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Mayflower GmbH 26

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 youth fell back in the procession until the tattered soldier was not in sight. Then he started to walk on with the others. But he was amid wounds. The mob of men was bleeding. Because of the tattered soldier's question he now felt that his shame could be viewed. He was continually casting sidelong glances to see if the men were contemplating the letters of guilt he felt burned into his brow. At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished that he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage. The spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach. The man's eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown. His gray, appalling face had attracted attention in the crowd, and men, slowing to his dreary pace, were walking with him. They were discussing his plight, questioning him and giving him advice. In a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on and leave him alone. The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on, he seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a grave. Something in the gesture of the man as he waved the bloody and pitying soldiers away made the youth start as if bitten. He yelled in horror. Tottering forward he laid a quivering hand upon the man's arm. As the latter slowly turned his waxlike features toward him, the youth screamed: "Gawd! Jim Conklin!" The tall soldier made a little commonplace smile. "Hello, Henry," he said. The youth swayed on his legs and glared strangely. He stuttered and stammered. "Oh, Jim--oh, Jim--oh, Jim--" The tall soldier held out his gory hand. There was a curious red and black combination of new blood and old blood upon it. "Where yeh been, Henry?" he asked. He continued in a monotonous voice, "I thought mebbe yeh got keeled over. There 's been thunder t' pay t'-day. I was worryin' about it a good deal." The youth still lamented. "Oh, Jim--oh, Jim--oh, Jim--" "Yeh know," said the tall soldier, "I was out there." He made a careful gesture. "An', Lord, what a circus! An', b'jiminey, I got shot--I got shot. Yes, b'jiminey, I got shot." He reiterated this fact in a bewildered way, as if he did not know how it came about. The youth put forth anxious arms to assist him, but the tall soldier went firmly on as if propelled. Since the youth's arrival as a guardian for his friend, the other wounded men had ceased to display much interest. They occupied themselves again in dragging their own tragedies toward the rear. Suddenly, as the two friends marched on, the tall soldier seemed to be overcome by a terror. His face turned to a semblance of gray paste. He clutched the youth's arm and looked all about him, as if dreading to be overheard. Then he began to speak in a shaking whisper: "I tell yeh what I'm 'fraid of, Henry--I 'll tell yeh what I 'm 'fraid of. I 'm 'fraid I 'll fall down--an' then yeh know--them damned artillery wagons--they like as not 'll run over me. That 's what I 'm 'fraid of--" The youth cried out to him hysterically: "I 'll take care of yeh, Jim! I'll take care of yeh! I swear t' Gawd I will!" "Sure--will yeh, Henry?" the tall soldier beseeched. "Yes--yes--I tell yeh--I'll take care of yeh, Jim!" protested the youth. He could not speak accurately because of the gulpings in his throat. But the tall soldier continued to beg in a lowly way. He now hung babelike to the youth's arm. His eyes rolled in the wildness of his terror. "I was allus a good friend t' yeh, wa'n't I, Henry? I 've allus been a pretty good feller, ain't I? An' it ain't much t' ask, is it? Jest t' pull me along outer th' road? I 'd do it fer you, Wouldn't I, Henry?" He paused in piteous anxiety to await his friend's reply. The youth had reached an anguish where the sobs scorched him. He strove to express his loyalty, but he could only make fantastic gestures. However, the tall soldier seemed suddenly to forget all those fears. He became again the grim, stalking specter of a soldier. He went stonily forward. The youth wished his friend to lean upon him, but the other always shook his head and strangely protested. "No--no--no--leave me be--leave me be--" His look was fixed again upon the unknown. He moved with mysterious purpose, and all of the youth's offers he brushed aside. "No--no--leave me be--leave me be--" The youth had to follow. Presently the latter heard a voice talking softly near his shoulders. Turning he saw that it belonged to the tattered soldier. "Ye 'd better take 'im outa th' road, pardner. There 's a batt'ry comin' helitywhoop down th' road an' he 'll git runned over. He 's a goner anyhow in about five minutes--yeh kin see that. Ye 'd better take 'im outa th' road. Where th' blazes does he git his stren'th from?" "Lord knows!" cried the youth. He was shaking his hands helplessly. He ran forward presently and grasped the tall soldier by the arm. "Jim! Jim!" he coaxed, "come with me." The tall soldier weakly tried to wrench himself free. "Huh," he said vacantly. He stared at the youth for a moment. At last he spoke as if dimly comprehending. "Oh! Inteh th' fields? Oh!" He started blindly through the grass. The youth turned once to look at the lashing riders and jouncing guns of the battery. He was startled from this view by a shrill outcry from the tattered man. "Gawd! He's runnin'!" Turning his head swiftly, the youth saw his friend running in a staggering and stumbling way toward a little clump of bushes. His heart seemed to wrench itself almost free from his body at this sight. He made a noise of pain. He and the tattered man began a pursuit. There was a singular race. When he overtook the tall soldier he began to plead with all the words he could find. "Jim--Jim--what are you doing--what makes you do this way--you 'll hurt yerself." The same purpose was in the tall soldier's face. He protested in a dulled way, keeping his eyes fastened on the mystic place of his intentions. "No--no--don't tech me--leave me be--leave me be--" The youth, aghast and filled with wonder at the tall soldier, began quaveringly to question him. "Where yeh goin', Jim? What you thinking about? Where you going? Tell me, won't you, Jim?" The tall soldier faced about as upon relentless pursuers. In his eyes there was a great appeal. "Leave me be, can't yeh? Leave me be fer a minnit." The youth recoiled. "Why, Jim," he said, in a dazed way, "what's the matter with you?" The tall soldier turned and, lurching dangerously, went on. The youth and the tattered soldier followed, sneaking as if whipped, feeling unable to face the stricken man if he should again confront them. They began to have thoughts of a solemn ceremony. There was something rite-like in these movements of the doomed soldier. And there was a resemblance in him to a devotee of a mad religion, blood-sucking, muscle-wrenching, bone-crushing. They were awed and afraid. They hung back lest he have at command a dreadful weapon. At last, they saw him stop and stand motionless. Hastening up, they perceived that his face wore an expression telling that he had at last found the place for which he had struggled. His spare figure was erect; his bloody hands were quietly at his side. He was waiting with patience for something that he had come to meet. He was at the rendezvous. They paused and stood, expectant. There was a silence. Finally, the chest of the doomed soldier began to heave with a strained motion. It increased in violence until it was as if an animal was within and was kicking and tumbling furiously to be free. This spectacle of gradual strangulation made the youth writhe, and once as his friend rolled his eyes, he saw something in them that made him sink wailing to the ground. He raised his voice in a last supreme call. "Jim--Jim--Jim--" The tall soldier opened his lips and spoke. He made a gesture. "Leave me be--don't tech me--leave me be--" There was another silence while he waited. Suddenly, his form stiffened and straightened. Then it was shaken by a prolonged ague. He stared into space. To the two watchers there was a curious and profound dignity in the firm lines of his awful face. He was invaded by a creeping strangeness that slowly enveloped him. For a moment the tremor of his legs caused him to dance a sort of hideous hornpipe. His arms beat wildly about his head in expression of implike enthusiasm. His tall figure stretched itself to its full height. There was a slight rending sound. Then it began to swing forward, slow and straight, in the manner of a falling tree. A swift muscular contortion made the left shoulder strike the ground first. The body seemed to bounce a little way from the earth. "God!" said the tattered soldier. The youth had watched, spellbound, this ceremony at the place of meeting. His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony he had imagined for his friend. He now sprang to his feet and, going closer, gazed upon the pastelike face. The mouth was open and the teeth showed in a laugh. As the flap of the blue jacket fell away from the body, he could see that the side looked as if it had been chewed by wolves. The youth turned, with sudden, livid rage, toward the battlefield. He shook his fist. He seemed about to deliver a philippic. "Hell--" The red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer. 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.

Henry schließt sich der Prozession verwundeter Männer an, um dem zerlumpten Soldaten zu entkommen. Alle um ihn herum sind verletzt und bluten. Er empfindet diese Männer als glücklich und wünscht sich jetzt auch, ein rotes Mutabzeichen des Mutes zu haben. Ein Soldat an seiner Seite sieht aus wie ein Geist. Er bewegt sich steif, als ob er sein Grab suchen würde. Henry schaut hin und erkennt, wer es ist - Jim Conklin, der große Soldat. Jim streckt seine Hand zum Händeschütteln aus; sie ist eine blutige Kombination aus frischem rotem Blut und altem schwarzen Blut. Jim sagt Henry zuerst, dass er besorgt war, dass der junge Mann getötet worden sei. Dann sagt er ihm die offensichtliche Tatsache, dass er angeschossen wurde. Henry versucht, dem großen Soldaten auf dem Weg zu helfen. Die anderen Soldaten sind mit ihren eigenen Wunden beschäftigt. Plötzlich überkommt den großes Soldaten jedoch Angst. Sein Gesicht wird zu einem "grauen Brei". Jim erzählt Henry dann, dass er Angst hat, von einem Geschützwagen überrollt zu werden, der die Straße hinunterrasen soll. Henry schwört seinem Freund, dass er sich um ihn kümmern wird. Jim vergisst jedoch diese Ängste und geht weiterhin beharrlich voran. Er wiederholt immer wieder "lass mich in Ruhe - lass mich in Ruhe -". Henry folgt ihm und weiß, dass er Jim von der Straße führen muss, weil eine Batterie von Kanonen droht, sie zu überfahren. Henry lenkt Jim auf die Felder. Er dreht sich um, um den Geschützen zuzusehen, dann hört er einen Schrei des zerlumpten Soldaten, dass Jim renne. Henry dreht sich um und sieht, wie sein Freund ungeschickt durch das Feld rennt. Der junge Mann und der zerlumpte Soldat verfolgen ihn. Sie holen ihn ein, und Henry bittet Jim inständig, stehen zu bleiben und sich auszuruhen. Jim kann nur wiederholen, ihn in Ruhe zu lassen. Er taumelt nach vorn, während Henry und der zerlumpte Soldat langsam folgen. Dann macht Jim eine Pause. Seine Brust hebt und senkt sich. Jim besteht immer noch darauf, dass Henry ihn in Ruhe lassen soll. Es herrscht eine weitere Stille. Dann erstarrt Jim. Seine Beine zittern und seine Arme zucken leicht. Er streckt sich nach oben und fällt dann zu Boden, tot. Henry beobachtet diese Szene voller Horror und Trauer. Er rennt zu Jim hin, dessen Mund in einem Lächeln gefriert, blau-lippig. Henry wendet sich mit Wut dem Schlachtfeld zu, als ob er eine Rede halten wolle. Alles, was er sagen kann, ist "Hölle", während die rote Sonne am Horizont steht.

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: "Du Erde warst auch diese Nacht bestandig, Und athmest neu erquickt zu meinen Fussen, Beginnest schon mit Lust mich zu umgeben, Zum regst und ruhrst ein kraftiges Reschliessen Zum hochsten Dasein immerfort zu streben. --Faust: 2r Theil. When Dorothea was again at Lydgate's door speaking to Martha, he was in the room close by with the door ajar, preparing to go out. He heard her voice, and immediately came to her. "Do you think that Mrs. Lydgate can receive me this morning?" she said, having reflected that it would be better to leave out all allusion to her previous visit. "I have no doubt she will," said Lydgate, suppressing his thought about Dorothea's looks, which were as much changed as Rosamond's, "if you will be kind enough to come in and let me tell her that you are here. She has not been very well since you were here yesterday, but she is better this morning, and I think it is very likely that she will be cheered by seeing you again." It was plain that Lydgate, as Dorothea had expected, knew nothing about the circumstances of her yesterday's visit; nay, he appeared to imagine that she had carried it out according to her intention. She had prepared a little note asking Rosamond to see her, which she would have given to the servant if he had not been in the way, but now she was in much anxiety as to the result of his announcement. After leading her into the drawing-room, he paused to take a letter from his pocket and put it into her hands, saying, "I wrote this last night, and was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride. When one is grateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is less unsatisfactory than speech--one does not at least _hear_ how inadequate the words are." Dorothea's face brightened. "It is I who have most to thank for, since you have let me take that place. You _have_ consented?" she said, suddenly doubting. "Yes, the check is going to Bulstrode to-day." He said no more, but went up-stairs to Rosamond, who had but lately finished dressing herself, and sat languidly wondering what she should do next, her habitual industry in small things, even in the days of her sadness, prompting her to begin some kind of occupation, which she dragged through slowly or paused in from lack of interest. She looked ill, but had recovered her usual quietude of manner, and Lydgate had feared to disturb her by any questions. He had told her of Dorothea's letter containing the check, and afterwards he had said, "Ladislaw is come, Rosy; he sat with me last night; I dare say he will be here again to-day. I thought he looked rather battered and depressed." And Rosamond had made no reply. Now, when he came up, he said to her very gently, "Rosy, dear, Mrs. Casaubon is come to see you again; you would like to see her, would you not?" That she colored and gave rather a startled movement did not surprise him after the agitation produced by the interview yesterday--a beneficent agitation, he thought, since it seemed to have made her turn to him again. Rosamond dared not say no. She dared not with a tone of her voice touch the facts of yesterday. Why had Mrs. Casaubon come again? The answer was a blank which Rosamond could only fill up with dread, for Will Ladislaw's lacerating words had made every thought of Dorothea a fresh smart to her. Nevertheless, in her new humiliating uncertainty she dared do nothing but comply. She did not say yes, but she rose and let Lydgate put a light shawl over her shoulders, while he said, "I am going out immediately." Then something crossed her mind which prompted her to say, "Pray tell Martha not to bring any one else into the drawing-room." And Lydgate assented, thinking that he fully understood this wish. He led her down to the drawing-room door, and then turned away, observing to himself that he was rather a blundering husband to be dependent for his wife's trust in him on the influence of another woman. Rosamond, wrapping her soft shawl around her as she walked towards Dorothea, was inwardly wrapping her soul in cold reserve. Had Mrs. Casaubon come to say anything to her about Will? If so, it was a liberty that Rosamond resented; and she prepared herself to meet every word with polite impassibility. Will had bruised her pride too sorely for her to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her own injury seemed much the greater. Dorothea was not only the "preferred" woman, but had also a formidable advantage in being Lydgate's benefactor; and to poor Rosamond's pained confused vision it seemed that this Mrs. Casaubon--this woman who predominated in all things concerning her--must have come now with the sense of having the advantage, and with animosity prompting her to use it. Indeed, not Rosamond only, but any one else, knowing the outer facts of the case, and not the simple inspiration on which Dorothea acted, might well have wondered why she came. Looking like the lovely ghost of herself, her graceful slimness wrapped in her soft white shawl, the rounded infantine mouth and cheek inevitably suggesting mildness and innocence, Rosamond paused at three yards' distance from her visitor and bowed. But Dorothea, who had taken off her gloves, from an impulse which she could never resist when she wanted a sense of freedom, came forward, and with her face full of a sad yet sweet openness, put out her hand. Rosamond could not avoid meeting her glance, could not avoid putting her small hand into Dorothea's, which clasped it with gentle motherliness; and immediately a doubt of her own prepossessions began to stir within her. Rosamond's eye was quick for faces; she saw that Mrs. Casaubon's face looked pale and changed since yesterday, yet gentle, and like the firm softness of her hand. But Dorothea had counted a little too much on her own strength: the clearness and intensity of her mental action this morning were the continuance of a nervous exaltation which made her frame as dangerously responsive as a bit of finest Venetian crystal; and in looking at Rosamond, she suddenly found her heart swelling, and was unable to speak--all her effort was required to keep back tears. She succeeded in that, and the emotion only passed over her face like the spirit of a sob; but it added to Rosamond's impression that Mrs. Casaubon's state of mind must be something quite different from what she had imagined. So they sat down without a word of preface on the two chairs that happened to be nearest, and happened also to be close together; though Rosamond's notion when she first bowed was that she should stay a long way off from Mrs. Casaubon. But she ceased thinking how anything would turn out--merely wondering what would come. And Dorothea began to speak quite simply, gathering firmness as she went on. "I had an errand yesterday which I did not finish; that is why I am here again so soon. You will not think me too troublesome when I tell you that I came to talk to you about the injustice that has been shown towards Mr. Lydgate. It will cheer you--will it not?--to know a great deal about him, that he may not like to speak about himself just because it is in his own vindication and to his own honor. You will like to know that your husband has warm friends, who have not left off believing in his high character? You will let me speak of this without thinking that I take a liberty?" The cordial, pleading tones which seemed to flow with generous heedlessness above all the facts which had filled Rosamond's mind as grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and this woman, came as soothingly as a warm stream over her shrinking fears. Of course Mrs. Casaubon had the facts in her mind, but she was not going to speak of anything connected with them. That relief was too great for Rosamond to feel much else at the moment. She answered prettily, in the new ease of her soul-- "I know you have been very good. I shall like to hear anything you will say to me about Tertius." "The day before yesterday," said Dorothea, "when I had asked him to come to Lowick to give me his opinion on the affairs of the Hospital, he told me everything about his conduct and feelings in this sad event which has made ignorant people cast suspicions on him. The reason he told me was because I was very bold and asked him. I believed that he had never acted dishonorably, and I begged him to tell me the history. He confessed to me that he had never told it before, not even to you, because he had a great dislike to say, 'I was not wrong,' as if that were proof, when there are guilty people who will say so. The truth is, he knew nothing of this man Raffles, or that there were any bad secrets about him; and he thought that Mr. Bulstrode offered him the money because he repented, out of kindness, of having refused it before. All his anxiety about his patient was to treat him rightly, and he was a little uncomfortable that the case did not end as he had expected; but he thought then and still thinks that there may have been no wrong in it on any one's part. And I have told Mr. Farebrother, and Mr. Brooke, and Sir James Chettam: they all believe in your husband. That will cheer you, will it not? That will give you courage?" Dorothea's face had become animated, and as it beamed on Rosamond very close to her, she felt something like bashful timidity before a superior, in the presence of this self-forgetful ardor. She said, with blushing embarrassment, "Thank you: you are very kind." "And he felt that he had been so wrong not to pour out everything about this to you. But you will forgive him. It was because he feels so much more about your happiness than anything else--he feels his life bound into one with yours, and it hurts him more than anything, that his misfortunes must hurt you. He could speak to me because I am an indifferent person. And then I asked him if I might come to see you; because I felt so much for his trouble and yours. That is why I came yesterday, and why I am come to-day. Trouble is so hard to bear, is it not?-- How can we live and think that any one has trouble--piercing trouble--and we could help them, and never try?" Dorothea, completely swayed by the feeling that she was uttering, forgot everything but that she was speaking from out the heart of her own trial to Rosamond's. The emotion had wrought itself more and more into her utterance, till the tones might have gone to one's very marrow, like a low cry from some suffering creature in the darkness. And she had unconsciously laid her hand again on the little hand that she had pressed before. Rosamond, with an overmastering pang, as if a wound within her had been probed, burst into hysterical crying as she had done the day before when she clung to her husband. Poor Dorothea was feeling a great wave of her own sorrow returning over her--her thought being drawn to the possible share that Will Ladislaw might have in Rosamond's mental tumult. She was beginning to fear that she should not be able to suppress herself enough to the end of this meeting, and while her hand was still resting on Rosamond's lap, though the hand underneath it was withdrawn, she was struggling against her own rising sobs. She tried to master herself with the thought that this might be a turning-point in three lives--not in her own; no, there the irrevocable had happened, but--in those three lives which were touching hers with the solemn neighborhood of danger and distress. The fragile creature who was crying close to her--there might still be time to rescue her from the misery of false incompatible bonds; and this moment was unlike any other: she and Rosamond could never be together again with the same thrilling consciousness of yesterday within them both. She felt the relation between them to be peculiar enough to give her a peculiar influence, though she had no conception that the way in which her own feelings were involved was fully known to Mrs. Lydgate. It was a newer crisis in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she was under the first great shock that had shattered her dream-world in which she had been easily confident of herself and critical of others; and this strange unexpected manifestation of feeling in a woman whom she had approached with a shrinking aversion and dread, as one who must necessarily have a jealous hatred towards her, made her soul totter all the more with a sense that she had been walking in an unknown world which had just broken in upon her. When Rosamond's convulsed throat was subsiding into calm, and she withdrew the handkerchief with which she had been hiding her face, her eyes met Dorothea's as helplessly as if they had been blue flowers. What was the use of thinking about behavior after this crying? And Dorothea looked almost as childish, with the neglected trace of a silent tear. Pride was broken down between these two. "We were talking about your husband," Dorothea said, with some timidity. "I thought his looks were sadly changed with suffering the other day. I had not seen him for many weeks before. He said he had been feeling very lonely in his trial; but I think he would have borne it all better if he had been able to be quite open with you." "Tertius is so angry and impatient if I say anything," said Rosamond, imagining that he had been complaining of her to Dorothea. "He ought not to wonder that I object to speak to him on painful subjects." "It was himself he blamed for not speaking," said Dorothea. "What he said of you was, that he could not be happy in doing anything which made you unhappy--that his marriage was of course a bond which must affect his choice about everything; and for that reason he refused my proposal that he should keep his position at the Hospital, because that would bind him to stay in Middlemarch, and he would not undertake to do anything which would be painful to you. He could say that to me, because he knows that I had much trial in my marriage, from my husband's illness, which hindered his plans and saddened him; and he knows that I have felt how hard it is to walk always in fear of hurting another who is tied to us." Dorothea waited a little; she had discerned a faint pleasure stealing over Rosamond's face. But there was no answer, and she went on, with a gathering tremor, "Marriage is so unlike everything else. There is something even awful in the nearness it brings. Even if we loved some one else better than--than those we were married to, it would be no use"--poor Dorothea, in her palpitating anxiety, could only seize her language brokenly--"I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of giving or getting any blessedness in that sort of love. I know it may be very dear--but it murders our marriage--and then the marriage stays with us like a murder--and everything else is gone. And then our husband--if he loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a curse in his life--" Her voice had sunk very low: there was a dread upon her of presuming too far, and of speaking as if she herself were perfection addressing error. She was too much preoccupied with her own anxiety, to be aware that Rosamond was trembling too; and filled with the need to express pitying fellowship rather than rebuke, she put her hands on Rosamond's, and said with more agitated rapidity,--"I know, I know that the feeling may be very dear--it has taken hold of us unawares--it is so hard, it may seem like death to part with it--and we are weak--I am weak--" The waves of her own sorrow, from out of which she was struggling to save another, rushed over Dorothea with conquering force. She stopped in speechless agitation, not crying, but feeling as if she were being inwardly grappled. Her face had become of a deathlier paleness, her lips trembled, and she pressed her hands helplessly on the hands that lay under them. Rosamond, taken hold of by an emotion stronger than her own--hurried along in a new movement which gave all things some new, awful, undefined aspect--could find no words, but involuntarily she put her lips to Dorothea's forehead which was very near her, and then for a minute the two women clasped each other as if they had been in a shipwreck. "You are thinking what is not true," said Rosamond, in an eager half-whisper, while she was still feeling Dorothea's arms round her--urged by a mysterious necessity to free herself from something that oppressed her as if it were blood guiltiness. They moved apart, looking at each other. "When you came in yesterday--it was not as you thought," said Rosamond in the same tone. There was a movement of