week ago--it was Joseph who told me--I met him at Gimmerton: "Nelly," he said, "we's hae a crowner's 'quest enow, at ahr folks'. One on 'em 's a'most getten his finger cut off wi' hauding t' other fro' stickin' hisseln loike a cawlf. That's maister, yeah knaw, 'at 's soa up o' going tuh t' grand 'sizes. He's noan feared o' t' bench o' judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on 'em, not he! He fair likes--he langs to set his brazened face agean 'em! And yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he's a rare 'un. He can girn a laugh as well 's onybody at a raight divil's jest. Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t' Grange? This is t' way on 't:--up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und can'le-light till next day at noon: then, t'fooil gangs banning und raving to his cham'er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i' thur lugs fur varry shame; un' the knave, why he can caint his brass, un' ate, un' sleep, un' off to his neighbour's to gossip wi' t' wife. I' course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur's goold runs into his pocket, and her fathur's son gallops down t' broad road, while he flees afore to oppen t' pikes!" Now, Miss Linton, Joseph is an old rascal, but no liar; and, if his account of Heathcliff's conduct be true, you would never think of desiring such a husband, would you?' 'You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!' she replied. 'I'll not listen to your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish to convince me that there is no happiness in the world!' Whether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or persevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say: she had little time to reflect. The day after, there was a justice-meeting at the next town; my master was obliged to attend; and Mr. Heathcliff, aware of his absence, called rather earlier than usual. Catherine and Isabella were sitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent: the latter alarmed at her recent indiscretion, and the disclosure she had made of her secret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the former, on mature consideration, really offended with her companion; and, if she laughed again at her pertness, inclined to make it no laughing matter to her. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass the window. I was sweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischievous smile on her lips. Isabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a book, remained till the door opened; and it was too late to attempt an escape, which she would gladly have done had it been practicable. 'Come in, that's right!' exclaimed the mistress, gaily, pulling a chair to the fire. 'Here are two people sadly in need of a third to thaw the ice between them; and you are the very one we should both of us choose. Heathcliff, I'm proud to show you, at last, somebody that dotes on you more than myself. I expect you to feel flattered. Nay, it's not Nelly; don't look at her! My poor little sister-in-law is breaking her heart by mere contemplation of your physical and moral beauty. It lies in your own power to be Edgar's brother! No, no, Isabella, you sha'n't run off,' she continued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the confounded girl, who had risen indignantly. 'We were quarrelling like cats about you, Heathcliff; and I was fairly beaten in protestations of devotion and admiration: and, moreover, I was informed that if I would but have the manners to stand aside, my rival, as she will have herself to be, would shoot a shaft into your soul that would fix you for ever, and send my image into eternal oblivion!' 'Catherine!' said Isabella, calling up her dignity, and disdaining to struggle from the tight grasp that held her, 'I'd thank you to adhere to the truth and not slander me, even in joke! Mr. Heathcliff, be kind enough to bid this friend of yours release me: she forgets that you and I are not intimate acquaintances; and what amuses her is painful to me beyond expression.' As the guest answered nothing, but took his seat, and looked thoroughly indifferent what sentiments she cherished concerning him, she turned and whispered an earnest appeal for liberty to her tormentor. 'By no means!' cried Mrs. Linton in answer. 'I won't be named a dog in the manger again. You _shall_ stay: now then! Heathcliff, why don't you evince satisfaction at my pleasant news? Isabella swears that the love Edgar has for me is nothing to that she entertains for you. I'm sure she made some speech of the kind; did she not, Ellen? And she has fasted ever since the day before yesterday's walk, from sorrow and rage that I despatched her out of your society under the idea of its being unacceptable.' 'I think you belie her,' said Heathcliff, twisting his chair to face them. 'She wishes to be out of my society now, at any rate!' And he stared hard at the object of discourse, as one might do at a strange repulsive animal: a centipede from the Indies, for instance, which curiosity leads one to examine in spite of the aversion it raises. The poor thing couldn't bear that; she grew white and red in rapid succession, and, while tears beaded her lashes, bent the strength of her small fingers to loosen the firm clutch of Catherine; and perceiving that as fast as she raised one finger off her arm another closed down, and she could not remove the whole together, she began to make use of her nails; and their sharpness presently ornamented the detainer's with crescents of red. 