surprised attention in Dorothea. She expected a vindication of Rosamond herself. "He was telling me how he loved another woman, that I might know he could never love me," said Rosamond, getting more and more hurried as she went on. "And now I think he hates me because--because you mistook him yesterday. He says it is through me that you will think ill of him--think that he is a false person. But it shall not be through me. He has never had any love for me--I know he has not--he has always thought slightly of me. He said yesterday that no other woman existed for him beside you. The blame of what happened is entirely mine. He said he could never explain to you--because of me. He said you could never think well of him again. But now I have told you, and he cannot reproach me any more." Rosamond had delivered her soul under impulses which she had not known before. She had begun her confession under the subduing influence of Dorothea's emotion; and as she went on she had gathered the sense that she was repelling Will's reproaches, which were still like a knife-wound within her. The revulsion of feeling in Dorothea was too strong to be called joy. It was a tumult in which the terrible strain of the night and morning made a resistant pain:--she could only perceive that this would be joy when she had recovered her power of feeling it. Her immediate consciousness was one of immense sympathy without check; she cared for Rosamond without struggle now, and responded earnestly to her last words-- "No, he cannot reproach you any more." With her usual tendency to over-estimate the good in others, she felt a great outgoing of her heart towards Rosamond, for the generous effort which had redeemed her from suffering, not counting that the effort was a reflex of her own energy. After they had been silent a little, she said-- "You are not sorry that I came this morning?" "No, you have been very good to me," said Rosamond. "I did not think that you would be so good. I was very unhappy. I am not happy now. Everything is so sad." "But better days will come. Your husband will be rightly valued. And he depends on you for comfort. He loves you best. The worst loss would be to lose that--and you have not lost it," said Dorothea. She tried to thrust away the too overpowering thought of her own relief, lest she should fail to win some sign that Rosamond's affection was yearning back towards her husband. "Tertius did not find fault with me, then?" said Rosamond, understanding now that Lydgate might have said anything to Mrs. Casaubon, and that she certainly was different from other women. Perhaps there was a faint taste of jealousy in the question. A smile began to play over Dorothea's face as she said-- "No, indeed! How could you imagine it?" But here the door opened, and Lydgate entered. "I am come back in my quality of doctor," he said. "After I went away, I was haunted by two pale faces: Mrs. Casaubon looked as much in need of care as you, Rosy. And I thought that I had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had been to Coleman's I came home again. I noticed that you were walking, Mrs. Casaubon, and the sky has changed--I think we may have rain. May I send some one to order your carriage to come for you?" "Oh, no! I am strong: I need the walk," said Dorothea, rising with animation in her face. "Mrs. Lydgate and I have chatted a great deal, and it is time for me to go. I have always been accused of being immoderate and saying too much." She put out her hand to Rosamond, and they said an earnest, quiet good-by without kiss or other show of effusion: there had been between them too much serious emotion for them to use the signs of it superficially. As Lydgate took her to the door she said nothing of Rosamond, but told him of Mr. Farebrother and the other friends who had listened with belief to his story. When he came back to Rosamond, she had already thrown herself on the sofa, in resigned fatigue. "Well, Rosy," he said, standing over her, and touching her hair, "what do you think of Mrs. Casaubon now you have seen so much of her?" "I think she must be better than any one," said Rosamond, "and she is very beautiful. If you go to talk to her so often, you will be more discontented with me than ever!" Lydgate laughed at the "so often." "But has she made you any less discontented with me?" "I think she has," said Rosamond, looking up in his face. "How heavy your eyes are, Tertius--and do push your hair back." He lifted up his large white hand to obey her, and felt thankful for this little mark of interest in him. Poor Rosamond's vagrant fancy had come back terribly scourged--meek enough to nestle under the old despised shelter. And the shelter was still there: Lydgate had accepted his narrowed lot with sad resignation. He had chosen this fragile creature, and had taken the burthen of her life upon his arms. He must walk as he could, carrying that burthen pitifully. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Dorothea findet Lydgate zu Hause und Lydgate bedankt sich bei ihr dafür, ihm das Geld gegeben zu haben, um seine Schuld bei Bulstrode zu begleichen. Dorothea ist nur allzu glücklich, behilflich gewesen zu sein und fragt ihn, ob Rosamond da ist. Sie stellt fest, dass Lydgate keine Ahnung davon hat, was am Vortag passiert ist. Rosamond ist misstrauisch wegen des Besuchs, empfängt Dorothea jedoch trotzdem und stellt fest, dass sie sich im Vergleich zum Vortag anders verhält, aber möglicherweise beunruhigt ist. Dorothea versichert ihr, dass ihr Mann eine gute Person ist und immer noch in Middlemarch von Menschen mit Charakter und Einfluss, wie sie selbst, Sir James, Mr. Brooke und Mr. Farebrother, willkommen geheißen wird. Dorothea spricht dann über die Ehe und versucht dabei, auf die Ehe von Rosamond und Lydgate einzugehen. Dorothea berührt dabei auch ihre eigene Traurigkeit und ihre Qual aufgrund des ganzen Debakels mit Will wird offensichtlich. Dorothea überzeugt Rosamond davon, dass Lydgate sie sehr liebt und dass sie der Ehe eine Chance geben sollte, weil sie immer noch seine Liebe hat. Das macht Rosamond etwas fröhlicher, obwohl ihr Kopf vom Vortag noch benommen ist. Rosamond möchte die Situation mit Will klären und erzählt Dorothea, dass Will nur gekommen sei, um ihr zu erklären, dass er jemand anderen als Rosamond liebe und immer lieben werde. Rosamond sagt ihr das, um sich selbst in gewisser Weise von Schuld frei zu sprechen, obwohl Dorothea diese Aussage als Ausdruck von Mitgefühl und Güte seitens Rosamond interpretiert. Dann tritt Lydgate ein und die beiden verabschieden sich; keiner kann dem anderen noch etwas vorwerfen und beide sind erleichtert.

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 friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop so quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of her husband and Helen, may have detected in the other and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret whose presence she had particularly desired. All this is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going with her cousin to Stettin. "Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she was now in her cousin's confidence)--"his mother has forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in England the new-comer ought not to call before she is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can't the woman leave us alone?" "I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She's got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I don't love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. "Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call." Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg's going to return the call, and I can't. 'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren't, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I don't love the young--O lud, who's that coming down the stairs? I vow 'tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you." "Ever so many thanks." "What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX, "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end. "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy. "Believe me, "Yours truly, "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL, "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad. "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England, but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the second floor. She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox's bedroom. "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say." Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution. "I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot." "He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa." "I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much ashamed." Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. "I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me." "It doesn't matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so promptly." "It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse." "Indeed?" "She has just gone to Germany." "She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, certainly, it is quite safe--safe, absolutely, now." "You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more excited, and taking a chair without invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't meet him again." "I did think it best." "Now why?" "That's a most difficult question," said Mrs. Wilcox, smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance. "I think you put it best in your letter--it was an instinct, which may be wrong." "It wasn't that your son still--" "Oh no; he often--my Paul is very young, you see." "Then what was it?" She repeated: "An instinct which may be wrong." "In other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but couldn't live together. That's dreadfully probable. I'm afraid that in nine cases out of ten Nature pulls one way and human nature another." "These are indeed 'other words,'" said Mrs. Wilcox. "I had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sister." "Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How DID you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things. Did Paul tell you?" "There is nothing to be gained by discussing that," said Mrs. Wilcox after a moment's pause. "Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a letter and you didn't answer it." "I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson's flat. I knew it was opposite your house." "But it's all right now?" "I think so." "You only think? You aren't sure? I do love these little muddles tidied up?" "Oh yes, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with uneasiness beneath the clothes. "I always sound uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking." "That's all right, and I'm sure, too." Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal lines. "I must say good-bye now--you will be getting up." "No--please stop a little longer--I am taking a day in bed. Now and then I do." "I thought of you as one of the early risers." "At Howards End--yes; there is nothing to get up for in London." "Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalised Margaret. "When there are all the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention people." "The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of calls." "A wedding?" "Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married." "Indeed!" "We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband's, and she most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to make the acquaintance of Dolly's people, which we had not yet done." Margaret asked who Dolly's people were. "Fussell. The father is in the Indian army--retired; the brother is in the army. The mother is dead." So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen's account, and it still clung to her. She asked for more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox's voice, though sweet and compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and equal value. Only once had it quickened--when speaking of Howards End. "Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They belong to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe not so well; and they first met in a mixed foursome. We all like her, and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of having it on the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly's photograph--in that double frame." "Are you quite certain that I'm not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?" "Yes, quite." "Then I will stay. I'm enjoying this." Dolly's photograph was now examined. It was signed "For dear Mims," which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as "the name she and Charles had settled that she should call me." Dolly looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two together till God parted them. She found time to hope that they would be happy. "They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon." "Lucky people!" "I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy." "Doesn't he care for travelling?" "He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards End." "I suppose you have a garage there?" "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony." The last words had an indescribable ring about them. "Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause. "The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." "The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree." "It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you about the teeth?" "No." "Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs' teeth stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long ago, and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the tree." "I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions." "Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?" "Of course it did. It would cure anything--once." "Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there." The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly's glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby's riding-master. Then the curious note was struck again. "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me up." "I'm so glad!" "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?" "I think of nothing else," said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid. "I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." "I'M sure!" "I almost think--" "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. "I almost think you forget you're a girl." Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I'm twenty-nine," she remarked. "That's not so wildly girlish." Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?" A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly." "Oh, I've got it--inexperience. I'm no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life's very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I've got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the submerged--well, one can't do all these things at once, worse luck, because they're so contradictory. It's then that proportion comes in--to live by proportion. Don't BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have failed, and a deadlock--Gracious me, I've started preaching!" "Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly," said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say about them myself." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Erzähler spekuliert über die Ursprünge der merkwürdigen Freundschaft zwischen Mrs. Wilcox und Margaret Schlegel, die vielleicht schon begann, bevor sie es überhaupt erkannt haben, als sie sich das erste Mal in Deutschland trafen. Unbeabsichtigt sorgt Mrs. Wilcox für Probleme in Wickham Place, indem sie die Schlegels besucht. Margaret und Helen sind sich nicht sicher, was sie tun sollen - besonders Margaret ist besorgt. Soll sie den Besuch erwidern oder nicht? Wie können sie überhaupt befreundet sein, angesichts dessen, was zwischen Helen und Paul passiert ist? Margaret schreibt einen Brief an Mrs. Wilcox, in dem sie ihr sagt, dass sie sich nicht treffen sollten, nur für den Fall. Mrs. Wilcox antwortet sofort und sagt, dass Paul ins Ausland gegangen ist, und Margaret fühlt sich sofort schlecht wegen ihrer Ablehnung der anderen Frau. Margaret eilt über die Straße, um sich persönlich zu entschuldigen. Sie wird in Mrs. Wilcoxs Schlafzimmer geführt, wo sie sich versichern, dass keine Gefahr besteht, dass Paul und Helen sich treffen. Sie diskutieren kurz die Situation zwischen Paul und Helen; Margaret will wissen, wie Mrs. Wilcox erkennen konnte, dass die beiden jungen Leute sich ineinander verliebt haben. Es wird keine Antwort gegeben. Margaret tut so, als ob sie gehen würde, als die Dienstmagd hereinkommt, um das Frühstückstablett von Mrs. Wilcox wegzunehmen, aber sie wird eingeladen zu bleiben, und sie unterhalten sich ein wenig über Charles' kürzliche Hochzeit mit Dolly, einer hübschen, aber albernen jungen Frau. Das Gespräch dreht sich um Howards End, und Mrs. Wilcox erzählt Margaret von einem kuriosen Aberglauben - es gibt ein Set von Schweinezähnen, die in der Rinde der großen Ulme am Haus stecken, und die Einheimischen glauben, dass das Kauen auf einem Stück Rinde Zahnschmerzen heilt. Margaret ist fasziniert. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Howards End selbst Mrs. Wilcox gehört und nicht ihrem Ehemann - sie ist tatsächlich dort geboren. Als sich das Gespräch von Howards End entfernt, wird Margaret langweilig. Sie zerbricht versehentlich einen Bilderrahmen und verabschiedet sich, um zurück nach Hause zu gehen. Mrs. Wilcox und Margaret verabschieden sich, und dabei sagt Mrs. Wilcox etwas Seltsames - sie erinnert Margaret daran, dass sie immer noch ein "Mädchen" ist und unerfahren. Margaret antwortet, indem sie zugibt, dass sie noch viel zu lernen hat, aber sie hat bereits herausgefunden, dass das Leben kompliziert und unerwartet 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: She asked herself as she walked along, "What am I going to say? How shall I begin?" And as she went on she recognised the thickets, the trees, the sea-rushes on the hill, the chateau yonder. All the sensations of her first tenderness came back to her, and her poor aching heart opened out amorously. A warm wind blew in her face; the melting snow fell drop by drop from the buds to the grass. She entered, as she used to, through the small park-gate. She reached the avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime-trees. They were swaying their long whispering branches to and fro. The dogs in their kennels all barked, and the noise of their voices resounded, but brought out no one. She went up the large straight staircase with wooden balusters that led to the corridor paved with dusty flags, into which several doors in a row opened, as in a monastery or an inn. His was at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she placed her fingers on the lock her strength suddenly deserted her. She was afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this was her only hope, her last chance of salvation. She collected her thoughts for one moment, and, strengthening herself by the feeling of present necessity, went in. He was in front of the fire, both his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe. "What! it is you!" he said, getting up hurriedly. "Yes, it is I, Rodolphe. I should like to ask your advice." And, despite all her efforts, it was impossible for her to open her lips. "You have not changed; you are charming as ever!" "Oh," she replied bitterly, "they are poor charms since you disdained them." Then he began a long explanation of his conduct, excusing himself in vague terms, in default of being able to invent better. She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sight of him, so that, she pretended to believe, or perhaps believed; in the pretext he gave for their rupture; this was a secret on which depended the honour, the very life of a third person. "No matter!" she said, looking at him sadly. "I have suffered much." He replied philosophically-- "Such is life!" "Has life," Emma went on, "been good to you at least, since our separation?" "Oh, neither good nor bad." "Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted." "Yes, perhaps." "You think so?" she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. "Oh, Rodolphe! if you but knew! I loved you so!" It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time, their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the Show. With a gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion. But sinking upon his breast she said to him-- "How did you think I could live without you? One cannot lose the habit of happiness. I was desolate. I thought I should die. I will tell you about all that and you will see. And you--you fled from me!" For, all the three years, he had carefully avoided her in consequence of that natural cowardice that characterises the stronger sex. Emma went on, with dainty little nods, more coaxing than an amorous kitten-- "You love others, confess it! Oh, I understand them, dear! I excuse them. You probably seduced them as you seduced me. You are indeed a man; you have everything to make one love you. But we'll begin again, won't we? We will love one another. See! I am laughing; I am happy! Oh, speak!" And she was charming to see, with her eyes, in which trembled a tear, like the rain of a storm in a blue corolla. He had drawn her upon his knees, and with the back of his hand was caressing her smooth hair, where in the twilight was mirrored like a golden arrow one last ray of the sun. She bent down her brow; at last he kissed her on the eyelids quite gently with the tips of his lips. "Why, you have been crying! What for?" She burst into tears. Rodolphe thought this was an outburst of her love. As she did not speak, he took this silence for a last remnant of resistance, and then he cried out-- "Oh, forgive me! You are the only one who pleases me. I was imbecile and cruel. I love you. I will love you always. What is it. Tell me!" He was kneeling by her. "Well, I am ruined, Rodolphe! You must lend me three thousand francs." "But--but--" said he, getting up slowly, while his face assumed a grave expression. "You know," she went on quickly, "that my husband had placed his whole fortune at a notary's. He ran away. So we borrowed; the patients don't pay us. Moreover, the settling of the estate is not yet done; we shall have the money later on. But to-day, for want of three thousand francs, we are to be sold up. It is to be at once, this very moment, and, counting upon your friendship, I have come to you." "Ah!" thought Rodolphe, turning very pale, "that was what she came for." At last he said with a calm air-- "Dear madame, I have not got them." He did not lie. If he had had them, he would, no doubt, have given them, although it is generally disagreeable to do such fine things: a demand for money being, of all the winds that blow upon love, the coldest and most destructive. First she looked at him for some moments. "You have not got them!" she repeated several times. "You have not got them! I ought to have spared myself this last shame. You never loved me. You are no better than the others." She was betraying, ruining herself. Rodolphe interrupted her, declaring he was "hard up" himself. "Ah! I pity you," said Emma. "Yes--very much." And fixing her eyes upon an embossed carabine, that shone against its panoply, "But when one is so poor one doesn't have silver on the butt of one's gun. One doesn't buy a clock inlaid with tortoise shell," she went on, pointing to a buhl timepiece, "nor silver-gilt whistles for one's whips," and she touched them, "nor charms for one's watch. Oh, he wants for nothing! even to a liqueur-stand in his room! For you love yourself; you live well. You have a chateau, farms, woods; you go hunting; you travel to Paris. Why, if it were but that," she cried, taking up two studs from the mantelpiece, "but the least of these trifles, one can get money for them. Oh, I do not want them, keep them!" And she threw the two links away from her, their gold chain breaking as it struck against the wall. "But I! I would have given you everything. I would have sold all, worked for you with my hands, I would have begged on the highroads for a smile, for a look, to hear you say 'Thanks!' And you sit there quietly in your arm-chair, as if you had not made me suffer enough already! But for you, and you know it, I might have lived happily. What made you do it? Was it a bet? Yet you loved me--you said so. And but a moment since--Ah! it would have been better to have driven me away. My hands are hot with your kisses, and there is the spot on the carpet where at my knees you swore an eternity of love! You made me believe you; for two years you held me in the most magnificent, the sweetest dream! Eh! Our plans for the journey, do you remember? Oh, your letter! your letter! it tore my heart! And then when I come back to him--to him, rich, happy, free--to implore the help the first stranger would give, a suppliant, and bringing back to him all my tenderness, he repulses me because it would cost him three thousand francs!" "I haven't got them," replied Rodolphe, with that perfect calm with which resigned rage covers itself as with a shield. She went out. The walls trembled, the ceiling was crushing her, and she passed back through the long alley, stumbling against the heaps of dead leaves scattered by the wind. At last she reached the ha-ha hedge in front of the gate; she broke her nails against the lock in her haste to open it. Then a hundred steps farther on, breathless, almost falling, she stopped. And now turning round, she once more saw the impassive chateau, with the park, the gardens, the three courts, and all the windows of the facade. She remained lost in stupor, and having no more consciousness of herself than through the beating of her arteries, that she seemed to hear bursting forth like a deafening music filling all the fields. The earth beneath her feet was more yielding than the sea, and the furrows seemed to her immense brown waves breaking into foam. Everything in her head, of memories, ideas, went off at once like a thousand pieces of fireworks. She saw her father, Lheureux's closet, their room at home, another landscape. Madness was coming upon her; she grew afraid, and managed to recover herself, in a confused way, it is true, for she did not in the least remember the cause of the terrible condition she was in, that is to say, the question of money. She suffered only in her love, and felt her soul passing from her in this memory; as wounded men, dying, feel their life ebb from their bleeding wounds. Night was falling, crows were flying about. Suddenly it seemed to her that fiery spheres were exploding in the air like fulminating balls when they strike, and were whirling, whirling, to melt at last upon the snow between the branches of the trees. In the midst of each of them appeared the face of Rodolphe. They multiplied and drew near her, penetrating, her. It all disappeared; she recognised the lights of the houses that shone through the fog. Now her situation, like an abyss, rose up before her. She was panting as if her heart would burst. Then in an ecstasy of heroism, that made her almost joyous, she ran down the hill, crossed the cow-plank, the foot-path, the alley, the market, and reached the chemist's shop. She was about to enter, but at the sound of the bell someone might come, and slipping in by the gate, holding her breath, feeling her way along the walls, she went as far as the door of the kitchen, where a candle stuck on the stove was burning. Justin in his shirt-sleeves was carrying out a dish. "Ah! they are dining; I will wait." He returned; she tapped at the window. He went out. "The key! the one for upstairs where he keeps the--" "What?" And he looked at her, astonished at the pallor of her face, that stood out white against the black background of the night. She seemed to him extraordinarily beautiful and majestic as a phantom. Without understanding what she wanted, he had the presentiment of something terrible. But she went on quickly in a love voice; in a sweet, melting voice, "I want it; give it to me." As the partition wall was thin, they could hear the clatter of the forks on the plates in the dining-room. She pretended that she wanted to kill the rats that kept her from sleeping. "I must tell master." "No, stay!" Then with an indifferent air, "Oh, it's not worth while; I'll tell him presently. Come, light me upstairs." She entered the corridor into which the laboratory door opened. Against the wall was a key labelled Capharnaum. "Justin!" called the druggist impatiently. "Let us go up." And he followed her. The key turned in the lock, and she went straight to the third shelf, so well did her memory guide her, seized the blue jar, tore out the cork, plunged in her hand, and withdrawing it full of a white powder, she began eating it. "Stop!" he cried, rushing at her. "Hush! someone will come." He was in despair, was calling out. "Say nothing, or all the blame will fall on your master." Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of the serenity of one that had performed a duty. When Charles, distracted by the news of the distraint, returned home, Emma had just gone out. He cried aloud, wept, fainted, but she did not return. Where could she be? He sent Felicite to Homais, to Monsieur Tuvache, to Lheureux, to the "Lion d'Or," everywhere, and in the intervals of his agony he saw his reputation destroyed, their fortune lost, Berthe's future ruined. By what?--Not a word! He waited till six in the evening. At last, unable to bear it any longer, and fancying she had gone to Rouen, he set out along the highroad, walked a mile, met no one, again waited, and returned home. She had come back. "What was the matter? Why? Explain to me." She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which she sealed slowly, adding the date and the hour. Then she said in a solemn tone: "You are to read it to-morrow; till then, I pray you, do not ask me a single question. No, not one!" "But--" "Oh, leave me!" She lay down full length on her bed. A bitter taste that she felt in her mouth awakened her. She saw Charles, and again closed her eyes. She was studying herself curiously, to see if she were not suffering. But no! nothing as yet. She heard the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the fire, and Charles breathing as he stood upright by her bed. "Ah! it is but a little thing, death!" she thought. "I shall fall asleep and all will be over." She drank a mouthful of water and turned to the wall. The frightful taste of ink continued. "I am thirsty; oh! so thirsty," she sighed. "What is it?" said Charles, who was handing her a glass. "It is nothing! Open the window; I am choking." She was seized with a sickness so sudden that she had hardly time to draw out her handkerchief from under the pillow. "Take it away," she said quickly; "throw it away." He spoke to her; she did not answer. She lay motionless, afraid that the slightest movement might make her vomit. But she felt an icy cold creeping from her feet to her heart. "Ah! it is beginning," she murmured. "What did you say?" She turned her head from side to side with a gentle movement full of agony, while constantly opening her mouth as if something very heavy were weighing upon her tongue. At eight o'clock the vomiting began again. Charles noticed that at the bottom of the basin there was a sort of white sediment sticking to the sides of the porcelain. "This is extraordinary--very singular," he repeated. But she said in a firm voice, "No, you are mistaken." Then gently, and almost as caressing her, he passed his hand over her stomach. She uttered a sharp cry. He fell back terror-stricken. Then she began to groan, faintly at first. Her shoulders were shaken by a strong shuddering, and she was growing paler than the sheets in which her clenched fingers buried themselves. Her unequal pulse was now almost imperceptible. Drops of sweat oozed from her bluish face, that seemed as if rigid in the exhalations of a metallic vapour. Her teeth chattered, her dilated eyes looked vaguely about her, and to all questions she replied only with a shake of the head; she even smiled once or twice. Gradually, her moaning grew louder; a hollow shriek burst from her; she pretended she was better and that she would get up presently. But she was seized with convulsions and cried out-- "Ah! my God! It is horrible!" He threw himself on his knees by her bed. "Tell me! what have you eaten? Answer, for heaven's sake!" And he looked at her with a tenderness in his eyes such as she had never seen. "Well, there--there!" she said in a faint voice. He flew to the writing-table, tore open the seal, and read aloud: "Accuse no one." He stopped, passed his hands across his eyes, and read it over again. "What! help--help!" He could only keep repeating the word: "Poisoned! poisoned!" Felicite ran to Homais, who proclaimed it in the market-place; Madame Lefrancois heard it at the "Lion d'Or"; some got up to go and tell their neighbours, and all night the village was on the alert. Distraught, faltering, reeling, Charles wandered about the room. He knocked against the furniture, tore his hair, and the chemist had never believed that there could be so terrible a sight. He went home to write to Monsieur Canivet and to Doctor Lariviere. He lost his head, and made more than fifteen rough copies. Hippolyte went to Neufchatel, and Justin so spurred Bovary's horse that he left it foundered and three parts dead by the hill at Bois-Guillaume. Charles tried to look up his medical dictionary, but could not read it; the lines were dancing. "Be calm," said the druggist; "we have only to administer a powerful antidote. What is the poison?" Charles showed him the letter. It was arsenic. "Very well," said Homais, "we must make an analysis." For he knew that in cases of poisoning an analysis must be made; and the other, who did not understand, answered-- "Oh, do anything! save her!" Then going back to her, he sank upon the carpet, and lay there with his head leaning against the edge of her bed, sobbing. "Don't cry," she said to him. "Soon I shall not trouble you any more." "Why was it? Who drove you to it?" She replied. "It had to be, my dear!" "Weren't you happy? Is it my fault? I did all I could!" "Yes, that is true--you are good--you." And she passed her hand slowly over his hair. The sweetness of this sensation deepened his sadness; he felt his whole being dissolving in despair at the thought that he must lose her, just when she was confessing more love for him than ever. And he could think of nothing; he did not know, he did not dare; the urgent need for some immediate resolution gave the finishing stroke to the turmoil of his mind. So she had done, she thought, with all the treachery; and meanness, and numberless desires that had tortured her. She hated no one now; a twilight dimness was settling upon her thoughts, and, of all earthly noises, Emma heard none but the intermittent lamentations of this poor heart, sweet and indistinct like the echo of a symphony dying away. "Bring me the child," she said, raising herself on her elbow. "You are not worse, are you?" asked Charles. "No, no!" The child, serious, and still half-asleep, was carried in on the servant's arm in her long white nightgown, from which her bare feet peeped out. She looked wonderingly at the disordered room, and half-closed her eyes, dazzled by the candles burning on the table. They reminded her, no doubt, of the morning of New Year's day and Mid-Lent, when thus awakened early by candle-light she came to her mother's bed to fetch her presents, for she began saying-- "But where is it, mamma?" And as everybody was silent, "But I can't see my little stocking." Felicite held her over the bed while she still kept looking towards the mantelpiece. "Has nurse taken it?" she asked. And at this name, that carried her back to the memory of her adulteries and her calamities, Madame Bovary turned away her head, as at the loathing of another bitterer poison that rose to her mouth. But Berthe remained perched on the bed. "Oh, how big your eyes are, mamma! How pale you are! how hot you are!" Her mother looked at her. "I am frightened!" cried the child, recoiling. Emma took her hand to kiss it; the child struggled. "That will do. Take her away," cried Charles, who was sobbing in the alcove. Then the symptoms ceased for a moment; she seemed less agitated; and at every insignificant word, at every respiration a little more easy, he regained hope. At last, when Canivet came in, he threw himself into his arms. "Ah! it is you. Thanks! You are good! But she is better. See! look at her." His colleague was by no means of this opinion, and, as he said of himself, "never beating about the bush," he prescribed, an emetic in order to empty the stomach completely. She soon began vomiting blood. Her lips became drawn. Her limbs were convulsed, her whole body covered with brown spots, and her pulse slipped beneath the fingers like a stretched thread, like a harp-string nearly breaking. After this she began to scream horribly. She cursed the poison, railed at it, and implored it to be quick, and thrust away with her stiffened arms everything that Charles, in more agony than herself, tried to make her drink. He stood up, his handkerchief to his lips, with a rattling sound in his throat, weeping, and choked by sobs that shook his whole body. Felicite was running hither and thither in the room. Homais, motionless, uttered great sighs; and Monsieur Canivet, always retaining his self-command, nevertheless began to feel uneasy. "The devil! yet she has been purged, and from the moment that the cause ceases--" "The effect must cease," said Homais, "that is evident." "Oh, save her!" cried Bovary. And, without listening to the chemist, who was still venturing the hypothesis, "It is perhaps a salutary paroxysm," Canivet was about to administer some theriac, when they heard the cracking of a whip; all the windows rattled, and a post-chaise drawn by three horses abreast, up to their ears in mud, drove at a gallop round the corner of the market. It was Doctor Lariviere. The apparition of a god would not have caused more commotion. Bovary raised his hands; Canivet stopped short; and Homais pulled off his skull-cap long before the doctor had come in. He belonged to that great school of surgery begotten of Bichat, to that generation, now extinct, of philosophical practitioners, who, loving their art with a fanatical love, exercised it with enthusiasm and wisdom. Everyone in his hospital trembled when he was angry; and his students so revered him that they tried, as soon as they were themselves in practice, to imitate him as much as possible. So that in all the towns about they were found wearing his long wadded merino overcoat and black frock-coat, whose buttoned cuffs slightly covered his brawny hands--very beautiful hands, and that never knew gloves, as though to be more ready to plunge into suffering. Disdainful of honours, of titles, and of academies, like one of the old Knight-Hospitallers, generous, fatherly to the poor, and practising virtue without believing in it, he would almost have passed for a saint if the keenness of his intellect had not caused him to be feared as a demon. His glance, more penetrating than his bistouries, looked straight into your soul, and dissected every lie athwart all assertions and all reticences. And thus he went along, full of that debonair majesty that is given by the consciousness of great talent, of fortune, and of forty years of a labourious and irreproachable life. He frowned as soon as he had passed the door when he saw the cadaverous face of Emma stretched out on her back with her mouth open. Then, while apparently listening to Canivet, he rubbed his fingers up and down beneath his nostrils, and repeated-- "Good! good!" But he made a slow gesture with his shoulders. Bovary watched him; they looked at one another; and this man, accustomed as he was to the sight of pain, could not keep back a tear that fell on his shirt-frill. He tried to take Canivet into the next room. Charles followed him. "She is very ill, isn't she? If we put on sinapisms? Anything! Oh, think of something, you who have saved so many!" Charles caught him in both his arms, and gazed at him wildly, imploringly, half-fainting against his breast. "Come, my poor fellow, courage! There is nothing more to be done." And Doctor Lariviere turned away. "You are going?" "I will come back." He went out only to give an order to the coachman, with Monsieur Canivet, who did not care either to have Emma die under his hands. The chemist rejoined them on the Place. He could not by temperament keep away from celebrities, so he begged Monsieur Lariviere to do him the signal honour of accepting some breakfast. He sent quickly to the "Lion d'Or" for some pigeons; to the butcher's for all the cutlets that were to be had; to Tuvache for cream; and to Lestiboudois for eggs; and the druggist himself aided in the preparations, while Madame Homais was saying as she pulled together the strings of her jacket-- "You must excuse us, sir, for in this poor place, when one hasn't been told the night before--" "Wine glasses!" whispered Homais. "If only we were in town, we could fall back upon stuffed trotters." "Be quiet! Sit down, doctor!" He thought fit, after the first few mouthfuls, to give some details as to the catastrophe. "We first had a feeling of siccity in the pharynx, then intolerable pains at the epigastrium, super purgation, coma." "But how did she poison herself?" "I don't know, doctor, and I don't even know where she can have procured the arsenious acid." Justin, who was just bringing in a pile of plates, began to tremble. "What's the matter?" said the chemist. At this question the young man dropped the whole lot on the ground with a crash. "Imbecile!" cried Homais, "awkward lout! block-head! confounded ass!" But suddenly controlling himself-- "I wished, doctor, to make an analysis, and primo I delicately introduced a tube--" "You would have done better," said the physician, "to introduce your fingers into her throat." His colleague was silent, having just before privately received a severe lecture about his emetic, so that this good Canivet, so arrogant and so verbose at the time of the clubfoot, was to-day very modest. He smiled without ceasing in an approving manner. Homais dilated in Amphytrionic pride, and the affecting thought of Bovary vaguely contributed to his pleasure by a kind of egotistic reflex upon himself. Then the presence of the doctor transported him. He displayed his erudition, cited pell-mell cantharides, upas, the manchineel, vipers. "I have even read that various persons have found themselves under toxicological symptoms, and, as it were, thunderstricken by black-pudding that had been subjected to a too vehement fumigation. At least, this was stated in a very fine report drawn up by one of our pharmaceutical chiefs, one of our masters, the illustrious Cadet de Gassicourt!" Madame Homais reappeared, carrying one of those shaky machines that are heated with spirits of wine; for Homais liked to make his coffee at table, having, moreover, torrefied it, pulverised it, and mixed it himself. "Saccharum, doctor?" said he, offering the sugar. Then he had all his children brought down, anxious to have the physician's opinion on their constitutions. At last Monsieur Lariviere was about to leave, when Madame Homais asked for a consultation about her husband. He was making his blood too thick by going to sleep every evening after dinner. "Oh, it isn't his blood that's too thick," said the physician. And, smiling a little at his unnoticed joke, the doctor opened the door. But the chemist's shop was full of people; he had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of Monsieur Tuvache, who feared his spouse would get inflammation of the lungs, because she was in the habit of spitting on the ashes; then of Monsieur Binet, who sometimes experienced sudden attacks of great hunger; and of Madame Caron, who suffered from tinglings; of Lheureux, who had vertigo; of Lestiboudois, who had rheumatism; and of Madame Lefrancois, who had heartburn. At last the three horses started; and it was the general opinion that he had not shown himself at all obliging. Public attention was distracted by the appearance of Monsieur Bournisien, who was going across the market with the holy oil. Homais, as was due to his principles, compared priests to ravens attracted by the odour of death. The sight of an ecclesiastic was personally disagreeable to him, for the cassock made him think of the shroud, and he detested the one from some fear of the other. Nevertheless, not shrinking from what he called his mission, he returned to Bovary's in company with Canivet whom Monsieur Lariviere, before leaving, had strongly urged to make this visit; and he would, but for his wife's objections, have taken his two sons with him, in order to accustom them to great occasions; that this might be a lesson, an example, a solemn picture, that should remain in their heads later on. The room when they went in was full of mournful solemnity. On the work-table, covered over with a white cloth, there were five or six small balls of cotton in a silver dish, near a large crucifix between two lighted candles. Emma, her chin sunken upon her breast, had her eyes inordinately wide open, and her poor hands wandered over the sheets with that hideous and soft movement of the dying, that seems as if they wanted already to cover themselves with the shroud. Pale as a statue and with eyes red as fire, Charles, not weeping, stood opposite her at the foot of the bed, while the priest, bending one knee, was muttering words in a low voice. She turned her face slowly, and seemed filled with joy on seeing suddenly the violet stole, no doubt finding again, in the midst of a temporary lull in her pain, the lost voluptuousness of her first mystical transports, with the visions of eternal beatitude that were beginning. The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forward her neck as one who is athirst, and glueing her lips to the body of the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiring strength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given. Then he recited the Misereatur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right thumb in the oil, and began to give extreme unction. First upon the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon the nostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous odours; then upon the mouth, that had uttered lies, that had curled with pride and cried out in lewdness; then upon the hands that had delighted in sensual touches; and finally upon the soles of the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy her desires, and that would now walk no more. The cure wiped his fingers, threw the bit of cotton dipped in oil into the fire, and came and sat down by the dying woman, to tell her that she must now blend her sufferings with those of Jesus Christ and abandon herself to the divine mercy. Finishing his exhortations, he tried to place in her hand a blessed candle, symbol of the celestial glory with which she was soon to be surrounded. Emma, too weak, could not close her fingers, and the taper, but for Monsieur Bournisien would have fallen to the ground. However, she was not quite so pale, and her face had an expression of serenity as if the sacrament had cured her. The priest did not fail to point this out; he even explained to Bovary that the Lord sometimes prolonged the life of persons when he thought it meet for their salvation; and Charles remembered the day when, so near death, she had received the communion. Perhaps there was no need to despair, he thought. In fact, she looked around her slowly, as one awakening from a dream; then in a distinct voice she asked for her looking-glass, and remained some time bending over it, until the big tears fell from her eyes. Then she turned away her head with a sigh and fell back upon the pillows. Her chest soon began panting rapidly; the whole of her tongue protruded from her mouth; her eyes, as they rolled, grew paler, like the two globes of a lamp that is going out, so that one might have thought her already dead but for the fearful labouring of her ribs, shaken by violent breathing, as if the soul were struggling to free itself. Felicite knelt down before the crucifix, and the druggist himself slightly bent his knees, while Monsieur Canivet looked out vaguely at the Place. Bournisien had again begun to pray, his face bowed against the edge of the bed, his long black cassock trailing behind him in the room. Charles was on the other side, on his knees, his arms outstretched towards Emma. He had taken her hands and pressed them, shuddering at every beat of her heart, as at the shaking of a falling ruin. As the death-rattle became stronger the priest prayed faster; his prayers mingled with the stifled sobs of Bovary, and sometimes all seemed lost in the muffled murmur of the Latin syllables that tolled like a passing bell. Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and the clattering of a stick; and a voice rose--a raucous voice--that sang-- "Maids in the warmth of a summer day Dream of love and of love always" Emma raised herself like a galvanised corpse, her hair undone, her eyes fixed, staring. "Where the sickle blades have been, Nannette, gathering ears of corn, Passes bending down, my queen, To the earth where they were born." "The blind man!" she cried. And Emma began to laugh, an atrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace. "The wind is strong this summer day, Her petticoat has flown away." Sie fiel in einer Erschütterung auf die Matratze zurück. Sie alle näherten sich. Sie war tot. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Als sie sich La Huchette nähert, fragt sich Emma, was sie ihrem ehemaligen Liebhaber wohl sagen kann. Sie findet Rodolphe in seinem Raum, wie er eine Pfeife raucht und am Feuer sitzt. Emma versucht schwach, Rodolphe zurückzugewinnen, indem sie ihm sagt, dass sie wieder zusammen sein können. Sie sieht in ihrer Verzweiflung schön aus, und er ist tatsächlich gerührt - er küsst sie und sagt ihr, dass sie die einzige Frau für ihn ist. Allerdings nutzt Emma diesen Moment, um alles zu gestehen, in dem Glauben, dass sie aus dem Schneider ist - sie lügt darüber, wie das Geld verloren wurde, und lässt es so aussehen, als sei es nicht ihre Schuld. Sie bittet ihn um dreitausend Francs. Rodolphe ist von dieser Flut an Forderungen abgestoßen - er erkennt, dass sie nur wegen seines Geldes zu ihm gekommen ist. Er sagt ihr ehrlich, dass er es nicht einmal hat. Rodolphe ist trotz seiner Mängel kein völlig böser Mann. Er hätte ihr das Geld gegeben, wenn er es tatsächlich gehabt hätte - aber er hat es wirklich nicht. Emma glaubt das nicht; sie nimmt an, dass er sie nie geliebt hat und ihr jetzt etwas vorenthält. Sie flippt aus, beschuldigt ihn, sie über sein Geld angelogen zu haben. Sie benutzt seinen extravaganten Besitz als Beweis und schreit ihn wegen allem an, was er ihr je angetan hat. Rodolphe behauptet noch einmal, dass er das Geld nicht hat. Emma, wütend und verzweifelt, geht. Es ist Nacht; Emma's vierundzwanzig Stunden sind längst vorbei, und sie hat nichts, was sie Lheureux geben kann. Auf dem Heimweg macht sie einen Halt in der Apotheke. Die Familie Homais isst zu Abend, aber sie will sie nicht sehen. Denjenigen, den sie sehen will, ist Justin - sie überredet ihn, ihr den Schlüssel zum Giftschrank im Obergeschoss zu geben, angeblich um einige Ratten zu töten. Justin ist von ihrer Schönheit beeindruckt, und obwohl er etwas Schlimmes kommen spürt, gibt er nach. Sobald sie im Depot sind, stürzt sie sich auf die Flasche mit Arsen, auf die Homais sie an einem längst vergangenen Marmeladentag hingewiesen hat, und beginnt das weiße Pulver zu essen. Justin ist völlig schockiert, so wie er es sein sollte. Er versucht, sie aufzuhalten, aber sie droht ihm und sagt, dass jeder denken wird, dass es Homais' Schuld ist, wenn er etwas sagt. Nach Einnahme des Giftes geht Emma merkwürdigerweise zufrieden nach Hause. Charles ist völlig verwirrt. Er versteht überhaupt nicht, was vor sich geht - woher könnte all diese mysteriöse Schuld nur kommen? Er geht auf die Suche nach Emma, und als er zurückkommt, ist sie schon zu Hause. Er fragt sie gebrochen, was passiert ist. Als Antwort schreibt Emma einen Brief und bittet ihn, ihn am nächsten Tag zu öffnen. Sie geht ohne ein weiteres Wort ins Bett. Emma beobachtet die Reaktion ihres Körpers eine Weile lang mit einer abgeklärten Ruhe - sie geht davon aus, dass sie einfach einschlafen und nicht mehr aufwachen wird. Der Tod durch Arsen ist jedoch nicht so einfach. Sie wacht mit einem schrecklichen Tintengeschmack im Mund auf und wird plötzlich von Übelkeit geschüttelt. Das Gift tritt ein, und glaubt uns, es ist nicht schön. Um acht Uhr fängt Emma an zu erbrechen. Charles ist von einigen der Symptome verwirrt und kann nicht erkennen, was mit ihr nicht stimmt. Emma wird von heftigen Krämpfen geschüttelt. In Charles' ängstlichen Augen sieht sie endlich die wahre Liebe, die sie noch nie zuvor gesehen hat - aber es ist zu spät. Charles liest verzweifelt den Brief und verfällt in Wahnsinn. Plötzlich weiß jeder, dass Emma vergiftet ist; Homais schickt Justin, um die Ärzte Canivet und Lariviere zu holen. Alle flippen aus. Homais tut sein Bestes, um zu überlegen, was sie tun sollen, und Charles ist nutzlos. Emma erkennt schließlich, dass Charles sie die ganze Zeit über geliebt hat, und sie versucht, ihn zu beruhigen - das macht seinen Schmerz nur noch schlimmer. Berthe wird herein gebracht, müde und verwirrt; das Kind hält es für Silvester, die einzige Zeit, zu der es spät aufbleiben darf, und erwartet Geschenke. Doch bald wird Berthe von dem schrecklichen Aussehen ihrer Mutter erschreckt und weggebracht. Die Symptome hören eine Weile lang auf, und Charles beruhigt sich in der Hoffnung, dass Emma es schaffen wird. Canivet trifft ein und erklärt entschlossen, dass Emmas Magen entleert werden muss. Sie geben ihr ein Medikament, um das Erbrechen zu induzieren. Das erweist sich als die falsche Entscheidung. Emma fängt an, Blut zu erbrechen, und sie fängt an, schrecklich zu schreien. Jeder, auch Monsieur Canivet, ist entsetzt. Schließlich kommt Dr. Lariviere. Mit ihm kommt frische Hoffnung - er ist berühmt für sein Wissen und seine Fähigkeiten, und alle sehen zu ihm auf. Nachdem er Emma gesehen hat, ist Lariviere jedoch ebenfalls strenge Mine. Obwohl er es gewohnt ist, Menschen in Elend zu sehen, lässt ihn der Anblick der gequälten Familie nicht kalt. Er sagt Charles, dass nichts mehr getan werden kann. Homais, trotz seiner Trauer, fasst sich genug zusammen, um Dr. Lariviere und Monsieur Canivet zum Mittagessen einzuladen. Madame Homais zaubert schnell das aufwendigste Essen, das sie finden kann. Während mehrerer Gänge beschreibt Homais, was seiner Meinung nach mit Emma passiert ist. Niemand kann herausfinden, wie sie sich selbst vergiftet hat; Justin, der dies mit anhört und zweifellos ein unglaublich schlechtes Gewissen hat, lässt einen Stapel Teller fallen. Homais' Stolz überwiegt bald jedes noch so geringe Mitgefühl, das er für den armen Charles und Emma haben könnte. Er prahlt damit, wie gut er sich mit Giften und Krankheiten auskennt. Homais zwingt Dr. Lariviere, alle seine Kinder zu untersuchen, um sicherzustellen, dass es ihnen gut geht. Lariviere, genervt, macht einen spöttischen Witz über Homais und versucht zu gehen. Doch alle anderen im Dorf hatten eine ähnliche Idee; sie belagern den Arzt und suchen seinen Rat zu ihren verschiedenen körperlichen Beschwerden. Lariviere fährt ohne einen weiteren Blick auf Emma davon, und die Leute im Dorf sind sich einig, dass der berühmte Chirurg ziemlich nutzlos war. Als nächstes kommt Pfarrer Bournisien, um Emma vor ihrem Tod die letzte Ölung zu geben. Homais begleitet ihn, obwohl er zynisch gegenüber der Religion ist. Charles hat einen letzten Moment der Hoffnung - es sieht so aus, als ginge es Emma nach dem Segen des Priesters besser. Doch dies ist nur die Ruhe vor dem Sturm. Plötzlich wird Emma von einer schrecklichen Anfall ergriffen, und ihr ganzer Körper wird von Schmerzen gepeinigt. Von draußen dringt der schrille Klang der Stimme des blinden Bettlers, der ein derbes Lied singt, herein. Emma ruft aus: "Der Blinde!" und lacht grässlich. Sie zuckt gewaltsam zurück zum Matratze und ist tot.