'There's a tigress!' exclaimed Mrs. Linton, setting her free, and shaking her hand with pain. 'Begone, for God's sake, and hide your vixen face! How foolish to reveal those talons to him. Can't you fancy the conclusions he'll draw? Look, Heathcliff! they are instruments that will do execution--you must beware of your eyes.' 'I'd wrench them off her fingers, if they ever menaced me,' he answered, brutally, when the door had closed after her. 'But what did you mean by teasing the creature in that manner, Cathy? You were not speaking the truth, were you?' 'I assure you I was,' she returned. 'She has been dying for your sake several weeks, and raving about you this morning, and pouring forth a deluge of abuse, because I represented your failings in a plain light, for the purpose of mitigating her adoration. But don't notice it further: I wished to punish her sauciness, that's all. I like her too well, my dear Heathcliff, to let you absolutely seize and devour her up.' 'And I like her too ill to attempt it,' said he, 'except in a very ghoulish fashion. You'd hear of odd things if I lived alone with that mawkish, waxen face: the most ordinary would be painting on its white the colours of the rainbow, and turning the blue eyes black, every day or two: they detestably resemble Linton's.' 'Delectably!' observed Catherine. 'They are dove's eyes--angel's!' 'She's her brother's heir, is she not?' he asked, after a brief silence. 'I should be sorry to think so,' returned his companion. 'Half a dozen nephews shall erase her title, please heaven! Abstract your mind from the subject at present: you are too prone to covet your neighbour's goods; remember _this_ neighbour's goods are mine.' 'If they were _mine_, they would be none the less that,' said Heathcliff; 'but though Isabella Linton may be silly, she is scarcely mad; and, in short, we'll dismiss the matter, as you advise.' From their tongues they did dismiss it; and Catherine, probably, from her thoughts. The other, I felt certain, recalled it often in the course of the evening. I saw him smile to himself--grin rather--and lapse into ominous musing whenever Mrs. Linton had occasion to be absent from the apartment. I determined to watch his movements. My heart invariably cleaved to the master's, in preference to Catherine's side: with reason I imagined, for he was kind, and trustful, and honourable; and she--she could not be called _opposite_, yet she seemed to allow herself such wide latitude, that I had little faith in her principles, and still less sympathy for her feelings. I wanted something to happen which might have the effect of freeing both Wuthering Heights and the Grange of Mr. Heathcliff quietly; leaving us as we had been prior to his advent. His visits were a continual nightmare to me; and, I suspected, to my master also. His abode at the Heights was an oppression past explaining. I felt that God had forsaken the stray sheep there to its own wicked wanderings, and an evil beast prowled between it and the fold, waiting his time to spring and destroy. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Lockwood wird nach seiner traumatischen Erfahrung in Wuthering Heights krank und verbringt – wie er in seinem Tagebuch schreibt – vier Wochen in Elend. Heathcliff besucht ihn und anschließend ruft Lockwood Nelly Dean herbei und verlangt, den Rest ihrer Geschichte zu erfahren. Wie hat Heathcliff, der unterdrückte und verachtete Ausgestoßene, sein Vermögen gemacht und sowohl Wuthering Heights als auch Thrushcross Grange erworben? Nelly sagt, dass sie nicht weiß, wie Heathcliff die drei Jahre verbrachte, in denen er weg war, und dass es zu dieser Zeit war, dass er offensichtlich seinen Reichtum erlangte. Aber sie stimmt zu, ihre Erzählung fortzusetzen. Etwa sechs Monate nach Catherines Hochzeit mit Edgar Linton kehrt Heathcliff nach Hause zurück und überrascht Nelly im Thrushcross Grange. Als er ins Haus kommt, wird Catherine fast vor Glückseligkeit überwältigt, als sie ihn sieht, und ihre offensichtliche Zuneigung zueinander macht Edgar unbehaglich und eifersüchtig. Heathcliff ist zu einem gepflegten, vornehmen und körperlich beeindruckenden Mann herangewachsen, obwohl in seinen Augen noch ein Hauch von Wildheit zu erkennen ist. Er verkündet, dass Hindley ihn eingeladen hat, im Wuthering Heights zu bleiben. Das überrascht sowohl Catherine als auch Nelly, aber Heathcliff erzählt Catherine, dass er Hindley an diesem Tag bei einem Kartenspiel mit seinen rauen Freunden traf. Heathcliff spielte mit ihnen um Geld und weil seine waghalsigen Gebote einen großen Reichtum zu implizieren schienen, lud Hindley ihn aufgeregt ein zurückzukommen. Catherine und Isabella beginnen Wuthering Heights ziemlich oft zu besuchen und Heathcliff erwidert den Gefallen, indem er auf Grange anruft. Isabella fängt an, sich in Heathcliff zu verlieben,der trotz seiner offensichtlichen Liebe zu Catherine nichts tut, um ihre Zuneigung als Schwägerin zu entmutigen. Nelly vermutet, dass er böse und rachsüchtige Motive hegt und schwört, ihn genau im Auge zu behalten.