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 V. SCENE I. Belmont. The avenue to PORTIA's house. [Enter LORENZO and JESSICA.] LORENZO. The moon shines bright: in such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise, in such a night, Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night. JESSICA. In such a night Did Thisby fearfully o'ertrip the dew, And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismay'd away. LORENZO. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage. JESSICA. In such a night Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old AEson. LORENZO. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. JESSICA. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,-- And ne'er a true one. LORENZO. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her. JESSICA. I would out-night you, did no body come; But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. [Enter STEPHANO.] LORENZO. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? STEPHANO. A friend. LORENZO. A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend? STEPHANO. Stephano is my name, and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours. LORENZO. Who comes with her? STEPHANO. None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet return'd? LORENZO. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house. [Enter LAUNCELOT.] LAUNCELOT. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! LORENZO. Who calls? LAUNCELOT. Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola! LORENZO. Leave holloaing, man. Here! LAUNCELOT. Sola! Where? where? LORENZO. Here! LAUNCELOT. Tell him there's a post come from my master with his horn full of good news; my master will be here ere morning. [Exit] LORENZO. Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter; why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Within the house, your mistress is at hand; And bring your music forth into the air. [Exit STEPHANO.] How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. [Enter Musicians.] Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear. And draw her home with music. [Music.] JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. LORENZO. The reason is, your spirits are attentive; For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA, at a distance.] PORTIA. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. NERISSA. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. PORTIA. So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music! hark! NERISSA. It is your music, madam, of the house. PORTIA. Nothing is good, I see, without respect: Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. NERISSA. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. PORTIA. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace, ho! The moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak'd! [Music ceases.] LORENZO. That is the voice, Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia. PORTIA. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice. LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home. PORTIA. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return'd? LORENZO. Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before, To signify their coming. PORTIA. Go in, Nerissa: Give order to my servants that they take No note at all of our being absent hence; Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. [A tucket sounds.] LORENZO. Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not. PORTIA. This night methinks is but the daylight sick; It looks a little paler; 'tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid. [Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their Followers.] BASSANIO. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. PORTIA. Let me give light, but let me not be light, For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me: But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord. BASSANIO. I thank you, madam; give welcome to my friend: This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound. PORTIA. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. ANTONIO. No more than I am well acquitted of. PORTIA. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. GRATIANO. [To NERISSA] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong; In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk. Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. PORTIA. A quarrel, ho, already! What's the matter? GRATIANO. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutlers' poetry Upon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.' NERISSA. What talk you of the posy, or the value? You swore to me, when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death, And that it should lie with you in your grave; Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge's clerk! No, God's my judge, The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it. GRATIANO. He will, an if he live to be a man. NERISSA. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. GRATIANO. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk; A prating boy that begg'd it as a fee; I could not for my heart deny it him. PORTIA. You were to blame,--I must be plain with you,-- To part so slightly with your wife's first gift, A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger, And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part with it, and here he stands, I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief; An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it. BASSANIO.[Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off, And swear I lost the ring defending it. GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg'd it, and indeed Deserv'd it too; and then the boy, his clerk, That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine; And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings. PORTIA. What ring gave you, my lord? Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me. BASSANIO. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it; but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. PORTIA. Even so void is your false heart of truth; By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed Until I see the ring. NERISSA. Nor I in yours Till I again see mine. BASSANIO. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure. PORTIA. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas'd to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe: I'll die for't but some woman had the ring. BASSANIO. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, No woman had it, but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him, And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away; Even he that had held up the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforc'd to send it after him; I was beset with shame and courtesy; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; For, by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. PORTIA. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house; Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you; I'll not deny him anything I have, No, not my body, nor my husband's bed. Know him I shall, I am well sure of it. Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus; If you do not, if I be left alone, Now, by mine honour which is yet mine own, I'll have that doctor for mine bedfellow. NERISSA. And I his clerk; therefore be well advis'd How you do leave me to mine own protection. GRATIANO. Well, do you so: let not me take him then; For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen. ANTONIO. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. PORTIA. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding. BASSANIO. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; And in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself,-- PORTIA. Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, In each eye one; swear by your double self, And there's an oath of credit. BASSANIO. Nay, but hear me: Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. ANTONIO. I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, Had quite miscarried; I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. PORTIA. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, And bid him keep it better than the other. ANTONIO. Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring. BASSANIO. By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor! PORTIA. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio, For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. NERISSA. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk, In lieu of this, last night did lie with me. GRATIANO. Why, this is like the mending of high ways In summer, where the ways are fair enough. What! are we cuckolds ere we have deserv'd it? PORTIA. Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz'd: Here is a letter; read it at your leisure; It comes from Padua, from Bellario: There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, Nerissa there, her clerk: Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, And even but now return'd; I have not yet Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome; And I have better news in store for you Than you expect: unseal this letter soon; There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly. You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. ANTONIO. I am dumb. BASSANIO. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not? GRATIANO. Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold? NERISSA. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man. BASSANIO. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow: When I am absent, then lie with my wife. ANTONIO. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road. PORTIA. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. NERISSA. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess'd of. LORENZO. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people. PORTIA. It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in; And charge us there upon inter'gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully. GRATIANO. Let it be so: he first inter'gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whe'r till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day: But were the day come, I should wish it dark, Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk. Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. [Exeunt.} Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Lorenzo und Jessica sind immer noch in Belmont und betrachten den Nachthimmel. Sie zählen eine Reihe von Dingen auf, die an Nächten wie diesen passiert sind, einschließlich Troilus, der um Cressida weint, Thisby, die vor einem Löwen wegläuft, Dido, die auf ihren Geliebten wartet, Medea, die Kräuter für Jason sammelt, und in einer verdrehten Liebesgeschichte Jessica, die vor ihrem Vater zu Lorenzo flieht. Jessica neckt Lorenzo damit, dass er ihr seine Liebe geschworen hat, aber Lügen erzählt hat, und Lorenzo scherzt, dass sie ihre Liebe verleumdet, aber er verzeiht ihr. Sie werden von einem Boten unterbrochen, der sagt, dass Portia in dieser Nacht nach Belmont zurückkehrt. Seltsamerweise hält sie immer wieder an, um an heiligen Kreuzen am Straßenrand zu beten. Jessica und Lorenzo beschließen, ins Haus zu gehen und es für Portia vorzubereiten, um sie willkommen zu heißen. Sie werden von Lancelot unterbrochen, der die Szene betritt und seine übliche Dummheit zur Schau stellt. Der Narr erzählt Lorenzo schließlich, dass er eine Nachricht erhalten hat, dass Bassanio noch vor dem Morgen nach Hause kommt. Lorenzo und Jessica verbringen Zeit damit, Musik zu hören und in den Sternenhimmel zu schauen. Lorenzo sagt, er sollte wirklich nach drinnen gehen und sich vorbereiten, aber stattdessen entscheidet er sich draußen zu bleiben und Musik zu hören. Er spricht süß mit Jessica über die Kraft der Musik und wie sie niemandem vertrauen sollte, der nicht davon berührt wird. Lorenzo und Jessica sprechen noch mehr über die Kraft der Musik, aber die Szene wechselt zu Portia und Nerissa, die auch über Musik philosophieren. Portia sieht eine Kerze in ihrem Haus und bewundert, wie weit ihr kleines Licht leuchtet. Die beiden Frauen diskutieren dann einige philosophische Gedanken, wie zum Beispiel dass eine Kerze hell ist, bis man sie mit dem Mond vergleicht; und wie Musik, die tagsüber süß scheint, nachts, wenn alles ruhig ist und man sie besser hören kann, noch süßer ist. Lorenzo hört dann Portias Stimme und alle begrüßen sich. Portia erinnert schnell daran, dass sie und Nerissa für das Wohl ihrer Ehemänner beten waren. Als sie von Lorenzo hört, dass die beiden Männer noch in derselben Nacht nach Hause kommen, bittet Portia Nerissa sicherzustellen, dass alle Diener nichts über die Abwesenheit von ihr und Nerissa erwähnen. Sie gibt Lorenzo und Jessica die gleiche Anweisung. Gerade hören wir das Trompetensignal von Bassanios Annäherung, und Lorenzo verspricht, dass ihre Lippen versiegelt sind. Daraufhin betritt Bassanio mit Antonio, Graziano und anderen die Szene. Es gibt viel Aufhebens, als Bassanio Antonio Portia vorstellt, die ihn freundlich willkommen heißt. Nebenbei hören wir Graziano, wie er mit Nerissa streitet. Er besteht darauf, "es" dem Gerichtsschreiber gegeben zu haben. Graziano wünscht sich, dass der Gerichtsschreiber wie ein Pferd kastriert ist, da Nerissa so von seiner Entscheidung, den Ring wegzugeben, gestört ist. Portia richtet ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf ihren Streit, und Graziano sagt, dass Nerissas Aufregung nur um einen kleinen Ring geht. Nerissa weist natürlich darauf hin, dass es nicht um den Ring geht - es geht darum, dass Graziano geschworen hat, den Ring mit ins Grab zu nehmen. Selbst wenn er sich nicht um sie kümmere, sollte er zumindest seinen Eid respektiert haben. Graziano besteht jedoch weiterhin darauf, dass er den Ring dem jungen Jungen gegeben hat, der ihn als Gebühr für seine Dienste erbettelt hat. Portia unterstützt Nerissa und weist darauf hin, dass sie ihrem Ehemann auch einen Ring unter der Bedingung gegeben hat, dass er ihn für immer behält, und natürlich würde er niemals daran denken, ihn wegzugeben, oder? Der arme Bassanio gerät natürlich in Panik. So sehr, dass er denkt, er sollte einfach seine linke Hand abschneiden und schwört, dass er sie verteidigend verloren hat. Portia sagt, dass sie nicht "zum Bett" kommt, bis sie den Ring sieht. Nerissa macht dieselbe Drohung gegenüber Graziano. Bassanio versucht, sich herauszureden, indem er sagt, dass Portia nach den Umständen, unter denen er den Ring weggegeben hat, verzeihlicher wäre. Portia antwortet, dass er ihn überhaupt nicht weggegeben hätte, wenn er gewusst hätte, wie wertvoll sie ist. Es gibt einige Auseinandersetzungen darüber, ob der Ring einer Frau gegeben wurde, und Bassanio versucht die ganze Sache zu erklären: die 3000 Dukaten, der Zivilarzt, die scheinbare Undankbarkeit, usw. Portia sagt dann, dass wenn der Arzt jemals in ihr Haus kommt, sie in sein Haus kommt - wenn ihr versteht, was gemeint ist. Nerissa fügt hinzu, dass sie mit dem Gerichtsschreiber des Arztes schlafen würde, aber Graziano findet das nicht in Ordnung. Antonio beendet den Streit. Nachdem er knapp Shylocks Messer entkommen ist, ist er bereit, sein Leben erneut zu riskieren, um eine Garantie dafür zu geben, dass Bassanio von diesem Moment an Portia treu sein wird. Portia übergibt Antonio ihren Ring, damit er ihn Bassanio gibt, der schwören muss, ihn zu behalten. Bassanio ist schockiert, den gleichen Ring zurückzubekommen, und sagt so etwas wie "Wow! Ich habe den dem Arzt gegeben!" Dann antwortet Portia "Toll! Ich habe mit dem Arzt geschlafen!" Nerissa gibt Graziano auch ihren Ring zurück und fügt beiläufig hinzu, dass sie mit dem Gerichtsschreiber des Arztes geschlafen hat. Während Graziano lamentiert, dass er zum Hahnrei gemacht wurde, bevor er es verdient hat, räumt Portia alles auf. Sie übergibt einen weiteren Brief von dem mysteriösen Doktor Bellario, der geschrieben hat, dass Portia die Ärztin bei Shylocks Gerichtsverhandlung war und Nerissa die Gerichtsschreiberin. Außerdem hat Portia auf magische Weise einen Brief für Antonio bekommen, in dem steht, dass drei seiner Schiffe zufällig sicher im Hafen angekommen sind. Antonio sagt "Ich bin sprachlos". Dann versöhnen sich alle. Bassanio sagt, der Arzt könne jederzeit mit seiner Frau schlafen, da der Arzt seine Frau ist. Antonio lobt Portia dafür, ihm "sein Leben und sein Dasein geschenkt" zu haben. Und Nerissa gibt Lorenzo die gute Nachricht, dass er und Jessica das gesamte Erbe von Shylock erhalten werden. Portia fügt hinzu, dass sie alles weitere erklären wird, sobald alle sich niedergelassen haben. Graziano schließt das Stück und fragt sich, da es kurz vor Morgen ist, ob er jetzt mit Nerissa schlafen kann oder ob er bis morgen Nacht warten muss. Ende!

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 was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!--Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips. The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters, I beheld the wretch--the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete! Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain, which poured from a black and comfortless sky. I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me: Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turn'd round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!" Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield: 'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge." "It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth." "Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself.--But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights." "You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free." I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good-fortune could have befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval. We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him. "My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?" "Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "_he_ can tell.--Oh, save me! save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit. Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time. This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them. But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event. By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion. "Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion; but you will forgive me." "You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?" I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think? "Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own hand-writing. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence." "Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are so deserving of my love." "If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your cousin, I believe." 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.

In diesem Kapitel ist Frankensteins Kreation endlich vollendet. Sobald das Monster zum Leben erwacht, wird Victor jedoch von intensivem Abscheu erfüllt. Er erklärt: "Die Schönheit des Traums verschwand, und atemloser Horror und Ekel erfüllten mein Herz." Er verlässt sofort seine Wohnung und spürt, dass ein geistiger Zusammenbruch bevorsteht. Draußen stößt er auf Henry Clerval, seinen lieben Kindheitsfreund, der nach Ingolstadt gekommen ist, um Frankenstein zu besuchen und orientalische Sprachen zu studieren. Victor ist immer noch sehr aufgeregt, hält sich jedoch davon ab, Henry zu sagen, was los ist; die Anwesenheit von Clerval hilft ihm dabei, sich zu entspannen. Clerval berichtet, dass zu Hause alles in Ordnung ist, obwohl er besorgt ist, dass Victor in letzter Zeit nicht geschrieben hat. Schließlich kehren die beiden in seine Wohnung zurück, und Frankenstein schaut ängstlich in sein Zimmer und ist erleichtert festzustellen, dass das Ungeheuer verschwunden 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: Mrs. Higgins's drawing-room. She is at her writing-table as before. The parlor-maid comes in. THE PARLOR-MAID [at the door] Mr. Henry, mam, is downstairs with Colonel Pickering. MRS. HIGGINS. Well, show them up. THE PARLOR-MAID. They're using the telephone, mam. Telephoning to the police, I think. MRS. HIGGINS. What! THE PARLOR-MAID [coming further in and lowering her voice] Mr. Henry's in a state, mam. I thought I'd better tell you. MRS. HIGGINS. If you had told me that Mr. Henry was not in a state it would have been more surprising. Tell them to come up when they've finished with the police. I suppose he's lost something. THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, maam [going]. MRS. HIGGINS. Go upstairs and tell Miss Doolittle that Mr. Henry and the Colonel are here. Ask her not to come down till I send for her. THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, mam. Higgins bursts in. He is, as the parlor-maid has said, in a state. HIGGINS. Look here, mother: here's a confounded thing! MRS. HIGGINS. Yes, dear. Good-morning. [He checks his impatience and kisses her, whilst the parlor-maid goes out]. What is it? HIGGINS. Eliza's bolted. MRS. HIGGINS [calmly continuing her writing] You must have frightened her. HIGGINS. Frightened her! nonsense! She was left last night, as usual, to turn out the lights and all that; and instead of going to bed she changed her clothes and went right off: her bed wasn't slept in. She came in a cab for her things before seven this morning; and that fool Mrs. Pearce let her have them without telling me a word about it. What am I to do? MRS. HIGGINS. Do without, I'm afraid, Henry. The girl has a perfect right to leave if she chooses. HIGGINS [wandering distractedly across the room] But I can't find anything. I don't know what appointments I've got. I'm-- [Pickering comes in. Mrs. Higgins puts down her pen and turns away from the writing-table]. PICKERING [shaking hands] Good-morning, Mrs. Higgins. Has Henry told you? [He sits down on the ottoman]. HIGGINS. What does that ass of an inspector say? Have you offered a reward? MRS. HIGGINS [rising in indignant amazement] You don't mean to say you have set the police after Eliza? HIGGINS. Of course. What are the police for? What else could we do? [He sits in the Elizabethan chair]. PICKERING. The inspector made a lot of difficulties. I really think he suspected us of some improper purpose. MRS. HIGGINS. Well, of course he did. What right have you to go to the police and give the girl's name as if she were a thief, or a lost umbrella, or something? Really! [She sits down again, deeply vexed]. HIGGINS. But we want to find her. PICKERING. We can't let her go like this, you know, Mrs. Higgins. What were we to do? MRS. HIGGINS. You have no more sense, either of you, than two children. Why-- The parlor-maid comes in and breaks off the conversation. THE PARLOR-MAID. Mr. Henry: a gentleman wants to see you very particular. He's been sent on from Wimpole Street. HIGGINS. Oh, bother! I can't see anyone now. Who is it? THE PARLOR-MAID. A Mr. Doolittle, Sir. PICKERING. Doolittle! Do you mean the dustman? THE PARLOR-MAID. Dustman! Oh no, sir: a gentleman. HIGGINS [springing up excitedly] By George, Pick, it's some relative of hers that she's gone to. Somebody we know nothing about. [To the parlor-maid] Send him up, quick. THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, Sir. [She goes]. HIGGINS [eagerly, going to his mother] Genteel relatives! now we shall hear something. [He sits down in the Chippendale chair]. MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know any of her people? PICKERING. Only her father: the fellow we told you about. THE PARLOR-MAID [announcing] Mr. Doolittle. [She withdraws]. Doolittle enters. He is brilliantly dressed in a new fashionable frock-coat, with white waistcoat and grey trousers. A flower in his buttonhole, a dazzling silk hat, and patent leather shoes complete the effect. He is too concerned with the business he has come on to notice Mrs. Higgins. He walks straight to Higgins, and accosts him with vehement reproach. DOOLITTLE [indicating his own person] See here! Do you see this? You done this. HIGGINS. Done what, man? DOOLITTLE. This, I tell you. Look at it. Look at this hat. Look at this coat. PICKERING. Has Eliza been buying you clothes? DOOLITTLE. Eliza! not she. Not half. Why would she buy me clothes? MRS. HIGGINS. Good-morning, Mr. Doolittle. Won't you sit down? DOOLITTLE [taken aback as he becomes conscious that he has forgotten his hostess] Asking your pardon, ma'am. [He approaches her and shakes her proffered hand]. Thank you. [He sits down on the ottoman, on Pickering's right]. I am that full of what has happened to me that I can't think of anything else. HIGGINS. What the dickens has happened to you? DOOLITTLE. I shouldn't mind if it had only happened to me: anything might happen to anybody and nobody to blame but Providence, as you might say. But this is something that you done to me: yes, you, Henry Higgins. HIGGINS. Have you found Eliza? That's the point. DOOLITTLE. Have you lost her? HIGGINS. Yes. DOOLITTLE. You have all the luck, you have. I ain't found her; but she'll find me quick enough now after what you done to me. MRS. HIGGINS. But what has my son done to you, Mr. Doolittle? DOOLITTLE. Done to me! Ruined me. Destroyed my happiness. Tied me up and delivered me into the hands of middle class morality. HIGGINS [rising intolerantly and standing over Doolittle] You're raving. You're drunk. You're mad. I gave you five pounds. After that I had two conversations with you, at half-a-crown an hour. I've never seen you since. DOOLITTLE. Oh! Drunk! am I? Mad! am I? Tell me this. Did you or did you not write a letter to an old blighter in America that was giving five millions to found Moral Reform Societies all over the world, and that wanted you to invent a universal language for him? HIGGINS. What! Ezra D. Wannafeller! He's dead. [He sits down again carelessly]. DOOLITTLE. Yes: he's dead; and I'm done for. Now did you or did you not write a letter to him to say that the most original moralist at present in England, to the best of your knowledge, was Alfred Doolittle, a common dustman. HIGGINS. Oh, after your last visit I remember making some silly joke of the kind. DOOLITTLE. Ah! you may well call it a silly joke. It put the lid on me right enough. Just give him the chance he wanted to show that Americans is not like us: that they recognize and respect merit in every class of life, however humble. Them words is in his blooming will, in which, Henry Higgins, thanks to your silly joking, he leaves me a share in his Pre-digested Cheese Trust worth three thousand a year on condition that I lecture for his Wannafeller Moral Reform World League as often as they ask me up to six times a year. HIGGINS. The devil he does! Whew! [Brightening suddenly] What a lark! PICKERING. A safe thing for you, Doolittle. They won't ask you twice. DOOLITTLE. It ain't the lecturing I mind. I'll lecture them blue in the face, I will, and not turn a hair. It's making a gentleman of me that I object to. Who asked him to make a gentleman of me? I was happy. I was free. I touched pretty nigh everybody for money when I wanted it, same as I touched you, Henry Higgins. Now I am worrited; tied neck and heels; and everybody touches me for money. It's a fine thing for you, says my solicitor. Is it? says I. You mean it's a good thing for you, I says. When I was a poor man and had a solicitor once when they found a pram in the dust cart, he got me off, and got shut of me and got me shut of him as quick as he could. Same with the doctors: used to shove me out of the hospital before I could hardly stand on my legs, and nothing to pay. Now they finds out that I'm not a healthy man and can't live unless they looks after me twice a day. In the house I'm not let do a hand's turn for myself: somebody else must do it and touch me for it. A year ago I hadn't a relative in the world except two or three that wouldn't speak to me. Now I've fifty, and not a decent week's wages among the lot of them. I have to live for others and not for myself: that's middle class morality. You talk of losing Eliza. Don't you be anxious: I bet she's on my doorstep by this: she that could support herself easy by selling flowers if I wasn't respectable. And the next one to touch me will be you, Henry Higgins. I'll have to learn to speak middle class language from you, instead of speaking proper English. That's where you'll come in; and I daresay that's what you done it for. MRS. HIGGINS. But, my dear Mr. Doolittle, you need not suffer all this if you are really in earnest. Nobody can force you to accept this bequest. You can repudiate it. Isn't that so, Colonel Pickering? PICKERING. I believe so. DOOLITTLE [softening his manner in deference to her sex] That's the tragedy of it, ma'am. It's easy to say chuck it; but I haven't the nerve. Which one of us has? We're all intimidated. Intimidated, ma'am: that's what we are. What is there for me if I chuck it but the workhouse in my old age? I have to dye my hair already to keep my job as a dustman. If I was one of the deserving poor, and had put by a bit, I could chuck it; but then why should I, acause the deserving poor might as well be millionaires for all the happiness they ever has. They don't know what happiness is. But I, as one of the undeserving poor, have nothing between me and the pauper's uniform but this here blasted three thousand a year that shoves me into the middle class. (Excuse the expression, ma'am: you'd use it yourself if you had my provocation). They've got you every way you turn: it's a choice between the Skilly of the workhouse and the Char Bydis of the middle class; and I haven't the nerve for the workhouse. Intimidated: that's what I am. Broke. Bought up. Happier men than me will call for my dust, and touch me for their tip; and I'll look on helpless, and envy them. And that's what your son has brought me to. [He is overcome by emotion]. MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I'm very glad you're not going to do anything foolish, Mr. Doolittle. For this solves the problem of Eliza's future. You can provide for her now. DOOLITTLE [with melancholy resignation] Yes, ma'am; I'm expected to provide for everyone now, out of three thousand a year. HIGGINS [jumping up] Nonsense! he can't provide for her. He shan't provide for her. She doesn't belong to him. I paid him five pounds for her. Doolittle: either you're an honest man or a rogue. DOOLITTLE [tolerantly] A little of both, Henry, like the rest of us: a little of both. HIGGINS. Well, you took that money for the girl; and you have no right to take her as well. MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: don't be absurd. If you really want to know where Eliza is, she is upstairs. HIGGINS [amazed] Upstairs!!! Then I shall jolly soon fetch her downstairs. [He makes resolutely for the door]. MRS. HIGGINS [rising and following him] Be quiet, Henry. Sit down. HIGGINS. I-- MRS. HIGGINS. Sit down, dear; and listen to me. HIGGINS. Oh very well, very well, very well. [He throws himself ungraciously on the ottoman, with his face towards the windows]. But I think you might have told me this half an hour ago. MRS. HIGGINS. Eliza came to me this morning. She passed the night partly walking about in a rage, partly trying to throw herself into the river and being afraid to, and partly in the Carlton Hotel. She told me of the brutal way you two treated her. HIGGINS [bounding up again] What! PICKERING [rising also] My dear Mrs. Higgins, she's been telling you stories. We didn't treat her brutally. We hardly said a word to her; and we parted on particularly good terms. [Turning on Higgins]. Higgins: did you bully her after I went to bed? HIGGINS. Just the other way about. She threw my slippers in my face. She behaved in the most outrageous way. I never gave her the slightest provocation. The slippers came bang into my face the moment I entered the room--before I had uttered a word. And used perfectly awful language. PICKERING [astonished] But why? What did we do to her? MRS. HIGGINS. I think I know pretty well what you did. The girl is naturally rather affectionate, I think. Isn't she, Mr. Doolittle? DOOLITTLE. Very tender-hearted, ma'am. Takes after me. MRS. HIGGINS. Just so. She had become attached to you both. She worked very hard for you, Henry! I don't think you quite realize what anything in the nature of brain work means to a girl like that. Well, it seems that when the great day of trial came, and she did this wonderful thing for you without making a single mistake, you two sat there and never said a word to her, but talked together of how glad you were that it was all over and how you had been bored with the whole thing. And then you were surprised because she threw your slippers at you! _I_ should have thrown the fire-irons at you. HIGGINS. We said nothing except that we were tired and wanted to go to bed. Did we, Pick? PICKERING [shrugging his shoulders] That was all. MRS. HIGGINS [ironically] Quite sure? PICKERING. Absolutely. Really, that was all. MRS. HIGGINS. You didn't thank her, or pet her, or admire her, or tell her how splendid she'd been. HIGGINS [impatiently] But she knew all about that. We didn't make speeches to her, if that's what you mean. PICKERING [conscience stricken] Perhaps we were a little inconsiderate. Is she very angry? MRS. HIGGINS [returning to her place at the writing-table] Well, I'm afraid she won't go back to Wimpole Street, especially now that Mr. Doolittle is able to keep up the position you have thrust on her; but she says she is quite willing to meet you on friendly terms and to let bygones be bygones. HIGGINS [furious] Is she, by George? Ho! MRS. HIGGINS. If you promise to behave yourself, Henry, I'll ask her to come down. If not, go home; for you have taken up quite enough of my time. HIGGINS. Oh, all right. Very well. Pick: you behave yourself. Let us put on our best Sunday manners for this creature that we picked out of the mud. [He flings himself sulkily into the Elizabethan chair]. DOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, Henry Higgins! have some consideration for my feelings as a middle class man. MRS. HIGGINS. Remember your promise, Henry. [She presses the bell-button on the writing-table]. Mr. Doolittle: will you be so good as to step out on the balcony for a moment. I don't want Eliza to have the shock of your news until she has made it up with these two gentlemen. Would you mind? DOOLITTLE. As you wish, lady. Anything to help Henry to keep her off my hands. [He disappears through the window]. The parlor-maid answers the bell. Pickering sits down in Doolittle's place. MRS. HIGGINS. Ask Miss Doolittle to come down, please. THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, mam. [She goes out]. MRS. HIGGINS. Now, Henry: be good. HIGGINS. I am behaving myself perfectly. PICKERING. He is doing his best, Mrs. Higgins. A pause. Higgins throws back his head; stretches out his legs; and begins to whistle. MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, dearest, you don't look at all nice in that attitude. HIGGINS [pulling himself together] I was not trying to look nice, mother. MRS. HIGGINS. It doesn't matter, dear. I only wanted to make you speak. HIGGINS. Why? MRS. HIGGINS. Because you can't speak and whistle at the same time. Higgins groans. Another very trying pause. HIGGINS [springing up, out of patience] Where the devil is that girl? Are we to wait here all day? Eliza enters, sunny, self-possessed, and giving a staggeringly convincing exhibition of ease of manner. She carries a little work-basket, and is very much at home. Pickering is too much taken aback to rise. LIZA. How do you do, Professor Higgins? Are you quite well? HIGGINS [choking] Am I-- [He can say no more]. LIZA. But of course you are: you are never ill. So glad to see you again, Colonel Pickering. [He rises hastily; and they shake hands]. Quite chilly this morning, isn't it? [She sits down on his left. He sits beside her]. HIGGINS. Don't you dare try this game on me. I taught it to you; and it doesn't take me in. Get up and come home; and don't be a fool. Eliza takes a piece of needlework from her basket, and begins to stitch at it, without taking the least notice of this outburst. MRS. HIGGINS. Very nicely put, indeed, Henry. No woman could resist such an invitation. HIGGINS. You let her alone, mother. Let her speak for herself. You will jolly soon see whether she has an idea that I haven't put into her head or a word that I haven't put into her mouth. I tell you I have created this thing out of the squashed cabbage leaves of Covent Garden; and now she pretends to play the fine lady with me. MRS. HIGGINS [placidly] Yes, dear; but you'll sit down, won't you? Higgins sits down again, savagely. LIZA [to Pickering, taking no apparent notice of Higgins, and working away deftly] Will you drop me altogether now that the experiment is over, Colonel Pickering? PICKERING. Oh don't. You mustn't think of it as an experiment. It shocks me, somehow. LIZA. Oh, I'm only a squashed cabbage leaf. PICKERING [impulsively] No. LIZA [continuing quietly]--but I owe so much to you that I should be very unhappy if you forgot me. PICKERING. It's very kind of you to say so, Miss Doolittle. LIZA. It's not because you paid for my dresses. I know you are generous to everybody with money. But it was from you that I learnt really nice manners; and that is what makes one a lady, isn't it? You see it was so very difficult for me with the example of Professor Higgins always before me. I was brought up to be just like him, unable to control myself, and using bad language on the slightest provocation. And I should never have known that ladies and gentlemen didn't behave like that if you hadn't been there. HIGGINS. Well!! PICKERING. Oh, that's only his way, you know. He doesn't mean it. LIZA. Oh, I didn't mean it either, when I was a flower girl. It was only my way. But you see I did it; and that's what makes the difference after all. PICKERING. No doubt. Still, he taught you to speak; and I couldn't have done that, you know. LIZA [trivially] Of course: that is his profession. HIGGINS. Damnation! LIZA [continuing] It was just like learning to dance in the fashionable way: there was nothing more than that in it. But do you know what began my real education? PICKERING. What? LIZA [stopping her work for a moment] Your calling me Miss Doolittle that day when I first came to Wimpole Street. That was the beginning of self-respect for me. [She resumes her stitching]. And there were a hundred little things you never noticed, because they came naturally to you. Things about standing up and taking off your hat and opening doors-- PICKERING. Oh, that was nothing. LIZA. Yes: things that showed you thought and felt about me as if I were something better than a scullerymaid; though of course I know you would have been just the same to a scullery-maid if she had been let in the drawing-room. You never took off your boots in the dining room when I was there. PICKERING. You mustn't mind that. Higgins takes off his boots all over the place. LIZA. I know. I am not blaming him. It is his way, isn't it? But it made such a difference to me that you didn't do it. You see, really and truly, apart from the things anyone can pick up (the dressing and the proper way of speaking, and so on), the difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she's treated. I shall always be a flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me as a flower girl, and always will; but I know I can be a lady to you, because you always treat me as a lady, and always will. MRS. HIGGINS. Please don't grind your teeth, Henry. PICKERING. Well, this is really very nice of you, Miss Doolittle. LIZA. I should like you to call me Eliza, now, if you would. PICKERING. Thank you. Eliza, of course. LIZA. And I should like Professor Higgins to call me Miss Doolittle. HIGGINS. I'll see you damned first. MRS. HIGGINS. Henry! Henry! PICKERING [laughing] Why don't you slang back at him? Don't stand it. It would do him a lot of good. LIZA. I can't. I could have done it once; but now I can't go back to it. Last night, when I was wandering about, a girl spoke to me; and I tried to get back into the old way with her; but it was no use. You told me, you know, that when a child is brought to a foreign country, it picks up the language in a few weeks, and forgets its own. Well, I am a child in your country. I have forgotten my own language, and can speak nothing but yours. That's the real break-off with the corner of Tottenham Court Road. Leaving Wimpole Street finishes it. PICKERING [much alarmed] Oh! but you're coming back to Wimpole Street, aren't you? You'll forgive Higgins? HIGGINS [rising] Forgive! Will she, by George! Let her go. Let her find out how she can get on without us. She will relapse into the gutter in three weeks without me at her elbow. Doolittle appears at the centre window. With a look of dignified reproach at Higgins, he comes slowly and silently to his daughter, who, with her back to the window, is unconscious of his approach. PICKERING. He's incorrigible, Eliza. You won't relapse, will you? LIZA. No: Not now. Never again. I have learnt my lesson. I don't believe I could utter one of the old sounds if I tried. [Doolittle touches her on her left shoulder. She drops her work, losing her self-possession utterly at the spectacle of her father's splendor] A--a--a--a--a--ah--ow--ooh! HIGGINS [with a crow of triumph] Aha! Just so. A--a--a--a--ahowooh! A--a--a--a--ahowooh ! A--a--a--a--ahowooh! Victory! Victory! [He throws himself on the divan, folding his arms, and spraddling arrogantly]. DOOLITTLE. Can you blame the girl? Don't look at me like that, Eliza. It ain't my fault. I've come into money. LIZA. You must have touched a millionaire this time, dad. DOOLITTLE. I have. But I'm dressed something special today. I'm going to St. George's, Hanover Square. Your stepmother is going to marry me. LIZA [angrily] You're going to let yourself down to marry that low common woman! PICKERING [quietly] He ought to, Eliza. [To Doolittle] Why has she changed her mind? DOOLITTLE [sadly] Intimidated, Governor. Intimidated. Middle class morality claims its victim. Won't you put on your hat, Liza, and come and see me turned off? LIZA. If the Colonel says I must, I--I'll [almost sobbing] I'll demean myself. And get insulted for my pains, like enough. DOOLITTLE. Don't be afraid: she never comes to words with anyone now, poor woman! respectability has broke all the spirit out of her. PICKERING [squeezing Eliza's elbow gently] Be kind to them, Eliza. Make the best of it. LIZA [forcing a little smile for him through her vexation] Oh well, just to show there's no ill feeling. I'll be back in a moment. [She goes out]. DOOLITTLE [sitting down beside Pickering] I feel uncommon nervous about the ceremony, Colonel. I wish you'd come and see me through it. PICKERING. But you've been through it before, man. You were married to Eliza's mother. DOOLITTLE. Who told you that, Colonel? PICKERING. Well, nobody told me. But I concluded naturally-- DOOLITTLE. No: that ain't the natural way, Colonel: it's only the middle class way. My way was always the undeserving way. But don't say nothing to Eliza. She don't know: I always had a delicacy about telling her. PICKERING. Quite right. We'll leave it so, if you don't mind. DOOLITTLE. And you'll come to the church, Colonel, and put me through straight? PICKERING. With pleasure. As far as a bachelor can. MRS. HIGGINS. May I come, Mr. Doolittle? I should be very sorry to miss your wedding. DOOLITTLE. I should indeed be honored by your condescension, ma'am; and my poor old woman would take it as a tremenjous compliment. She's been very low, thinking of the happy days that are no more. MRS. HIGGINS [rising] I'll order the carriage and get ready. [The men rise, except Higgins]. I shan't be more than fifteen minutes. [As she goes to the door Eliza comes in, hatted and buttoning her gloves]. I'm going to the church to see your father married, Eliza. You had better come in the brougham with me. Colonel Pickering can go on with the bridegroom. Mrs. Higgins goes out. Eliza comes to the middle of the room between the centre window and the ottoman. Pickering joins her. DOOLITTLE. Bridegroom! What a word! It makes a man realize his position, somehow. [He takes up his hat and goes towards the door]. PICKERING. Before I go, Eliza, do forgive him and come back to us. LIZA. I don't think papa would allow me. Would you, dad? DOOLITTLE [sad but magnanimous] They played you off very cunning, Eliza, them two sportsmen. If it had been only one of them, you could have nailed him. But you see, there was two; and one of them chaperoned the other, as you might say. [To Pickering] It was artful of you, Colonel; but I bear no malice: I should have done the same myself. I been the victim of one woman after another all my life; and I don't grudge you two getting the better of Eliza. I shan't interfere. It's time for us to go, Colonel. So long, Henry. See you in St. George's, Eliza. [He goes out]. PICKERING [coaxing] Do stay with us, Eliza. [He follows Doolittle]. Eliza goes out on the balcony to avoid being alone with Higgins. He rises and joins her there. She immediately comes back into the room and makes for the door; but he goes along the balcony quickly and gets his back to the door before she reaches it. HIGGINS. Well, Eliza, you've had a bit of your own back, as you call it. Have you had enough? and are you going to be reasonable? Or do you want any more? LIZA. You want me back only to pick up your slippers and put up with your tempers and fetch and carry for you. HIGGINS. I haven't said I wanted you back at all. LIZA. Oh, indeed. Then what are we talking about? HIGGINS. About you, not about me. If you come back I shall treat you just as I have always treated you. I can't change my nature; and I don't intend to change my manners. My manners are exactly the same as Colonel Pickering's. LIZA. That's not true. He treats a flower girl as if she was a duchess. HIGGINS. And I treat a duchess as if she was a flower girl. LIZA. I see. [She turns away composedly, and sits on the ottoman, facing the window]. The same to everybody. HIGGINS. Just so. LIZA. Like father. HIGGINS [grinning, a little taken down] Without accepting the comparison at all points, Eliza, it's quite true that your father is not a snob, and that he will be quite at home in any station of life to which his eccentric destiny may call him. [Seriously] The great secret, Eliza, is not having bad manners or good manners or any other particular sort of manners, but having the same manner for all human souls: in short, behaving as if you were in Heaven, where there are no third-class carriages, and one soul is as good as another. LIZA. Amen. You are a born preacher. HIGGINS [irritated] The question is not whether I treat you rudely, but whether you ever heard me treat anyone else better. LIZA [with sudden sincerity] I don't care how you treat me. I don't mind your swearing at me. I don't mind a black eye: I've had one before this. But [standing up and facing him] I won't be passed over. HIGGINS. Then get out of my way; for I won't stop for you. You talk about me as if I were a motor bus. LIZA. So you are a motor bus: all bounce and go, and no consideration for anyone. But I can do without you: don't think I can't. HIGGINS. I know you can. I told you you could. LIZA [wounded, getting away from him to the other side of the ottoman with her face to the hearth] I know you did, you brute. You wanted to get rid of me. HIGGINS. Liar. LIZA. Thank you. [She sits down with dignity]. HIGGINS. You never asked yourself, I suppose, whether I could do without YOU. LIZA [earnestly] Don't you try to get round me. You'll HAVE to do without me. HIGGINS [arrogant] I can do without anybody. I have my own soul: my own spark of divine fire. But [with sudden humility] I shall miss you, Eliza. [He sits down near her on the ottoman]. I have learnt something from your idiotic notions: I confess that humbly and gratefully. And I have grown accustomed to your voice and appearance. I like them, rather. LIZA. Well, you have both of them on your gramophone and in your book of photographs. When you feel lonely without me, you can turn the machine on. It's got no feelings to hurt. HIGGINS. I can't turn your soul on. Leave me those feelings; and you can take away the voice and the face. They are not you. LIZA. Oh, you ARE a devil. You can twist the heart in a girl as easy as some could twist her arms to hurt her. Mrs. Pearce warned me. Time and again she has wanted to leave you; and you always got round her at the last minute. And you don't care a bit for her. And you don't care a bit for me. HIGGINS. I care for life, for humanity; and you are a part of it that has come my way and been built into my house. What more can you or anyone ask? LIZA. I won't care for anybody that doesn't care for me. HIGGINS. Commercial principles, Eliza. Like [reproducing her Covent Garden pronunciation with professional exactness] s'yollin voylets [selling violets], isn't it? LIZA. Don't sneer at me. It's mean to sneer at me. HIGGINS. I have never sneered in my life. Sneering doesn't become either the human face or the human soul. I am expressing my righteous contempt for Commercialism. I don't and won't trade in affection. You call me a brute because you couldn't buy a claim on me by fetching my slippers and finding my spectacles. You