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: ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto's direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working hours. All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake's story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German neighbors and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see the big elm tree that grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a hawk's nest in its branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious. Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to watch the brown, earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests underground with the dogs. Antonia Shimerda liked to go with me, and we used to wonder a great deal about these birds of subterranean habit. We had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes were always lurking about. They came to pick up an easy living among the dogs and owls, which were quite defenseless against them; took possession of their comfortable houses and ate the eggs and puppies. We felt sorry for the owls. It was always mournful to see them come flying home at sunset and disappear under the earth. But, after all, we felt, winged things who would live like that must be rather degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any pond or creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the desert where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that some of the holes must go down to water--nearly two hundred feet, hereabouts. Antonia said she did n't believe it; that the dogs probably lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits. Antonia had opinions about everything, and she was soon able to make them known. Almost every day she came running across the prairie to have her reading lesson with me. Mrs. Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was important that one member of the family should learn English. When the lesson was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the garden. I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set in, and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the Shimerdas were famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for miles along the edge of the cornfields, hunting for ground-cherries. Antonia loved to help grandmother in the kitchen and to learn about cooking and housekeeping. She would stand beside her, watching her every movement. We were willing to believe that Mrs. Shimerda was a good housewife in her own country, but she managed poorly under new conditions: the conditions were bad enough, certainly! I remember how horrified we were at the sour, ashy-gray bread she gave her family to eat. She mixed her dough, we discovered, in an old tin peck-measure that Krajiek had used about the barn. When she took the paste out to bake it, she left smears of dough sticking to the sides of the measure, put the measure on the shelf behind the stove, and let this residue ferment. The next time she made bread, she scraped this sour stuff down into the fresh dough to serve as yeast. During those first months the Shimerdas never went to town. Krajiek encouraged them in the belief that in Black Hawk they would somehow be mysteriously separated from their money. They hated Krajiek, but they clung to him because he was the only human being with whom they could talk or from whom they could get information. He slept with the old man and the two boys in the dugout barn, along with the oxen. They kept him in their hole and fed him for the same reason that the prairie dogs and the brown owls housed the rattlesnakes--because they did not know how to get rid of him. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am Sonntagmorgen fährt Otto Fuchs Jim und seine Großmutter zu den Shimerdas, um ihnen einige Vorräte zu bringen. Auf dem Weg erzählt Jims Großmutter ihm, dass die Shimerdas von ihren Landsleuten, Peter Krajiek, betrogen wurden, der ihnen das Land, das Vieh und einige Geräte zu skandalösen Preisen verkauft hat. Als sie am Haus der Shimerdas ankommen, stürzen Mrs. Shimerda und ihre jüngste Tochter Julka heraus, um sie mit reichlichem Dank zu begrüßen. Jim ist von Ambroz, dem ältesten Sohn, nicht beeindruckt und ist beunruhigt von dem anderen Sohn der Familie, der anscheinend zurückgeblieben ist. Während die Erwachsenen sprechen, zieht Antonia Jim beiseite und sie rennen ins Gras, um zu spielen und zu reden. Sie fragt ihn nach seinem Namen und den Namen der Dinge, die sie sieht. Sie ist begierig darauf, Englisch zu lernen. Als sie zurück ins Haus gerufen werden, trifft Jim Antonias Vater, der ihn mit Respekt behandelt, mit dem er als Kind nicht vertraut ist, und der Mrs. Burden ernsthaft bittet, Antonia Englisch beizubringen.

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: CHAPTER XXVI CAROL'S liveliest interest was in her walks with the baby. Hugh wanted to know what the box-elder tree said, and what the Ford garage said, and what the big cloud said, and she told him, with a feeling that she was not in the least making up stories, but discovering the souls of things. They had an especial fondness for the hitching-post in front of the mill. It was a brown post, stout and agreeable; the smooth leg of it held the sunlight, while its neck, grooved by hitching-straps, tickled one's fingers. Carol had never been awake to the earth except as a show of changing color and great satisfying masses; she had lived in people and in ideas about having ideas; but Hugh's questions made her attentive to the comedies of sparrows, robins, blue jays, yellowhammers; she regained her pleasure in the arching flight of swallows, and added to it a solicitude about their nests and family squabbles. She forgot her seasons of boredom. She said to Hugh, "We're two fat disreputable old minstrels roaming round the world," and he echoed her, "Roamin' round--roamin' round." The high adventure, the secret place to which they both fled joyously, was the house of Miles and Bea and Olaf Bjornstam. Kennicott steadily disapproved of the Bjornstams. He protested, "What do you want to talk to that crank for?" He hinted that a former "Swede hired girl" was low company for the son of Dr. Will Kennicott. She did not explain. She did not quite understand it herself; did not know that in the Bjornstams she found her friends, her club, her sympathy and her ration of blessed cynicism. For a time the gossip of Juanita Haydock and the Jolly Seventeen had been a refuge from the droning of Aunt Bessie, but the relief had not continued. The young matrons made her nervous. They talked so loud, always so loud. They filled a room with clashing cackle; their jests and gags they repeated nine times over. Unconsciously, she had discarded the Jolly Seventeen, Guy Pollock, Vida, and every one save Mrs. Dr. Westlake and the friends whom she did not clearly know as friends--the Bjornstams. To Hugh, the Red Swede was the most heroic and powerful person in the world. With unrestrained adoration he trotted after while Miles fed the cows, chased his one pig--an animal of lax and migratory instincts--or dramatically slaughtered a chicken. And to Hugh, Olaf was lord among mortal men, less stalwart than the old monarch, King Miles, but more understanding of the relations and values of things, of small sticks, lone playing-cards, and irretrievably injured hoops. Carol saw, though she did not admit, that Olaf was not only more beautiful than her own dark child, but more gracious. Olaf was a Norse chieftain: straight, sunny-haired, large-limbed, resplendently amiable to his subjects. Hugh was a vulgarian; a bustling business man. It was Hugh that bounced and said "Let's play"; Olaf that opened luminous blue eyes and agreed "All right," in condescending gentleness. If Hugh batted him--and Hugh did bat him--Olaf was unafraid but shocked. In magnificent solitude he marched toward the house, while Hugh bewailed his sin and the overclouding of august favor. The two friends played with an imperial chariot which Miles had made out of a starch-box and four red spools; together they stuck switches into a mouse-hole, with vast satisfaction though entirely without known results. Bea, the chubby and humming Bea, impartially gave cookies and scoldings to both children, and if Carol refused a cup of coffee and a wafer of buttered knackebrod, she was desolated. Miles had done well with his dairy. He had six cows, two hundred chickens, a cream separator, a Ford truck. In the spring he had built a two-room addition to his shack. That illustrious building was to Hugh a carnival. Uncle Miles did the most spectacular, unexpected things: ran up the ladder; stood on the ridge-pole, waving a hammer and singing something about "To arms, my citizens"; nailed shingles faster than Aunt Bessie could iron handkerchiefs; and lifted a two-by-six with Hugh riding on one end and Olaf on the other. Uncle Miles's most ecstatic trick was to make figures not on paper but right on a new pine board, with the broadest softest pencil in the world. There was a thing worth seeing! The tools! In his office Father had tools fascinating in their shininess and curious shapes, but they were sharp, they were something called sterized, and they distinctly were not for boys to touch. In fact it was a good dodge to volunteer "I must not touch," when you looked at the tools on the glass shelves in Father's office. But Uncle Miles, who was a person altogether superior to Father, let you handle all his kit except the saws. There was a hammer with a silver head; there was a metal thing like a big L; there was a magic instrument, very precious, made out of costly red wood and gold, with a tube which contained a drop--no, it wasn't a drop, it was a nothing, which lived in the water, but the nothing LOOKED like a drop, and it ran in a frightened way up and down the tube, no matter how cautiously you tilted the magic instrument. And there were nails, very different and clever--big valiant spikes, middle-sized ones which were not very interesting, and shingle-nails much jollier than the fussed-up fairies in the yellow book. II While he had worked on the addition Miles had talked frankly to Carol. He admitted now that so long as he stayed in Gopher Prairie he would remain a pariah. Bea's Lutheran friends were as much offended by his agnostic gibes as the merchants by his radicalism. "And I can't seem to keep my mouth shut. I think I'm being a baa-lamb, and not springing any theories wilder than 'c-a-t spells cat,' but when folks have gone, I re'lize I've been stepping on their pet religious corns. Oh, the mill foreman keeps dropping in, and that Danish shoemaker, and one fellow from Elder's factory, and a few Svenskas, but you know Bea: big good-hearted wench like her wants a lot of folks around--likes to fuss over 'em--never satisfied unless she tiring herself out making coffee for somebody. "Once she kidnapped me and drug me to the Methodist Church. I goes in, pious as Widow Bogart, and sits still and never cracks a smile while the preacher is favoring us with his misinformation on evolution. But afterwards, when the old stalwarts were pumphandling everybody at the door and calling 'em 'Brother' and 'Sister,' they let me sail right by with nary a clinch. They figure I'm the town badman. Always will be, I guess. It'll have to be Olaf who goes on. 'And sometimes----Blamed if I don't feel like coming out and saying, 'I've been conservative. Nothing to it. Now I'm going to start something in these rotten one-horse lumber-camps west of town.' But Bea's got me hypnotized. Lord, Mrs. Kennicott, do you re'lize what a jolly, square, faithful woman she is? And I love Olaf----Oh well, I won't go and get sentimental on you. "Course I've had thoughts of pulling up stakes and going West. Maybe if they didn't know it beforehand, they wouldn't find out I'd ever been guilty of trying to think for myself. But--oh, I've worked hard, and built up this dairy business, and I hate to start all over again, and move Bea and the kid into another one-room shack. That's how they get us! Encourage us to be thrifty and own our own houses, and then, by golly, they've got us; they know we won't dare risk everything by committing lez--what is it? lez majesty?