were a fool: I think a woman fetching a man's slippers is a disgusting sight: did I ever fetch YOUR slippers? I think a good deal more of you for throwing them in my face. No use slaving for me and then saying you want to be cared for: who cares for a slave? If you come back, come back for the sake of good fellowship; for you'll get nothing else. You've had a thousand times as much out of me as I have out of you; and if you dare to set up your little dog's tricks of fetching and carrying slippers against my creation of a Duchess Eliza, I'll slam the door in your silly face. LIZA. What did you do it for if you didn't care for me? HIGGINS [heartily] Why, because it was my job. LIZA. You never thought of the trouble it would make for me. HIGGINS. Would the world ever have been made if its maker had been afraid of making trouble? Making life means making trouble. There's only one way of escaping trouble; and that's killing things. Cowards, you notice, are always shrieking to have troublesome people killed. LIZA. I'm no preacher: I don't notice things like that. I notice that you don't notice me. HIGGINS [jumping up and walking about intolerantly] Eliza: you're an idiot. I waste the treasures of my Miltonic mind by spreading them before you. Once for all, understand that I go my way and do my work without caring twopence what happens to either of us. I am not intimidated, like your father and your stepmother. So you can come back or go to the devil: which you please. LIZA. What am I to come back for? HIGGINS [bouncing up on his knees on the ottoman and leaning over it to her] For the fun of it. That's why I took you on. LIZA [with averted face] And you may throw me out tomorrow if I don't do everything you want me to? HIGGINS. Yes; and you may walk out tomorrow if I don't do everything YOU want me to. LIZA. And live with my stepmother? HIGGINS. Yes, or sell flowers. LIZA. Oh! if I only COULD go back to my flower basket! I should be independent of both you and father and all the world! Why did you take my independence from me? Why did I give it up? I'm a slave now, for all my fine clothes. HIGGINS. Not a bit. I'll adopt you as my daughter and settle money on you if you like. Or would you rather marry Pickering? LIZA [looking fiercely round at him] I wouldn't marry YOU if you asked me; and you're nearer my age than what he is. HIGGINS [gently] Than he is: not "than what he is." LIZA [losing her temper and rising] I'll talk as I like. You're not my teacher now. HIGGINS [reflectively] I don't suppose Pickering would, though. He's as confirmed an old bachelor as I am. LIZA. That's not what I want; and don't you think it. I've always had chaps enough wanting me that way. Freddy Hill writes to me twice and three times a day, sheets and sheets. HIGGINS [disagreeably surprised] Damn his impudence! [He recoils and finds himself sitting on his heels]. LIZA. He has a right to if he likes, poor lad. And he does love me. HIGGINS [getting off the ottoman] You have no right to encourage him. LIZA. Every girl has a right to be loved. HIGGINS. What! By fools like that? LIZA. Freddy's not a fool. And if he's weak and poor and wants me, may be he'd make me happier than my betters that bully me and don't want me. HIGGINS. Can he MAKE anything of you? That's the point. LIZA. Perhaps I could make something of him. But I never thought of us making anything of one another; and you never think of anything else. I only want to be natural. HIGGINS. In short, you want me to be as infatuated about you as Freddy? Is that it? LIZA. No I don't. That's not the sort of feeling I want from you. And don't you be too sure of yourself or of me. I could have been a bad girl if I'd liked. I've seen more of some things than you, for all your learning. Girls like me can drag gentlemen down to make love to them easy enough. And they wish each other dead the next minute. HIGGINS. Of course they do. Then what in thunder are we quarrelling about? LIZA [much troubled] I want a little kindness. I know I'm a common ignorant girl, and you a book-learned gentleman; but I'm not dirt under your feet. What I done [correcting herself] what I did was not for the dresses and the taxis: I did it because we were pleasant together and I come--came--to care for you; not to want you to make love to me, and not forgetting the difference between us, but more friendly like. HIGGINS. Well, of course. That's just how I feel. And how Pickering feels. Eliza: you're a fool. LIZA. That's not a proper answer to give me [she sinks on the chair at the writing-table in tears]. HIGGINS. It's all you'll get until you stop being a common idiot. If you're going to be a lady, you'll have to give up feeling neglected if the men you know don't spend half their time snivelling over you and the other half giving you black eyes. If you can't stand the coldness of my sort of life, and the strain of it, go back to the gutter. Work til you are more a brute than a human being; and then cuddle and squabble and drink til you fall asleep. Oh, it's a fine life, the life of the gutter. It's real: it's warm: it's violent: you can feel it through the thickest skin: you can taste it and smell it without any training or any work. Not like Science and Literature and Classical Music and Philosophy and Art. You find me cold, unfeeling, selfish, don't you? Very well: be off with you to the sort of people you like. Marry some sentimental hog or other with lots of money, and a thick pair of lips to kiss you with and a thick pair of boots to kick you with. If you can't appreciate what you've got, you'd better get what you can appreciate. LIZA [desperate] Oh, you are a cruel tyrant. I can't talk to you: you turn everything against me: I'm always in the wrong. But you know very well all the time that you're nothing but a bully. You know I can't go back to the gutter, as you call it, and that I have no real friends in the world but you and the Colonel. You know well I couldn't bear to live with a low common man after you two; and it's wicked and cruel of you to insult me by pretending I could. You think I must go back to Wimpole Street because I have nowhere else to go but father's. But don't you be too sure that you have me under your feet to be trampled on and talked down. I'll marry Freddy, I will, as soon as he's able to support me. HIGGINS [sitting down beside her] Rubbish! you shall marry an ambassador. You shall marry the Governor-General of India or the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, or somebody who wants a deputy-queen. I'm not going to have my masterpiece thrown away on Freddy. LIZA. You think I like you to say that. But I haven't forgot what you said a minute ago; and I won't be coaxed round as if I was a baby or a puppy. If I can't have kindness, I'll have independence. HIGGINS. Independence? That's middle class blasphemy. We are all dependent on one another, every soul of us on earth. LIZA [rising determinedly] I'll let you see whether I'm dependent on you. If you can preach, I can teach. I'll go and be a teacher. HIGGINS. What'll you teach, in heaven's name? LIZA. What you taught me. I'll teach phonetics. HIGGINS. Ha! Ha! Ha! LIZA. I'll offer myself as an assistant to Professor Nepean. HIGGINS [rising in a fury] What! That impostor! that humbug! that toadying ignoramus! Teach him my methods! my discoveries! You take one step in his direction and I'll wring your neck. [He lays hands on her]. Do you hear? LIZA [defiantly non-resistant] Wring away. What do I care? I knew you'd strike me some day. [He lets her go, stamping with rage at having forgotten himself, and recoils so hastily that he stumbles back into his seat on the ottoman]. Aha! Now I know how to deal with you. What a fool I was not to think of it before! You can't take away the knowledge you gave me. You said I had a finer ear than you. And I can be civil and kind to people, which is more than you can. Aha! That's done you, Henry Higgins, it has. Now I don't care that [snapping her fingers] for your bullying and your big talk. I'll advertize it in the papers that your duchess is only a flower girl that you taught, and that she'll teach anybody to be a duchess just the same in six months for a thousand guineas. Oh, when I think of myself crawling under your feet and being trampled on and called names, when all the time I had only to lift up my finger to be as good as you, I could just kick myself. HIGGINS [wondering at her] You damned impudent slut, you! But it's better than snivelling; better than fetching slippers and finding spectacles, isn't it? [Rising] By George, Eliza, I said I'd make a woman of you; and I have. I like you like this. LIZA. Yes: you turn round and make up to me now that I'm not afraid of you, and can do without you. HIGGINS. Of course I do, you little fool. Five minutes ago you were like a millstone round my neck. Now you're a tower of strength: a consort battleship. You and I and Pickering will be three old bachelors together instead of only two men and a silly girl. Mrs. Higgins returns, dressed for the wedding. Eliza instantly becomes cool and elegant. MRS. HIGGINS. The carriage is waiting, Eliza. Are you ready? LIZA. Quite. Is the Professor coming? MRS. HIGGINS. Certainly not. He can't behave himself in church. He makes remarks out loud all the time on the clergyman's pronunciation. LIZA. Then I shall not see you again, Professor. Good bye. [She goes to the door]. MRS. HIGGINS [coming to Higgins] Good-bye, dear. HIGGINS. Good-bye, mother. [He is about to kiss her, when he recollects something]. Oh, by the way, Eliza, order a ham and a Stilton cheese, will you? And buy me a pair of reindeer gloves, number eights, and a tie to match that new suit of mine, at Eale & Binman's. You can choose the color. [His cheerful, careless, vigorous voice shows that he is incorrigible]. LIZA [disdainfully] Buy them yourself. [She sweeps out]. MRS. HIGGINS. I'm afraid you've spoiled that girl, Henry. But never mind, dear: I'll buy you the tie and gloves. HIGGINS [sunnily] Oh, don't bother. She'll buy em all right enough. Good-bye. They kiss. Mrs. Higgins runs out. Higgins, left alone, rattles his cash in his pocket; chuckles; and disports himself in a highly self-satisfied manner. *********************** The rest of the story need not be shown in action, and indeed, would hardly need telling if our imaginations were not so enfeebled by their lazy dependence on the ready-makes and reach-me-downs of the ragshop in which Romance keeps its stock of "happy endings" to misfit all stories. Now, the history of Eliza Doolittle, though called a romance because of the transfiguration it records seems exceedingly improbable, is common enough. Such transfigurations have been achieved by hundreds of resolutely ambitious young women since Nell Gwynne set them the example by playing queens and fascinating kings in the theatre in which she began by selling oranges. Nevertheless, people in all directions have assumed, for no other reason than that she became the heroine of a romance, that she must have married the hero of it. This is unbearable, not only because her little drama, if acted on such a thoughtless assumption, must be spoiled, but because the true sequel is patent to anyone with a sense of human nature in general, and of feminine instinct in particular. Eliza, in telling Higgins she would not marry him if he asked her, was not coquetting: she was announcing a well-considered decision. When a bachelor interests, and dominates, and teaches, and becomes important to a spinster, as Higgins with Eliza, she always, if she has character enough to be capable of it, considers very seriously indeed whether she will play for becoming that bachelor's wife, especially if he is so little interested in marriage that a determined and devoted woman might capture him if she set herself resolutely to do it. Her decision will depend a good deal on whether she is really free to choose; and that, again, will depend on her age and income. If she is at the end of her youth, and has no security for her livelihood, she will marry him because she must marry anybody who will provide for her. But at Eliza's age a good-looking girl does not feel that pressure; she feels free to pick and choose. She is therefore guided by her instinct in the matter. Eliza's instinct tells her not to marry Higgins. It does not tell her to give him up. It is not in the slightest doubt as to his remaining one of the strongest personal interests in her life. It would be very sorely strained if there was another woman likely to supplant her with him. But as she feels sure of him on that last point, she has no doubt at all as to her course, and would not have any, even if the difference of twenty years in age, which seems so great to youth, did not exist between them. As our own instincts are not appealed to by her conclusion, let us see whether we cannot discover some reason in it. When Higgins excused his indifference to young women on the ground that they had an irresistible rival in his mother, he gave the clue to his inveterate old-bachelordom. The case is uncommon only to the extent that remarkable mothers are uncommon. If an imaginative boy has a sufficiently rich mother who has intelligence, personal grace, dignity of character without harshness, and a cultivated sense of the best art of her time to enable her to make her house beautiful, she sets a standard for him against which very few women can struggle, besides effecting for him a disengagement of his affections, his sense of beauty, and his idealism from his specifically sexual impulses. This makes him a standing puzzle to the huge number of uncultivated people who have been brought up in tasteless homes by commonplace or disagreeable parents, and to whom, consequently, literature, painting, sculpture, music, and affectionate personal relations come as modes of sex if they come at all. The word passion means nothing else to them; and that Higgins could have a passion for phonetics and idealize his mother instead of Eliza, would seem to them absurd and unnatural. Nevertheless, when we look round and see that hardly anyone is too ugly or disagreeable to find a wife or a husband if he or she wants one, whilst many old maids and bachelors are above the average in quality and culture, we cannot help suspecting that the disentanglement of sex from the associations with which it is so commonly confused, a disentanglement which persons of genius achieve by sheer intellectual analysis, is sometimes produced or aided by parental fascination. Now, though Eliza was incapable of thus explaining to herself Higgins's formidable powers of resistance to the charm that prostrated Freddy at the first glance, she was instinctively aware that she could never obtain a complete grip of him, or come between him and his mother (the first necessity of the married woman). To put it shortly, she knew that for some mysterious reason he had not the makings of a married man in him, according to her conception of a husband as one to whom she would be his nearest and fondest and warmest interest. Even had there been no mother-rival, she would still have refused to accept an interest in herself that was secondary to philosophic interests. Had Mrs. Higgins died, there would still have been Milton and the Universal Alphabet. Landor's remark that to those who have the greatest power of loving, love is a secondary affair, would not have recommended Landor to Eliza. Put that along with her resentment of Higgins's domineering superiority, and her mistrust of his coaxing cleverness in getting round her and evading her wrath when he had gone too far with his impetuous bullying, and you will see that Eliza's instinct had good grounds for warning her not to marry her Pygmalion. And now, whom did Eliza marry? For if Higgins was a predestinate old bachelor, she was most certainly not a predestinate old maid. Well, that can be told very shortly to those who have not guessed it from the indications she has herself given them. Almost immediately after Eliza is stung into proclaiming her considered determination not to marry Higgins, she mentions the fact that young Mr. Frederick Eynsford Hill is pouring out his love for her daily through the post. Now Freddy is young, practically twenty years younger than Higgins: he is a gentleman (or, as Eliza would qualify him, a toff), and speaks like one; he is nicely dressed, is treated by the Colonel as an equal, loves her unaffectedly, and is not her master, nor ever likely to dominate her in spite of his advantage of social standing. Eliza has no use for the foolish romantic tradition that all women love to be mastered, if not actually bullied and beaten. "When you go to women," says Nietzsche, "take your whip with you." Sensible despots have never confined that precaution to women: they have taken their whips with them when they have dealt with men, and been slavishly idealized by the men over whom they have flourished the whip much more than by women. No doubt there are slavish women as well as slavish men; and women, like men, admire those that are stronger than themselves. But to admire a strong person and to live under that strong person's thumb are two different things. The weak may not be admired and hero-worshipped; but they are by no means disliked or shunned; and they never seem to have the least difficulty in marrying people who are too good for them. They may fail in emergencies; but life is not one long emergency: it is mostly a string of situations for which no exceptional strength is needed, and with which even rather weak people can cope if they have a stronger partner to help them out. Accordingly, it is a truth everywhere in evidence that strong people, masculine or feminine, not only do not marry stronger people, but do not show any preference for them in selecting their friends. When a lion meets another with a louder roar "the first lion thinks the last a bore." The man or woman who feels strong enough for two, seeks for every other quality in a partner than strength. The converse is also true. Weak people want to marry strong people who do not frighten them too much; and this often leads them to make the mistake we describe metaphorically as "biting off more than they can chew." They want too much for too little; and when the bargain is unreasonable beyond all bearing, the union becomes impossible: it ends in the weaker party being either discarded or borne as a cross, which is worse. People who are not only weak, but silly or obtuse as well, are often in these difficulties. This being the state of human affairs, what is Eliza fairly sure to do when she is placed between Freddy and Higgins? Will she look forward to a lifetime of fetching Higgins's slippers or to a lifetime of Freddy fetching hers? There can be no doubt about the answer. Unless Freddy is biologically repulsive to her, and Higgins biologically attractive to a degree that overwhelms all her other instincts, she will, if she marries either of them, marry Freddy. And that is just what Eliza did. Complications ensued; but they were economic, not romantic. Freddy had no money and no occupation. His mother's jointure, a last relic of the opulence of Largelady Park, had enabled her to struggle along in Earlscourt with an air of gentility, but not to procure any serious secondary education for her children, much less give the boy a profession. A clerkship at thirty shillings a week was beneath Freddy's dignity, and extremely distasteful to him besides. His prospects consisted of a hope that if he kept up appearances somebody would do something for him. The something appeared vaguely to his imagination as a private secretaryship or a sinecure of some sort. To his mother it perhaps appeared as a marriage to some lady of means who could not resist her boy's niceness. Fancy her feelings when he married a flower girl who had become declassee under extraordinary circumstances which were now notorious! It is true that Eliza's situation did not seem wholly ineligible. Her father, though formerly a dustman, and now fantastically disclassed, had become extremely popular in the smartest society by a social talent which triumphed over every prejudice and every disadvantage. Rejected by the middle class, which he loathed, he had shot up at once into the highest circles by his wit, his dustmanship (which he carried like a banner), and his Nietzschean transcendence of good and evil. At intimate ducal dinners he sat on the right hand of the Duchess; and in country houses he smoked in the pantry and was made much of by the butler when he was not feeding in the dining-room and being consulted by cabinet ministers. But he found it almost as hard to do all this on four thousand a year as Mrs. Eynsford Hill to live in Earlscourt on an income so pitiably smaller that I have not the heart to disclose its exact figure. He absolutely refused to add the last straw to his burden by contributing to Eliza's support. Thus Freddy and Eliza, now Mr. and Mrs. Eynsford Hill, would have spent a penniless honeymoon but for a wedding present of 500 pounds from the Colonel to Eliza. It lasted a long time because Freddy did not know how to spend money, never having had any to spend, and Eliza, socially trained by a pair of old bachelors, wore her clothes as long as they held together and looked pretty, without the least regard to their being many months out of fashion. Still, 500 pounds will not last two young people for ever; and they both knew, and Eliza felt as well, that they must shift for themselves in the end. She could quarter herself on Wimpole Street because it had come to be her home; but she was quite aware that she ought not to quarter Freddy there, and that it would not be good for his character if she did. Not that the Wimpole Street bachelors objected. When she consulted them, Higgins declined to be bothered about her housing problem when that solution was so simple. Eliza's desire to have Freddy in the house with her seemed of no more importance than if she had wanted an extra piece of bedroom furniture. Pleas as to Freddy's character, and the moral obligation on him to earn his own living, were lost on Higgins. He denied that Freddy had any character, and declared that if he tried to do any useful work some competent person would have the trouble of undoing it: a procedure involving a net loss to the community, and great unhappiness to Freddy himself, who was obviously intended by Nature for such light work as amusing Eliza, which, Higgins declared, was a much more useful and honorable occupation than working in the city. When Eliza referred again to her project of teaching phonetics, Higgins abated not a jot of his violent opposition to it. He said she was not within ten years of being qualified to meddle with his pet subject; and as it was evident that the Colonel agreed with him, she felt she could not go against them in this grave matter, and that she had no right, without Higgins's consent, to exploit the knowledge he had given her; for his knowledge seemed to her as much his private property as his watch: Eliza was no communist. Besides, she was superstitiously devoted to them both, more entirely and frankly after her marriage than before it. It was the Colonel who finally solved the problem, which had cost him much perplexed cogitation. He one day asked Eliza, rather shyly, whether she had quite given up her notion of keeping a flower shop. She replied that she had thought of it, but had put it out of her head, because the Colonel had said, that day at Mrs. Higgins's, that it would never do. The Colonel confessed that when he said that, he had not quite recovered from the dazzling impression of the day before. They broke the matter to Higgins that evening. The sole comment vouchsafed by him very nearly led to a serious quarrel with Eliza. It was to the effect that she would have in Freddy an ideal errand boy. Freddy himself was next sounded on the subject. He said he had been thinking of a shop himself; though it had presented itself to his pennilessness as a small place in which Eliza should sell tobacco at one counter whilst he sold newspapers at the opposite one. But he agreed that it would be extraordinarily jolly to go early every morning with Eliza to Covent Garden and buy flowers on the scene of their first meeting: a sentiment which earned him many kisses from his wife. He added that he had always been afraid to propose anything of the sort, because Clara would make an awful row about a step that must damage her matrimonial chances, and his mother could not be expected to like it after clinging for so many years to that step of the social ladder on which retail trade is impossible. This difficulty was removed by an event highly unexpected by Freddy's mother. Clara, in the course of her incursions into those artistic circles which were the highest within her reach, discovered that her conversational qualifications were expected to include a grounding in the novels of Mr. H.G. Wells. She borrowed them in various directions so energetically that she swallowed them all within two months. The result was a conversion of a kind quite common today. A modern Acts of the Apostles would fill fifty whole Bibles if anyone were capable of writing it. Poor Clara, who appeared to Higgins and his mother as a disagreeable and ridiculous person, and to her own mother as in some inexplicable way a social failure, had never seen herself in either light; for, though to some extent ridiculed and mimicked in West Kensington like everybody else there, she was accepted as a rational and normal--or shall we say inevitable?--sort of human being. At worst they called her The Pusher; but to them no more than to herself had it ever occurred that she was pushing the air, and pushing it in a wrong direction. Still, she was not happy. She was growing desperate. Her one asset, the fact that her mother was what the Epsom greengrocer called a carriage lady had no exchange value, apparently. It had prevented her from getting educated, because the only education she could have afforded was education with the Earlscourt green grocer's daughter. It had led her to seek the society of her mother's class; and that class simply would not have her, because she was much poorer than the greengrocer, and, far from being able to afford a maid, could not afford even a housemaid, and had to scrape along at home with an illiberally treated general servant. Under such circumstances nothing could give her an air of being a genuine product of Largelady Park. And yet its tradition made her regard a marriage with anyone within her reach as an unbearable humiliation. Commercial people and professional people in a small way were odious to her. She ran after painters and novelists; but she did not charm them; and her bold attempts to pick up and practise artistic and literary talk irritated them. She was, in short, an utter failure, an ignorant, incompetent, pretentious, unwelcome, penniless, useless little snob; and though she did not admit these disqualifications (for nobody ever faces unpleasant truths of this kind until the possibility of a way out dawns on them) she felt their effects too keenly to be satisfied with her position. Clara had a startling eyeopener when, on being suddenly wakened to enthusiasm by a girl of her own age who dazzled her and produced in her a gushing desire to take her for a model, and gain her friendship, she discovered that this exquisite apparition had graduated from the gutter in a few months' time. It shook her so violently, that when Mr. H. G. Wells lifted her on the point of his puissant pen, and placed her at the angle of view from which the life she was leading and the society to which she clung appeared in its true relation to real human needs and worthy social structure, he effected a conversion and a conviction of sin comparable to the most sensational feats of General Booth or Gypsy Smith. Clara's snobbery went bang. Life suddenly began to move with her. Without knowing how or why, she began to make friends and enemies. Some of the acquaintances to whom she had been a tedious or indifferent or ridiculous affliction, dropped her: others became cordial. To her amazement she found that some "quite nice" people were saturated with Wells, and that this accessibility to ideas was the secret of their niceness. People she had thought deeply religious, and had tried to conciliate on that tack with disastrous results, suddenly took an interest in her, and revealed a hostility to conventional religion which she had never conceived possible except among the most desperate characters. They made her read Galsworthy; and Galsworthy exposed the vanity of Largelady Park and finished her. It exasperated her to think that the dungeon in which she had languished for so many unhappy years had been unlocked all the time, and that the impulses she had so carefully struggled with and stifled for the sake of keeping well with society, were precisely those by which alone she could have come into any sort of sincere human contact. In the radiance of these discoveries, and the tumult of their reaction, she made a fool of herself as freely and conspicuously as when she so rashly adopted Eliza's expletive in Mrs. Higgins's drawing-room; for the new-born Wellsian had to find her bearings almost as ridiculously as a baby; but nobody hates a baby for its ineptitudes, or thinks the worse of it for trying to eat the matches; and Clara lost no friends by her follies. They laughed at her to her face this time; and she had to defend herself and fight it out as best she could. When Freddy paid a visit to Earlscourt (which he never did when he could possibly help it) to make the desolating announcement that he and his Eliza were thinking of blackening the Largelady scutcheon by opening a shop, he found the little household already convulsed by a prior announcement from Clara that she also was going to work in an old furniture shop in Dover Street, which had been started by a fellow Wellsian. This appointment Clara owed, after all, to her old social accomplishment of Push. She had made up her mind that, cost what it might, she would see Mr. Wells in the flesh; and she had achieved her end at a garden party. She had better luck than so rash an enterprise deserved. Mr. Wells came up to her expectations. Age had not withered him, nor could custom stale his infinite variety in half an hour. His pleasant neatness and compactness, his small hands and feet, his teeming ready brain, his unaffected accessibility, and a certain fine apprehensiveness which stamped him as susceptible