--I mean they know we won't be hinting around that if we had a co-operative bank, we could get along without Stowbody. Well----As long as I can sit and play pinochle with Bea, and tell whoppers to Olaf about his daddy's adventures in the woods, and how he snared a wapaloosie and knew Paul Bunyan, why, I don't mind being a bum. It's just for them that I mind. Say! Say! Don't whisper a word to Bea, but when I get this addition done, I'm going to buy her a phonograph!" He did. While she was busy with the activities her work-hungry muscles found--washing, ironing, mending, baking, dusting, preserving, plucking a chicken, painting the sink; tasks which, because she was Miles's full partner, were exciting and creative--Bea listened to the phonograph records with rapture like that of cattle in a warm stable. The addition gave her a kitchen with a bedroom above. The original one-room shack was now a living-room, with the phonograph, a genuine leather-upholstered golden-oak rocker, and a picture of Governor John Johnson. In late July Carol went to the Bjornstams' desirous of a chance to express her opinion of Beavers and Calibrees and Joralemons. She found Olaf abed, restless from a slight fever, and Bea flushed and dizzy but trying to keep up her work. She lured Miles aside and worried: "They don't look at all well. What's the matter?" "Their stomachs are out of whack. I wanted to call in Doc Kennicott, but Bea thinks the doc doesn't like us--she thinks maybe he's sore because you come down here. But I'm getting worried." "I'm going to call the doctor at once." She yearned over Olaf. His lambent eyes were stupid, he moaned, he rubbed his forehead. "Have they been eating something that's been bad for them?" she fluttered to Miles. "Might be bum water. I'll tell you: We used to get our water at Oscar Eklund's place, over across the street, but Oscar kept dinging at me, and hinting I was a tightwad not to dig a well of my own. One time he said, 'Sure, you socialists are great on divvying up other folks' money--and water!' I knew if he kept it up there'd be a fuss, and I ain't safe to have around, once a fuss starts; I'm likely to forget myself and let loose with a punch in the snoot. I offered to pay Oscar but he refused--he'd rather have the chance to kid me. So I starts getting water down at Mrs. Fageros's, in the hollow there, and I don't believe it's real good. Figuring to dig my own well this fall." One scarlet word was before Carol's eyes while she listened. She fled to Kennicott's office. He gravely heard her out; nodded, said, "Be right over." He examined Bea and Olaf. He shook his head. "Yes. Looks to me like typhoid." "Golly, I've seen typhoid in lumber-camps," groaned Miles, all the strength dripping out of him. "Have they got it very bad?" "Oh, we'll take good care of them," said Kennicott, and for the first time in their acquaintance he smiled on Miles and clapped his shoulder. "Won't you need a nurse?" demanded Carol. "Why----" To Miles, Kennicott hinted, "Couldn't you get Bea's cousin, Tina?" "She's down at the old folks', in the country." "Then let me do it!" Carol insisted. "They need some one to cook for them, and isn't it good to give them sponge baths, in typhoid?" "Yes. All right." Kennicott was automatic; he was the official, the physician. "I guess probably it would be hard to get a nurse here in town just now. Mrs. Stiver is busy with an obstetrical case, and that town nurse of yours is off on vacation, ain't she? All right, Bjornstam can spell you at night." All week, from eight each morning till midnight, Carol fed them, bathed them, smoothed sheets, took temperatures. Miles refused to let her cook. Terrified, pallid, noiseless in stocking feet, he did the kitchen work and the sweeping, his big red hands awkwardly careful. Kennicott came in three times a day, unchangingly tender and hopeful in the sick-room, evenly polite to Miles. Carol understood how great was her love for her friends. It bore her through; it made her arm steady and tireless to bathe them. What exhausted her was the sight of Bea and Olaf turned into flaccid invalids, uncomfortably flushed after taking food, begging for the healing of sleep at night. During the second week Olaf's powerful legs were flabby. Spots of a viciously delicate pink came out on his chest and back. His cheeks sank. He looked frightened. His tongue was brown and revolting. His confident voice dwindled to a bewildered murmur, ceaseless and racking. Bea had stayed on her feet too long at the beginning. The moment Kennicott had ordered her to bed she had begun to collapse. One early evening she startled them by screaming, in an intense abdominal pain, and within half an hour she was in a delirium. Till dawn Carol was with her, and not all of Bea's groping through the blackness of half-delirious pain was so pitiful to Carol as the way in which Miles silently peered into the room from the top of the narrow stairs. Carol slept three hours next morning, and ran back. Bea was altogether delirious but she muttered nothing save, "Olaf--ve have such a good time----" At ten, while Carol was preparing an ice-bag in the kitchen, Miles answered a knock. At the front door she saw Vida Sherwin, Maud Dyer, and Mrs. Zitterel, wife of the Baptist pastor. They were carrying grapes, and women's-magazines, magazines with high-colored pictures and optimistic fiction. "We just heard your wife was sick. We've come to see if there isn't something we can do," chirruped Vida. Miles looked steadily at the three women. "You're too late. You can't do nothing now. Bea's always kind of hoped that you folks would come see her. She wanted to have a chance and be friends. She used to sit waiting for somebody to knock. I've seen her sitting here, waiting. Now----Oh, you ain't worth God-damning." He shut the door. All day Carol watched Olaf's strength oozing. He was emaciated. His ribs were grim clear lines, his skin was clammy, his pulse was feeble but terrifyingly rapid. It beat--beat--beat in a drum-roll of death. Late that afternoon he sobbed, and died. Bea did not know it. She was delirious. Next morning, when she went, she did not know that Olaf would no longer swing his lath sword on the door-step, no longer rule his subjects of the cattle-yard; that Miles's son