from his topmost hair to his tipmost toe, proved irresistible. Clara talked of nothing else for weeks and weeks afterwards. And as she happened to talk to the lady of the furniture shop, and that lady also desired above all things to know Mr. Wells and sell pretty things to him, she offered Clara a job on the chance of achieving that end through her. And so it came about that Eliza's luck held, and the expected opposition to the flower shop melted away. The shop is in the arcade of a railway station not very far from the Victoria and Albert Museum; and if you live in that neighborhood you may go there any day and buy a buttonhole from Eliza. Now here is a last opportunity for romance. Would you not like to be assured that the shop was an immense success, thanks to Eliza's charms and her early business experience in Covent Garden? Alas! the truth is the truth: the shop did not pay for a long time, simply because Eliza and her Freddy did not know how to keep it. True, Eliza had not to begin at the very beginning: she knew the names and prices of the cheaper flowers; and her elation was unbounded when she found that Freddy, like all youths educated at cheap, pretentious, and thoroughly inefficient schools, knew a little Latin. It was very little, but enough to make him appear to her a Porson or Bentley, and to put him at his ease with botanical nomenclature. Unfortunately he knew nothing else; and Eliza, though she could count money up to eighteen shillings or so, and had acquired a certain familiarity with the language of Milton from her struggles to qualify herself for winning Higgins's bet, could not write out a bill without utterly disgracing the establishment. Freddy's power of stating in Latin that Balbus built a wall and that Gaul was divided into three parts did not carry with it the slightest knowledge of accounts or business: Colonel Pickering had to explain to him what a cheque book and a bank account meant. And the pair were by no means easily teachable. Freddy backed up Eliza in her obstinate refusal to believe that they could save money by engaging a bookkeeper with some knowledge of the business. How, they argued, could you possibly save money by going to extra expense when you already could not make both ends meet? But the Colonel, after making the ends meet over and over again, at last gently insisted; and Eliza, humbled to the dust by having to beg from him so often, and stung by the uproarious derision of Higgins, to whom the notion of Freddy succeeding at anything was a joke that never palled, grasped the fact that business, like phonetics, has to be learned. On the piteous spectacle of the pair spending their evenings in shorthand schools and polytechnic classes, learning bookkeeping and typewriting with incipient junior clerks, male and female, from the elementary schools, let me not dwell. There were even classes at the London School of Economics, and a humble personal appeal to the director of that institution to recommend a course bearing on the flower business. He, being a humorist, explained to them the method of the celebrated Dickensian essay on Chinese Metaphysics by the gentleman who read an article on China and an article on Metaphysics and combined the information. He suggested that they should combine the London School with Kew Gardens. Eliza, to whom the procedure of the Dickensian gentleman seemed perfectly correct (as in fact it was) and not in the least funny (which was only her ignorance) took his advice with entire gravity. But the effort that cost her the deepest humiliation was a request to Higgins, whose pet artistic fancy, next to Milton's verse, was calligraphy, and who himself wrote a most beautiful Italian hand, that he would teach her to write. He declared that she was congenitally incapable of forming a single letter worthy of the least of Milton's words; but she persisted; and again he suddenly threw himself into the task of teaching her with a combination of stormy intensity, concentrated patience, and occasional bursts of interesting disquisition on the beauty and nobility, the august mission and destiny, of human handwriting. Eliza ended by acquiring an extremely uncommercial script which was a positive extension of her personal beauty, and spending three times as much on stationery as anyone else because certain qualities and shapes of paper became indispensable to her. She could not even address an envelope in the usual way because it made the margins all wrong. Their commercial school days were a period of disgrace and despair for the young couple. They seemed to be learning nothing about flower shops. At last they gave it up as hopeless, and shook the dust of the shorthand schools, and the polytechnics, and the London School of Economics from their feet for ever. Besides, the business was in some mysterious way beginning to take care of itself. They had somehow forgotten their objections to employing other people. They came to the conclusion that their own way was the best, and that they had really a remarkable talent for business. The Colonel, who had been compelled for some years to keep a sufficient sum on current account at his bankers to make up their deficits, found that the provision was unnecessary: the young people were prospering. It is true that there was not quite fair play between them and their competitors in trade. Their week-ends in the country cost them nothing, and saved them the price of their Sunday dinners; for the motor car was the Colonel's; and he and Higgins paid the hotel bills. Mr. F. Hill, florist and greengrocer (they soon discovered that there was money in asparagus; and asparagus led to other vegetables), had an air which stamped the business as classy; and in private life he was still Frederick Eynsford Hill, Esquire. Not that there was any swank about him: nobody but Eliza knew that he had been christened Frederick Challoner. Eliza herself swanked like anything. That is all. That is how it has turned out. It is astonishing how much Eliza still manages to meddle in the housekeeping at Wimpole Street in spite of the shop and her own family. And it is notable that though she never nags her husband, and frankly loves the Colonel as if she were his favorite daughter, she has never got out of the habit of nagging Higgins that was established on the fatal night when she won his bet for him. She snaps his head off on the faintest provocation, or on none. He no longer dares to tease her by assuming an abysmal inferiority of Freddy's mind to his own. He storms and bullies and derides; but she stands up to him so ruthlessly that the Colonel has to ask her from time to time to be kinder to Higgins; and it is the only request of his that brings a mulish expression into her face. Nothing but some emergency or calamity great enough to break down all likes and dislikes, and throw them both back on their common humanity--and may they be spared any such trial!--will ever alter this. She knows that Higgins does not need her, just as her father did not need her. The very scrupulousness with which he told her that day that he had become used to having her there, and dependent on her for all sorts of little services, and that he should miss her if she went away (it would never have occurred to Freddy or the Colonel to say anything of the sort) deepens her inner certainty that she is "no more to him than them slippers", yet she has a sense, too, that his indifference is deeper than the infatuation of commoner souls. She is immensely interested in him. She has even secret mischievous moments in which she wishes she could get him alone, on a desert island, away from all ties and with nobody else in the world to consider, and just drag him off his pedestal and see him making love like any common man. We all have private imaginations of that sort. But when it comes to business, to the life that she really leads as distinguished from the life of dreams and fancies, she likes Freddy and she likes the Colonel; and she does not like Higgins and Mr. Doolittle. Galatea never does quite like Pygmalion: his relation to her is too godlike to be altogether agreeable. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der fünfte und letzte Akt spielt im Zeichenzimmer von Mrs. Higgins. Higgins kommt in ziemlicher Aufregung an, um seiner Mutter zu berichten, dass Eliza abgehauen ist. Er weiß nicht, dass Eliza zu seiner Mutter geflohen ist, um Unterstützung zu suchen. Er erzählt ihr, dass Eliza gestern Abend statt ins Bett zu gehen ihre Kleider gewechselt und weggelaufen ist. Außerdem sei sie schon vor sieben Uhr morgens in einem Taxi gekommen, und Mrs. Pearce habe sie törichterweise ihre Sachen abholen lassen, ohne ihm ein Wort zu sagen. Mrs. Higgins antwortet, dass Eliza das volle Recht habe zu gehen, wenn sie das wolle. Kurz nach diesem Austausch tritt der Colonel ein. Als Higgins ihn fragt, ob er den Polizisten eine Belohnung für die Suche nach Eliza angeboten habe, ist Mrs. Higgins verblüfft. Sie schimpft mit beiden wegen ihres kindischen Verhaltens, Eliza hinter der Polizei her zu jagen. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt kündigt das Stubenmädchen an, dass ein Herr namens Mr. Doolittle von der Wimpole Street gekommen ist und Higgins sprechen möchte. Higgins fragt, ob dieser Doolittle der Müllmann sei. Als das Mädchen antwortet, dass Doolittle ein Herr sei, springt Higgins aufgeregt zu dem Schluss, dass Eliza zu einem vornehmen Verwandten von ihr abgehauen ist - jemandem, von dem sie nichts wissen. Alfred Doolittle kommt prächtig gekleidet herein und beschuldigt Higgins, sein Glück zerstört zu haben. Higgins fragt ihn, ob er Eliza gefunden habe. Doolittle antwortet, dass Higgins das größte Glück der Welt habe und obwohl er Eliza nicht gefunden habe, sie sicherlich zu ihm kommen werde, sobald sie erfährt, was Higgins ihm angetan hat. Er beschuldigt Higgins melodramatisch, ihn "der Mittelschichtsmoral ausgeliefert zu haben". Higgins verleugnet jegliches Wissen, außer dass er ihm 5 Pfund gegeben und zwei Gespräche mit ihm für ein halbes Crown pro Stunde geführt habe. Doolittle erklärt dann, dass Higgins nicht leugnen könne, dass er an einen amerikanischen Sprachfanatiker namens Ezra D. Wannafeller geschrieben habe, der Millionen für die Errichtung von moralischen Reformgesellschaften weltweit spendete und der wollte, dass Higgins eine Universalsprache für ihn entwickelt. Doolittle bittet Higgins zu bestreiten, dass er ihn als den originellsten Moralisten in England empfohlen habe. Diese Anschuldigung scheint wahr zu sein, da Higgins seinen Namen scherzhaft Mr. Wannafeller empfohlen hatte. Doolittle erzählt Higgins, dass Wannafeller gestorben sei und ihm 3000 Pfund jährlich hinterlassen habe unter der Bedingung, dass er sechs Mal im Jahr für die Wannafeller Moral Reform World League Vorträge halte. Daher macht Doolittle Higgins verantwortlich dafür, dass er ein Herr geworden ist. Er hat kein Problem damit, Vorträge zu halten, aber am meisten stresst ihn, dass er seine Freiheit verloren hat. Früher konnte er sich, wenn er in Not war, an Leute wie Higgins wenden, während jetzt jeder von ihm Geld haben will. Er stellt fest: "Ich muss für andere und nicht für mich selbst leben: das ist Mittelschichtsmoral." Er gibt offen zu, dass er von der Aussicht, zur Arbeit zu gehen, eingeschüchtert ist, weil er alt ist und dort nicht mehr lange durchhalten wird. Daher kann er die Erbschaft, die ihn in die Mittelschicht gezwungen hat, nicht verwerfen. Mrs. Higgins stellt fest, dass Doolittles Vermögen zumindest das Problem von Elizas Zukunft löst, da er nun für sie sorgen kann. Doolittle antwortet resigniert, dass er jetzt erwartet wird, für alle zu sorgen. Higgins springt jedoch auf und erinnert Doolittle daran, dass Eliza nicht mehr ihm gehört, seit er 5 Pfund für sie genommen hat. Mrs. Higgins ist ziemlich überrascht von der Absurdität ihres Sohnes und sagt ihm, dass Eliza oben ist. Sie erzählt ihnen, dass Eliza an diesem Morgen zu ihr gekommen sei und sich über die brutale Art beschwert habe, wie Higgins sie behandelt hat. Higgins und der Colonel sind beide überrascht, das zu hören. Higgins behauptet, dass es Eliza gewesen sei, die sich am feindseligsten verhalten und ihm die Pantoffeln ins Gesicht geworfen habe. Mrs. Higgins weist darauf hin, dass sie anstatt Eliza für ihre harte Arbeit zu loben, darüber gesprochen hatten, wie froh sie waren, dass das Ganze vorbei war. Es war kaum überraschend, dass sie Higgins die Pantoffeln an den Kopf geworfen habe. Der Colonel gibt zu, dass sie etwas rücksichtslos mit Eliza gewesen sind. Mrs. Higgins erzählt ihnen, dass Eliza jetzt, da ihr Vater in der Lage ist, ihre Stellung als Dame zu erhalten, nicht mehr nach Wimpole Street zurückkehren wird, aber immer noch bereit ist, sich auf freundlicher Basis mit ihnen zu treffen und das Geschehene zu vergessen. Sie bittet Higgins, sich zu beherrschen, und sagt Doolittle, er solle auf den Balkon treten und dem armen Mädchen nicht noch mehr Ängste bereiten. Mrs. Higgins lässt dann das Stubenmädchen Eliza bitten nach unten zu kommen. Das Warten ist äußerst quälend für Higgins. Kurz darauf tritt Eliza ein. Sie trägt einen kleinen Korb und wirkt sehr vertraut. Sie spielt die vornehme Dame und fragt nach ihrer Gesundheit, bevor sie wieder mit ihrer Näharbeit beginnt. Ihre kalte und gleichgültige Haltung bringt Higgins auf die Palme, der ausruft: "Ich habe dieses Wesen aus den plattgedrückten Kohlblättern des Covent Garden gemacht, und jetzt gibt sie vor, mit mir die vornehme Dame zu spielen." Während Mrs. Higgins ihren Sohn beruhigt, quält Eliza ihn weiterhin mit ihren scharfen Bemerkungen. Sie sagt dem Colonel, dass sie ihm viel zu verdanken hat. Sie fährt fort zu sagen, dass sie sich nicht verpflichtet fühlt, nur weil er ihre Kleider bezahlt hat, sondern wegen der Tatsache, dass sie von ihm wirklich gute Manieren gelernt hat und das macht eine Dame aus. Es war sehr schwierig mit Higgins' Beispiel immer vor ihr. Als Pickering sie daran erinnert, dass Higgins ihr wirklich beigebracht hat, wie man spricht, antwortet Eliza lässig: "Natürlich, das ist sein Beruf." Sie behauptet, dass ihre eigentliche Ausbildung begonnen hat, als der Colonel sie das erste Mal mit "Miss Doolittle" angesprochen hat, als sie nach Wimpole Street kam. Es war die Höflichkeit und die guten Manieren des Colonels, die sie dazu gebracht haben zu spüren, dass sie besser ist als ein Küchenmädchen. Sie sagt dann die berühmten Worte, dass "der Unterschied zwischen einer Dame und einem Blumenmädchen nicht darin besteht, wie sie sich benimmt, sondern wie sie behandelt wird." Sie wird für Higgins immer ein Blumenmädchen bleiben, denn er behandelt sie immer wie eins, aber sie kann für den Colonel eine Dame sein, denn er behandelt sie wie eine Dame und wird immer so tun. Elizas Anklage trifft Higgins ins Mark und er verflucht sie. Der Colonel bittet Eliza im Scherz, zu ihm zurückzukehren. Aber sie erklärt, dass sie ihre Sprache vergessen hat und nur seine sprechen kann. Für Eliza bedeutet die Abreise aus der Wimpole Street den eigentlichen und endgültigen Bruch mit einem Teil der Tottenham Court Road. Alarmiert, dass Eliza die Wimpole Street verlässt, bittet der Colonel sie, Higgins zu vergeben. Aber Higgins belächelt die Idee ihrer Vergebung mit lautem Gelächter und fügt im Scherz hinzu, dass sie Freddy heiraten wird. So endet das Stück. Es bleibt ungewiss, ob Eliza tatsächlich Higgins heiraten 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: 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. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jim hat begonnen, Antonias überlegenen Ton ihm gegenüber zu hassen. Sie ist vier Jahre älter als er und scheint ihn als den Unterlegenen anzusehen, obwohl er klar der Überlegene als Junge im Vergleich zu ihr als Mädchen ist. Eines Tages wird sein Problem gelöst. Ihr Bruder schickt sie zu den Russen, um eine Schaufel zu holen, und Jim begleitet sie. Auf dem Rückweg schlägt sie vor, am Feld der Präriehunde anzuhalten, um eines der Löcher auszugraben und das Geheimnis dessen herauszufinden, was darin ist – ob es eine unterirdische Wasserquelle gibt, ob die Eulen mit gefiederten Nestern haben und die Proportionen der Tunnel. Als sie auf das Feld kommen, erschrickt Jim, als Antonia ihn in ihrer Sprache anschreit. Er dreht sich um und sieht eine über fünf Fuß lange Klapperschlange. Sie windet sich langsam zusammen. Als sie den Kopf hebt, um zuzuschlagen, schlägt Jim sie mit der Schaufel und zerschmettert ihren Kopf. Er ist so aufgewühlt, dass er weiterhin auf sie einschlägt, während Antonia schreit. Er schimpft Antonia dafür aus, dass sie ihn auf "Bohunkisch" gewarnt hat. Sie entschuldigt sich gehorsam und sagt ihm, dass er wie ein großer Mann ausgesehen hat, als er die Schlange getötet hat. Sie besteht darauf, die Schlange mit nach Hause zu nehmen, um allen Jims Heldentum zu zeigen. Sie zählen die Rasseln der Schlange und kommen zu dem Schluss, dass sie vierundzwanzig Jahre alt gewesen sein muss. Jim denkt an diese Zeit vor der Ankunft der europäischen Siedler, während der "Büffel- und Indianerzeit". Er fängt an, stolz auf sich selbst zu sein, die Schlange getötet zu haben, und betrachtet die Schlange als eine Art "urzeitliches, ältestes Übel". Als sie zurückkommen, treffen sie auf Otto Fuchs. Er fragt, ob es ein Kampf war, und bevor Jim antworten kann, gibt Antonia ihm eine lebhafte Geschichte über einen Kampf mit der Schlange. Als sie weggeht, sagt er Jim, dass er wahrscheinlich ihren Kopf beim ersten Schlag mit der Schaufel zerquetscht hat. Jim erkennt erst später, als er andere Begegnungen mit jüngeren und lebhafteren Schlangen hatte, dass es kein echtes Abenteuer war. Er betrachtet es jetzt als ein "scheinbares Abenteuer". Seitdem behandelt Antonia ihn wie einen großen Mann.

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: "He will have to marry her," said Philip. "I heard from him this morning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to back out. It would be expensive. I don't know how much he minds--not as much as we suppose, I think. At all events there's not a word of blame in the letter. I don't believe he even feels angry. I never was so completely forgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing me, it has been a vision of perfect friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and at the funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my son who had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to; he was so distressed not to make Harriet's acquaintance, and that he scarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says so again." "Thank him, please, when you write," said Miss Abbott, "and give him my kindest regards." "Indeed I will." He was surprised that she could slide away from the man so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming intimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervals of business he would pull out Philip's life, turn it inside out, remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In that very letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domestic difficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small." And how Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic intercourse, could resume the conventions and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could understand. "When will you see him again?" she asked. They were standing together in the corridor of the train, slowly ascending out of Italy towards the San Gothard tunnel. "I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or two with some of the new wife's money. It was one of the arguments for marrying her." "He has no heart," she said severely. "He does not really mind about the child at all." "No; you're wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But he doesn't try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the things that have made him happy once will probably make him happy again--" "He said he would never be happy again." "In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we are calm--when we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for." "Yes; I was wrong. That is so." "He's much more honest with himself than I am," continued Philip, "and he is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?" "No." "I'm sorry. When will you come back, do you think?" "I think never." "For whatever reason?" He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity. "Because I understand the place. There is no need." "Understand Italy!" he exclaimed. "Perfectly." "Well, I don't. And I don't understand you," he murmured to himself, as he paced away from her up the corridor. By this time he loved her very much, and he could not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the spiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility had moved him first, and now her whole body and all its gestures had become transfigured by them. The beauties that are called obvious--the beauties of her hair and her voice and her limbs--he had noticed these last; Gino, who never traversed any path at all, had commended them dispassionately to his friend. Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her once--what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again? Why had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she had saved their lives? The train was nearly empty. Harriet slumbered in a compartment by herself. He must ask her these questions now, and he returned quickly to her down the corridor. She greeted him with a question of her own. "Are your plans decided?" "Yes. I can't live at Sawston." "Have you told Mrs. Herriton?" "I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she will never understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled--sadly settled since the baby is dead. Still it's over; our family circle need be vexed no more. She won't even be angry with you. You see, you have done us no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan--London and work. What is yours?" "Poor Harriet!" said Miss Abbott. "As if I dare judge Harriet! Or anybody." And without replying to Philip's question she left him to visit the other invalid. Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over--the inquest, Harriet's short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy. In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling. Life was greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen the need for strenuous work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a very little way those things would go. "Is Harriet going to be all right?" he asked. Miss Abbott had come back to him. "She will soon be her old self," was the reply. For Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to her normal state. She had been "thoroughly upset" as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor little child. Already she spoke of "this unlucky accident," and "the mysterious frustration of one's attempts to make things better." Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered the affair as settled. "I'm clear enough about Harriet's future, and about parts of my own. But I ask again, What about yours?" "Sawston and work," said Miss Abbott. "No." "Why not?" she asked, smiling. "You've seen too much. You've seen as much and done more than I have." "But it's so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget my father; and even if he wasn't there, I've a hundred ties: my district--I'm neglecting it shamefully--my evening classes, the St. James'--" "Silly nonsense!" he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing out with her. "You're too good--about a thousand times better than I am. You can't live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again and again." "Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will mean often." "It's not enough; it'll only be in the old horrible way, each with a dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it's not good enough." "We can write at all events." "You will write?" he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes seemed so solid. "I will indeed." "But I say it's not enough--you can't go back to the old life if you wanted to. Too much has happened." "I know that," she said sadly. "Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in the sunlight--do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, even. And the next day--in the church; and our times with Gino." "All the wonderful things are over," she said. "That is just where it is." "I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful things may be to come--" "The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and looked at him so mournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling up the last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the tunnel. "Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their free intercourse might soon be ended, "what is the matter with you? I thought I understood you, and I don't. All those two great first days at Monteriano I read you as clearly as you read me still. I saw why you had come, and why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful courage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment, as you used to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to you--my life, and I don't know what besides. I won't stand it. You've gone too far to turn mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don't be mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something else: 'I and my life must be where I live.' You can't live at Sawston." He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. "It is tempting--" And those three words threw him into a tumult of joy. What was tempting to her? After all was the greatest of things possible? Perhaps, after long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had brought them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre, those silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a departed spring, all had helped, and sorrow had helped also, and so had tenderness to others. "It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious. I've wanted often to tell you, and then been afraid. I could never tell any one else, certainly no woman, and I think you're the one man who might understand and not be disgusted." "Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?" "Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He was resolved that though a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in his arms. "I'm terribly lonely, or I wouldn't speak. I think you must know already." Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging through them both. "Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could speak instead. But if you will say the word plainly you'll never be sorry; I will thank you for it all my life." She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke down. Her body was shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino! He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When I can forget how he hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands--" One of them must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already a little way apart. "You've upset me." She stifled something that was perilously near hysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You're taking it wrongly. I'm in love with Gino--don't pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I mean. So laugh at me." "Laugh at love?" asked Philip. "Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or worse--that he's a cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That's the help I want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you're without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don't enter it; you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me. Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but became frightened and had to stop. "He's not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way. He's never flattered me nor honoured me. But because he's handsome, that's been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then, to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of it. I love him, and I'm going to Sawston, and if I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die." In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the only reply he could trust himself to make. "Perhaps it is what the books call 'a passing fancy'?" She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--" "But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?" "What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in common?" "Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away. "Which--which times?" "The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath of smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round." "But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from the child he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw him and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad that she had once held the beloved in her arms. "Don't talk of 'faults.' You're my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I think. Only don't be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over supposing I'm refined. That's what puzzles you. Get over that." As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part with refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was revealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who had given it, could never take away. "I say again, don't be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have given myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescue party. But all through he took me for a superior being--a goddess. I who was worshipping every inch of him, and every word he spoke. And that saved me." Philip's eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo. But he saw instead the fair myth of Endymion. This woman was a goddess to the end. For her no love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This episode, which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him, remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things had happened. "Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank you for everything." She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had made her life endurable. At that moment the train entered the San Gothard tunnel. They hurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts should get into Harriet's eyes. Können Sie 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.