would not go East to college. Miles, Carol, Kennicott were silent. They washed the bodies together, their eyes veiled. "Go home now and sleep. You're pretty tired. I can't ever pay you back for what you done," Miles whispered to Carol. "Yes. But I'll be back here tomorrow. Go with you to the funeral," she said laboriously. When the time for the funeral came, Carol was in bed, collapsed. She assumed that neighbors would go. They had not told her that word of Miles's rebuff to Vida had spread through town, a cyclonic fury. It was only by chance that, leaning on her elbow in bed, she glanced through the window and saw the funeral of Bea and Olaf. There was no music, no carriages. There was only Miles Bjornstam, in his black wedding-suit, walking quite alone, head down, behind the shabby hearse that bore the bodies of his wife and baby. An hour after, Hugh came into her room crying, and when she said as cheerily as she could, "What is it, dear?" he besought, "Mummy, I want to go play with Olaf." That afternoon Juanita Haydock dropped in to brighten Carol. She said, "Too bad about this Bea that was your hired girl. But I don't waste any sympathy on that man of hers. Everybody says he drank too much, and treated his family awful, and that's how they got sick." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Carols Lieblingsbeschäftigung in Gopher Prairie ist es, ihren Sohn Hugh mitzunehmen und Miles und Bea Bjornstam zu besuchen. Will gefällt das überhaupt nicht, weil er meint, die Bjornstams seien sozial unter ihnen. Außerdem ist Miles ein Aufwiegler der Arbeiterklasse. Aber Carol geht trotzdem zu den Bjornstams. Sie liebt es, wie Miles die Kinder seine Werkzeuge halten lässt. Sie denkt, dass Miles' Bauernhofleben authentischer ist als ihre Welt des oberen Bürgertums. Sie ist traurig, als Miles anfängt, über eine Umsiedlung seiner Familie in den Westen zu sprechen. Eines Tages kommt Carol vorbei und findet Olaf, den Sohn von Miles, und seine Frau Bea ziemlich krank aussehend vor. Miles wollte Will nicht anrufen, weil er denkt, dass Will ihn nicht mag. Aber Carol ruft Will sofort an. Als Will die Gelegenheit hat, Bea und Olaf zu untersuchen, sind die Neuigkeiten nicht gut: Er hat herausgefunden, dass beide Typhus haben. Carol bietet sich als Krankenschwester an, während Will versucht, sie zu behandeln. Als klar wird, dass weder Bea noch Olaf überleben werden, kommen einige Frauen der Stadt mit Essen und Hilfsangeboten, aber Miles wirft sie von seiner Haustür weg und sagt, dass seine Frau Bea immer auf Besucher gehofft habe, aber nie welche gehabt habe, weil alle in der Stadt zu hochnäsig seien. Nachdem Bea und Olaf gestorben sind, geht Carol nach Hause. Ihr Sohn Hugh rennt weinend zu ihr und sagt, er möchte mit Olaf spielen. In der Zwischenzeit hassen die Menschen in der Stadt Miles mehr denn je, nachdem er es gewagt hat, die Frauen der Stadt zu beleidigen. Sie geben ihm auch die Schuld daran, dass er seine Frau und sein Kind krank gemacht hat, weil er ein schrecklicher Mensch ist. Es ist klar, dass dieses Gespräch Carol die Seele zerreißt.

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: SCENE 3. A field near Windsor. [Enter CAIUS and RUGBY.] CAIUS. Jack Rugby! RUGBY. Sir? CAIUS. Vat is de clock, Jack? RUGBY. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible vell dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. RUGBY. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came. CAIUS. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. RUGBY. Alas, sir, I cannot fence! CAIUS. Villany, take your rapier. RUGBY. Forbear; here's company. [Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.] HOST. Bless thee, bully doctor! SHALLOW. Save you, Master Doctor Caius! PAGE. Now, good Master Doctor! SLENDER. Give you good morrow, sir. CAIUS. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for? HOST. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead? CAIUS. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show his face. HOST. Thou art a Castalion King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy! CAIUS. I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. SHALLOW. He is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? PAGE. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. SHALLOW. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page. PAGE. 'Tis true, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor. HOST. Pardon, guest-justice.--A word, Monsieur Mockwater. CAIUS. Mock-vater! Vat is dat? HOST. Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. CAIUS. By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman.--Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. HOST. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. CAIUS. Clapper-de-claw! Vat is dat? HOST. That is, he will make thee amends. CAIUS. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it. HOST. And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag. CAIUS. Me tank you for dat. HOST. And, moreover, bully--but first: Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. [Aside to them.] PAGE. Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? SHALLOW. We will do it. PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER. Adieu, good Master Doctor. [Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] CAIUS. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. HOST. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler; go about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well? CAIUS. By gar, 'tis good; vell said. HOST. Let us wag, then. CAIUS. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Auf einem Feld in der Nähe von Windsor warten Doktor Caius und sein Diener John Rugby bereits seit der vereinbarten Stunde auf Sir Hugh Evans. Als Shallow mit mehreren anderen ankommt, murmelt er, dass es das Beste ist, dass kein Duell stattgefunden hat, da es "gegen dein berufliches Haar gehen würde"; das heißt, dass es falsch wäre, dass ein Heiler von Körpern und ein Heiler von Seelen bis zum Tod kämpfen würden. Shallow, der Gastgeber des Garters, Slender, Page und Doktor Caius machen sich auf den Weg in das Dorf Frogmore, wo Sir Hugh Evans auf sie wartet.

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: A sputtering of musketry was always to be heard. Later, the cannon had entered the dispute. In the fog-filled air their voices made a thudding sound. The reverberations were continued. This part of the world led a strange, battleful existence. The youth's regiment was marched to relieve a command that had lain long in some damp trenches. The men took positions behind a curving line of rifle pits that had been turned up, like a large furrow, along the line of woods. Before them was a level stretch, peopled with short, deformed stumps. From the woods beyond came the dull popping of the skirmishers and pickets, firing in the fog. From the right came the noise of a terrific fracas. The men cuddled behind the small embankment and sat in easy attitudes awaiting their turn. Many had their backs to the firing. The youth's friend lay down, buried his face in his arms, and almost instantly, it seemed, he was in a deep sleep. The youth leaned his breast against the brown dirt and peered over at the woods and up and down the line. Curtains of trees interfered with his ways of vision. He could see the low line of trenches but for a short distance. A few idle flags were perched on the dirt hills. Behind them were rows of dark bodies with a few heads sticking curiously over the top. Always the noise of skirmishers came from the woods on the front and left, and the din on the right had grown to frightful proportions. The guns were roaring without an instant's pause for breath. It seemed that the cannon had come from all parts and were engaged in a stupendous wrangle. It became impossible to make a sentence heard. The youth wished to launch a joke--a quotation from newspapers. He desired to say, "All quiet on the Rappahannock," but the guns refused to permit even a comment upon their uproar. He never successfully concluded the sentence. But at last the guns stopped, and among the men in the rifle pits rumors again flew, like birds, but they were now for the most part black creatures who flapped their wings drearily near to the ground and refused to rise on any wings of hope. The men's faces grew doleful from the interpreting of omens. Tales of hesitation and uncertainty on the part of those high in place and responsibility came to their ears. Stories of disaster were borne into their minds with many proofs. This din of musketry on the right, growing like a released genie of sound, expressed and emphasized the army's plight. The men were disheartened and began to mutter. They made gestures expressive of the sentence: "Ah, what more can we do?" And it could always be seen that they were bewildered by the alleged news and could not fully comprehend a defeat. Before the gray mists had been totally obliterated by the sun rays, the regiment was marching in a spread column that was retiring carefully through the woods. The disordered, hurrying lines of the enemy could sometimes be seen down through the groves and little fields. They were yelling, shrill and exultant. At this sight the youth forgot many personal matters and became greatly enraged. He exploded in loud sentences. "B'jiminey, we're generaled by a lot 'a lunkheads." "More than one feller has said that t'-day," observed a man. His friend, recently aroused, was still very drowsy. He looked behind him until his mind took in the meaning of the movement. Then he sighed. "Oh, well, I s'pose we got licked," he remarked sadly. The youth had a thought that it would not be handsome for him to freely condemn other men. He made an attempt to restrain himself, but the words upon his tongue were too bitter. He presently began a long and intricate denunciation of the commander of the forces. "Mebbe, it wa'n't all his fault--not all together. He did th' best he knowed. It's our luck t' git licked often," said his friend in a weary tone. He was trudging along with stooped shoulders and shifting eyes like a man who has been caned and kicked. "Well, don't we fight like the devil? Don't we do all that men can?" demanded the youth loudly. He was secretly dumfounded at this sentiment when it came from his lips. For a moment his face lost its valor and he looked guiltily about him. But no one questioned his right to deal in such words, and presently he recovered his air of courage. He went on to repeat a statement he had heard going from group to group at the camp that morning. "The brigadier said he never saw a new reg'ment fight the way we fought yestirday, didn't he? And we didn't do better than many another reg'ment, did we? Well, then, you can't say it's th' army's fault, can you?" In his reply, the friend's voice was stern. "'A course not," he said. "No man dare say we don't fight like th' devil. No man will ever dare say it. Th' boys fight like hell-roosters. But still--still, we don't have no luck." "Well, then, if we fight like the devil an' don't ever whip, it must be the general's fault," said the youth grandly and decisively. "And I don't see any sense in fighting and fighting and fighting, yet always losing through some derned old lunkhead of a general." A sarcastic man who was tramping at the youth's side, then spoke lazily. "Mebbe yeh think yeh fit th' hull battle yestirday, Fleming," he remarked. The speech pierced the youth. Inwardly he was reduced to an abject pulp by these chance words. His legs quaked privately. He cast a frightened glance at the sarcastic man. "Why, no," he hastened to say in a conciliating voice, "I don't think I fought the whole battle yesterday." But the other seemed innocent of any deeper meaning. Apparently, he had no information. It was merely his habit. "Oh!" he replied in the same tone of calm derision. The youth, nevertheless, felt a threat. His mind shrank from going near to the danger, and thereafter he was silent. The significance of the sarcastic man's words took from him all loud moods that would make him appear prominent. He became suddenly a modest person. There was low-toned talk among the troops. The officers were impatient and snappy, their countenances clouded with the tales of misfortune. The troops, sifting through the forest, were sullen. In the youth's company once a man's laugh rang out. A dozen soldiers turned their faces quickly toward him and frowned with vague displeasure. The noise of firing dogged their footsteps. Sometimes, it seemed to be driven a little way, but it always returned again with increased insolence. The men muttered and cursed, throwing black looks in its direction. In a clear space the troops were at last halted. Regiments and brigades, broken and detached through their encounters with thickets, grew together again and lines were faced toward the pursuing bark of the enemy's infantry. This noise, following like the yellings of eager, metallic hounds, increased to a loud and joyous burst, and then, as the sun went serenely up the sky, throwing illuminating rays into the gloomy thickets, it broke forth into prolonged pealings. The woods began to crackle as if afire. "Whoop-a-dadee," said a man, "here we are! Everybody fightin'. Blood an' destruction." "I was willin' t' bet they'd attack as soon as th' sun got fairly up," savagely asserted the lieutenant who commanded the youth's company. He jerked without mercy at his little mustache. He strode to and fro with dark dignity in the rear of his men, who were lying down behind whatever protection they had collected. A battery had trundled into position in the rear and was thoughtfully shelling the distance. The regiment, unmolested as yet, awaited the moment when the gray shadows of the woods before them should be slashed by the lines of flame. There was much growling and swearing. "Good Gawd," the youth grumbled, "we're always being chased around like rats! It makes me sick. Nobody seems to know where we go or why we go. We just get fired around from pillar to post and get licked here and get licked there, and nobody knows what it's done for. It makes a man feel like a damn' kitten in a bag. Now, I'd like to know what the eternal thunders we was marched into these woods for anyhow, unless it was to give the rebs a regular pot shot at us. We came in here and got our legs all tangled up in these cussed briers, and then we begin to fight and the rebs had an easy time of it. Don't tell me it's just luck! I know better. It's this derned old--" The friend seemed jaded, but he interrupted his comrade with a voice of calm confidence. "It'll turn out all right in th' end," he said. "Oh, the devil it will! You always talk like a dog-hanged parson. Don't tell me! I know--" At this time there was an interposition by the savage-minded lieutenant, who was obliged to vent some of his inward dissatisfaction upon his men. "You boys shut right up! There no need 'a your wastin' your breath in long-winded arguments about this an' that an' th' other. You've been jawin' like a lot 'a old hens. All you've got t' do is to fight, an' you'll get plenty 'a that t' do in about ten minutes. Less talkin' an' more fightin' is what's best for you boys. I never saw sech gabbling jackasses." He paused, ready to pounce upon any man who might have the temerity to reply. No words being said, he resumed his dignified pacing. "There's too much chin music an' too little fightin' in this war, anyhow," he said to them, turning his head for a final remark. The day had grown more white, until the sun shed his full radiance upon the thronged forest. A sort of a gust of battle came sweeping toward that part of the line where lay the youth's regiment. The front shifted a trifle to meet it squarely. There was a wait. In this part of the field there passed slowly the intense moments that precede the tempest. A single rifle flashed in a thicket before the regiment. In an instant it was joined by many others. There was a mighty song of clashes and crashes that went sweeping through the woods. The guns in the rear, aroused and enraged by shells that had been thrown burlike at them, suddenly involved themselves in a hideous altercation with another band of guns. The battle roar settled to a rolling thunder, which was a single, long explosion. In the regiment there was a peculiar kind of hesitation denoted in the attitudes of the men. They were worn, exhausted, having slept but little and labored much. They rolled their eyes toward the advancing battle as they stood awaiting the shock. Some shrank and flinched. They stood as men tied to stakes. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Henrys Regiment bewegt sich in Richtung der Frontlinie, um eine Einheit abzulösen, die bereits im Kampf verwickelt war. Während sie zur Kampflinie marschieren, werden die Männer vom Getöse des Schlachtgeschehens umgeben. Henry und Wilson marschieren zusammen. Während sie marschieren, hören sie von den Missgeschicken, die ihren Kameraden widerfahren, und die Soldaten beginnen über ihre Führung zu murren. Henry, dessen Selbstvertrauen steigt, äußert seine Kritik an ihrer Situation und gibt den Generälen die Schuld für die Verluste der Armee. An einem Punkt stellt ein Soldat, der neben Henry hergeht, seine Tapferkeit in Frage, indem er ihn fragt, ob er den gesamten vorherigen Tag im Kampf gestanden hat. Dieser Kommentar wirkt abschreckend auf Henry, weil es ihn zwingt, über seinen Rückzug am vorherigen Tag nachzudenken. Die Truppen nehmen ihre Positionen ein und warten. Während sie warten, beobachten sie die Bewegungen des Feindes, und die Truppen werden wieder unruhig. An diesem Punkt verliert der Leutnant ihrer Kompanie die Beherrschung, nachdem er sich die Beschwerden der Männer angehört hat, und die Kommentare des Leutnants bringen die Soldaten zum Schweigen. Schließlich hört das Regiment das zunehmende Gefechtsfeuer und den Donner der Kanonen, und die Schlacht beginnt. Es gibt wenig Begeisterung für das, was bevorsteht, weil die Männer bereits von vorherigen Kämpfen erschöpft und abgenutzt sind.