Als die englische Gruppe genug erholt war, um Italien zu verlassen, sind die beiden Männer wieder gute Freunde. Auf dem Rückweg nach England erlitt Philip eine weitere Enttäuschung. Aufgrund der romantischen Atmosphäre und ihrer engen Verbundenheit hat er sich in Miss Abbott verliebt. Fast macht er ihr einen Heiratsantrag, als sie über Liebe und die Zukunft sprechen, aber sie, im Glauben, dass er es lange zuvor bemerkt hätte, erzählt ihm von ihrer Leidenschaft für Gino. Philip dachte jahrelang, er verstehe die Welt, aber er erkennt nun, dass er eigentlich nichts verstanden hat. Womp womp.

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: "Le sentiment de la faussete des plaisirs presents, et l'ignorance de la vanite des plaisirs absents causent l'inconstance."--PASCAL. Rosamond had a gleam of returning cheerfulness when the house was freed from the threatening figure, and when all the disagreeable creditors were paid. But she was not joyous: her married life had fulfilled none of her hopes, and had been quite spoiled for her imagination. In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate, remembering that he had often been stormy in his hours of perturbation, and mindful of the pain Rosamond had had to bear, was carefully gentle towards her; but he, too, had lost some of his old spirit, and he still felt it necessary to refer to an economical change in their way of living as a matter of course, trying to reconcile her to it gradually, and repressing his anger when she answered by wishing that he would go to live in London. When she did not make this answer, she listened languidly, and wondered what she had that was worth living for. The hard and contemptuous words which had fallen from her husband in his anger had deeply offended that vanity which he had at first called into active enjoyment; and what she regarded as his perverse way of looking at things, kept up a secret repulsion, which made her receive all his tenderness as a poor substitute for the happiness he had failed to give her. They were at a disadvantage with their neighbors, and there was no longer any outlook towards Quallingham--there was no outlook anywhere except in an occasional letter from Will Ladislaw. She had felt stung and disappointed by Will's resolution to quit Middlemarch, for in spite of what she knew and guessed about his admiration for Dorothea, she secretly cherished the belief that he had, or would necessarily come to have, much more admiration for herself; Rosamond being one of those women who live much in the idea that each man they meet would have preferred them if the preference had not been hopeless. Mrs. Casaubon was all very well; but Will's interest in her dated before he knew Mrs. Lydgate. Rosamond took his way of talking to herself, which was a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as the disguise of a deeper feeling; and in his presence she felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of romantic drama which Lydgate's presence had no longer the magic to create. She even fancied--what will not men and women fancy in these matters?--that Will exaggerated his admiration for Mrs. Casaubon in order to pique herself. In this way poor Rosamond's brain had been busy before Will's departure. He would have made, she thought, a much more suitable husband for her than she had found in Lydgate. No notion could have been falser than this, for Rosamond's discontent in her marriage was due to the conditions of marriage itself, to its demand for self-suppression and tolerance, and not to the nature of her husband; but the easy conception of an unreal Better had a sentimental charm which diverted her ennui. She constructed a little romance which was to vary the flatness of her life: Will Ladislaw was always to be a bachelor and live near her, always to be at her command, and have an understood though never fully expressed passion for her, which would be sending out lambent flames every now and then in interesting scenes. His departure had been a proportionate disappointment, and had sadly increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but at first she had the alternative dream of pleasures in store from her intercourse with the family at Quallingham. Since then the troubles of her married life had deepened, and the absence of other relief encouraged her regretful rumination over that thin romance which she had once fed on. Men and women make sad mistakes about their own symptoms, taking their vague uneasy longings, sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, and oftener still for a mighty love. Will Ladislaw had written chatty letters, half to her and half to Lydgate, and she had replied: their separation, she felt, was not likely to be final, and the change she now most longed for was that Lydgate should go to live in London; everything would be agreeable in London; and she had set to work with quiet determination to win this result, when there came a sudden, delightful promise which inspirited her. It came shortly before the memorable meeting at the town-hall, and was nothing less than a letter from Will Ladislaw to Lydgate, which turned indeed chiefly on his new interest in plans of colonization, but mentioned incidentally, that he might find it necessary to pay a visit to Middlemarch within the next few weeks--a very pleasant necessity, he said, almost as good as holidays to a schoolboy. He hoped there was his old place on the rug, and a great deal of music in store for him. But he was quite uncertain as to the time. While Lydgate was reading the letter to Rosamond, her face looked like a reviving flower--it grew prettier and more blooming. There was nothing unendurable now: the debts were paid, Mr. Ladislaw was coming, and Lydgate would be persuaded to leave Middlemarch and settle in London, which was "so different from a provincial town." That was a bright bit of morning. But soon the sky became black over poor Rosamond. The presence of a new gloom in her husband, about which he was entirely reserved towards her--for he dreaded to expose his lacerated feeling to her neutrality and misconception--soon received a painfully strange explanation, alien to all her previous notions of what could affect her happiness. In the new gayety of her spirits, thinking that Lydgate had merely a worse fit of moodiness than usual, causing him to leave her remarks unanswered, and evidently to keep out of her way as much as possible, she chose, a few days after the meeting, and without speaking to him on the subject, to send out notes of invitation for a small evening party, feeling convinced that this was a judicious step, since people seemed to have been keeping aloof from them, and wanted restoring to the old habit of intercourse. When the invitations had been accepted, she would tell Lydgate, and give him a wise admonition as to how a medical man should behave to his neighbors; for Rosamond had the gravest little airs possible about other people's duties. But all the invitations were declined, and the last answer came into Lydgate's hands. "This is Chichely's scratch. What is he writing to you about?" said Lydgate, wonderingly, as he handed the note to her. She was obliged to let him see it, and, looking at her severely, he said-- "Why on earth have you been sending out invitations without telling me, Rosamond? I beg, I insist that you will not invite any one to this house. I suppose you have been inviting others, and they have refused too." She said nothing. "Do you hear me?" thundered Lydgate. "Yes, certainly I hear you," said Rosamond, turning her head aside with the movement of a graceful long-necked bird. Lydgate tossed his head without any grace and walked out of the room, feeling himself dangerous. Rosamond's thought was, that he was getting more and more unbearable--not that there was any new special reason for this peremptoriness. His indisposition to tell her anything in which he was sure beforehand that she would not be interested was growing into an unreflecting habit, and she was in ignorance of everything connected with the thousand pounds except that the loan had come from her uncle Bulstrode. Lydgate's odious humors and their neighbors' apparent avoidance of them had an unaccountable date for her in their relief from money difficulties. If the invitations had been accepted she would have gone to invite her mamma and the rest, whom she had seen nothing of for several days; and she now put on her bonnet to go and inquire what had become of them all, suddenly feeling as if there were a conspiracy to leave her in isolation with a husband disposed to offend everybody. It was after the dinner hour, and she found her father and mother seated together alone in the drawing-room. They greeted her with sad looks, saying "Well, my dear!" and no more. She had never seen her father look so downcast; and seating herself near him she said-- "Is there anything the matter, papa?" He did not answer, but Mrs. Vincy said, "Oh, my dear, have you heard nothing? It won't be long before it reaches you." "Is it anything about Tertius?" said Rosamond, turning pale. The idea of trouble immediately connected itself with what had been unaccountable to her in him. "Oh, my dear, yes. To think of your marrying into this trouble. Debt was bad enough, but this will be worse." "Stay, stay, Lucy," said Mr. Vincy. "Have you heard nothing about your uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond?" "No, papa," said the poor thing, feeling as if trouble were not anything she had before experienced, but some invisible power with an iron grasp that made her soul faint within her. Her father told her everything, saying at the end, "It's better for you to know, my dear. I think Lydgate must leave the town. Things have gone against him. I dare say he couldn't help it. I don't accuse him of any harm," said Mr. Vincy. He had always before been disposed to find the utmost fault with Lydgate. The shock to Rosamond was terrible. It seemed to her that no lot could be so cruelly hard as hers to have married a man who had become the centre of infamous suspicions. In many cases it is inevitable that the shame is felt to be the worst part of crime; and it would have required a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as had never entered into Rosamond's life, for her in these moments to feel that her trouble was less than if her husband had been certainly known to have done something criminal. All the shame seemed to be there. And she had innocently married this man with the belief that he and his family were a glory to her! She showed her usual reticence to her parents, and only said, that if Lydgate had done as she wished he would have left Middlemarch long ago. "She bears it beyond anything," said her mother when she was gone. "Ah, thank God!" said Mr. Vincy, who was much broken down. But Rosamond went home with a sense of justified repugnance towards her husband. What had he really done--how had he really acted? She did not know. Why had he not told her everything? He did not speak to her on the subject, and of course she could not speak to him. It came into her mind once that she would ask her father to let her go home again; but dwelling on that prospect made it seem utter dreariness to her: a married woman gone back to live with her parents--life seemed to have no meaning for her in such a position: she could not contemplate herself in it. The next two days Lydgate observed a change in her, and believed that she had heard the bad news. Would she speak to him about it, or would she go on forever in the silence which seemed to imply that she believed him guilty? We must remember that he was in a morbid state of mind, in which almost all contact was pain. Certainly Rosamond in this case had equal reason to complain of reserve and want of confidence on his part; but in the bitterness of his soul he excused himself;--was he not justified in shrinking from the task of telling her, since now she knew the truth she had no impulse to speak to him? But a deeper-lying consciousness that he was in fault made him restless, and the silence between them became intolerable to him; it was as if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other. He thought, "I am a fool. Haven't I given up expecting anything? I have married care, not help." And that evening he said-- "Rosamond, have you heard anything that distresses you?" "Yes," she answered, laying down her work, which she had been carrying on with a languid semi-consciousness, most unlike her usual self. "What have you heard?" "Everything, I suppose. Papa told me." "That people think me disgraced?" "Yes," said Rosamond, faintly, beginning to sew again automatically. There was silence. Lydgate thought, "If she has any trust in me--any notion of what I am, she ought to speak now and say that she does not believe I have deserved disgrace." But Rosamond on her side went on moving her fingers languidly. Whatever was to be said on the subject she expected to come from Tertius. What did she know? And if he were innocent of any wrong, why did he not do something to clear himself? This silence of hers brought a new rush of gall to that bitter mood in which Lydgate had been saying to himself that nobody believed in him--even Farebrother had not come forward. He had begun to question her with the intent that their conversation should disperse the chill fog which had gathered between them, but he felt his resolution checked by despairing resentment. Even this trouble, like the rest, she seemed to regard as if it were hers alone. He was always to her a being apart, doing what she objected to. He started from his chair with an angry impulse, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the room. There was an underlying consciousness all the while that he should have to master this anger, and tell her everything, and convince her of the facts. For he had almost learned the lesson that he must bend himself to her nature, and that because she came short in her sympathy, he must give the more. Soon he recurred to his intention of opening himself: the occasion must not be lost. If he could bring her to feel with some solemnity that here was a slander which must be met and not run away from, and that the whole trouble had come out of his desperate want of money, it would be a moment for urging powerfully on her that they should be one in the resolve to do with as little money as possible, so that they might weather the bad time and keep themselves independent. He would mention the definite measures which he desired to take, and win her to a willing spirit. He was bound to try this--and what else was there for him to do? He did not know how long he had been walking uneasily backwards and forwards, but Rosamond felt that it was long, and wished that he would sit down. She too had begun to think this an opportunity for urging on Tertius what he ought to do. Whatever might be the truth about all this misery, there was one dread which asserted itself. Lydgate at last seated himself, not in his usual chair, but in one nearer to Rosamond, leaning aside in it towards her, and looking at her gravely before he reopened the sad subject. He had conquered himself so far, and was about to speak with a sense of solemnity, as on an occasion which was not to be repeated. He had even opened his lips, when Rosamond, letting her hands fall, looked at him and said-- "Surely, Tertius--" "Well?" "Surely now at last you have given up the idea of staying in Middlemarch. I cannot go on living here. Let us go to London. Papa, and every one else, says you had better go. Whatever misery I have to put up with, it will be easier away from here." Lydgate felt miserably jarred. Instead of that critical outpouring for which he had prepared himself with effort, here was the old round to be gone through again. He could not bear it. With a quick change of countenance he rose and went out of the room. Perhaps if he had been strong enough to persist in his determination to be the more because she was less, that evening might have had a better issue. If his energy could have borne down that check, he might still have wrought on Rosamond's vision and will. We cannot be sure that any natures, however inflexible or peculiar, will resist this effect from a more massive being than their own. They may be taken by storm and for the moment converted, becoming part of the soul which enwraps them in the ardor of its movement. But poor Lydgate had a throbbing pain within him, and his energy had fallen short of its task. The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far off as ever; nay, it seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort. They lived on from day to day with their thoughts still apart, Lydgate going about what work he had in a mood of despair, and Rosamond feeling, with some justification, that he was behaving cruelly. It was of no use to say anything to Tertius; but when Will Ladislaw came, she was determined to tell him everything. In spite of her general reticence, she needed some one who would recognize her wrongs. 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.

Es scheint, dass Rosamond keine Lehren aus ihrer Situation ziehen möchte; um ihre Eitelkeit zu besänftigen, fängt sie an, an Will Ladislaw zu denken und stellt sich vor, dass er sie anstatt Dorothea lieben muss, weil sie so schön und charmant ist. Sie gibt weiterhin ihrem Ehemann die Schuld an ihrem Unglück, nicht ihrem wütenden Materialismus; alles liegt immer bei jemand anderem, und sie ist immer noch eine Kreatur, die jeglicher Schuld unschuldig ist. Sie erhält einen Brief von Will, in dem steht, dass er bald zu Besuch kommen wird; Rosamond freut sich darüber und beschließt, Einladungen für ein Abendessen zu verschicken. Natürlich werden alle Einladungen abgelehnt, und Rosamond ist immer noch unwissend über den Grund; sie besucht ihre Eltern und sie erzählen ihr die schreckliche Nachricht. Als sie nach Hause kommt, erzählt sie ihrem Ehemann, dass sie alles erfahren hat; dann betont sie nochmals, dass sie nach London gehen müssen, um ihr Leiden zu mindern. Er kann es nicht ertragen, dies zu hören, und stürmt wütend hinaus, ohne sich die Zeit zu nehmen, sie zu korrigieren oder irgendetwas zu erklären.

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: An einem Herbstnachmittag im Jahr 1876 klingelte ein junger Mann von angenehmem Aussehen an der Tür einer kleinen Wohnung im dritten Stock eines alten römischen Hauses. Als sie geöffnet wurde, erkundigte er sich nach Madame Merle. Daraufhin führte ihn die Dienstmagd, eine ordentliche, schlichte Frau mit einem französischen Gesicht und dem Auftreten einer Hausdame, in ein winziges Wohnzimmer und bat ihn höflich um seinen Namen. "Herr Edward Rosier", sagte der junge Mann, der sich setzte und darauf wartete, dass seine Gastgeberin erschien. Der Leser wird sich vielleicht daran erinnern, dass Herr Rosier ein Mitglied des amerikanischen Kreises in Paris war, aber es könnte auch in Erinnerung geblieben sein, dass er manchmal aus seinem Blickfeld verschwand. Er hatte mehrere Winter in Pau verbracht und da er ein Mann fester Gewohnheiten war, hätte er noch Jahre lang seinen jährlichen Besuch an diesem charmanten Ort fortsetzen können. Im Sommer 1876 ereignete sich jedoch ein Vorfall, der nicht nur seine Gedanken, sondern auch seine üblichen Abläufe veränderte. Er verbrachte einen Monat in der Oberengadiner Region und traf dort in St. Moritz auf ein bezauberndes junges Mädchen. Diesem kleinen Wesen begann er sofort besondere Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken: Sie schien ihm genau der Hausengel zu sein, nach dem er schon lange gesucht hatte. Er war immer besonnen, er war nichts, wenn nicht diskret, daher unterließ er es vorerst, seine Leidenschaft zu offenbaren. Aber als sie sich trennten - das junge Mädchen, um nach Italien zu fahren, und ihr Bewunderer, um nach Genf zu gehen, wo er sich mit anderen Freunden treffen sollte - schien es ihm, als wäre er romantisch unglücklich, wenn er sie nicht wiedersehen würde. Der einfachste Weg dies zu tun, war im Herbst nach Rom zu gehen, wo Miss Osmond mit ihrer Familie lebte. Herr Rosier begann seine Pilgerreise in die italienische Hauptstadt und erreichte sie am 1. November. Es war eine angenehme Sache zu tun, aber für den jungen Mann lag ein Hauch von Heroismus in dem Unternehmen. Er könnte sich, unerfahren, dem Gift der römischen Luft aussetzen, das im November berüchtigterweise auf Beute lauerte. Das Glück jedoch begünstigt die Mutigen; und dieser Abenteurer, der täglich drei Körnchen Chinin zu sich nahm, hatte am Ende eines Monats keinen Grund, seine Waghalsigkeit zu bedauern. Er hatte die ihm zur Verfügung stehende Zeit in gewissem Maße gut genutzt; er hatte sie vergeblich darauf verwendet, eine Schwäche in Pansy Osmonds Persönlichkeit zu finden. Sie war bewundernswert fertiggestellt; sie hatte den letzten Schliff erhalten; sie war wirklich ein vollendeter Mensch. Er dachte viel über sie nach, wie er es auch über eine Porzellan-Schäferin aus Dresden getan hätte. Miss Osmond hatte tatsächlich im Blütenalter ihrer Jugend einen Hauch von Rokoko, den Rosier, dessen Geschmack vorwiegend in diese Richtung tendierte, zu schätzen wusste. Dass er die Produkte vergleichsweise frivol geprägter Epochen schätzte, wäre anhand der Aufmerksamkeit erkennbar gewesen, die er Madame Merles Wohnzimmer schenkte, das, obwohl mit Exemplaren jedes Stils eingerichtet, besonders reich an Gegenständen der letzten beiden Jahrhunderte war. Er hatte sofort ein Auge darin versetzt und sich umgesehen; und dann hatte er sehnsüchtig gemurmelt: "Mein Gott, sie hat einige ganz tolle Sachen!" Das Zimmer war klein und dicht mit Möbeln gefüllt; es vermittelte den Eindruck von verblichenem Seidengewebe und kleinen Statuen, die umkippen könnten, wenn man sich bewegt. Rosier stand auf und schlenderte mit leisen Schritten umher, beugte sich über die mit Nippes beladenen Tische und die Kissen mit geprägten fürstlichen Wappen. Als Madame Merle herein kam, fand sie ihn mit seiner Nase ganz nah an der großen Spitzenvolant, der an der Damastabdeckung des Kamins befestigt war. Er hatte ihn sorgfältig angehoben, als würde er daran riechen. "Das ist alte venezianische Spitze", sagte sie, "sie ist ziemlich gut." "Sie ist zu gut für das hier; Sie sollten sie tragen." "Mir hat man gesagt, dass Sie in Paris bessere haben, in der gleichen Situation." "Aber ich kann meine nicht tragen", lächelte der Besucher. "Ich sehe keinen Grund, warum Sie es nicht sollten! Ich habe bessere Spitze, die ich tragen kann." Seine Augen wanderten wieder langsam durch den Raum. "Sie haben einige sehr gute Dinge." "Ja, aber ich hasse sie." "Möchten Sie sie loswerden?", fragte der junge Mann schnell. "Nein, es ist gut, etwas zu hassen: man verarbeitet es!" "Ich liebe meine Sachen", sagte Mr. Rosier, als er dort saß und vor stolz geschwellter Brust all seine Erkenntnisse genoss. "Aber wegen ihnen oder Ihren bin ich nicht gekommen, um mit Ihnen zu reden." Er hielt einen Moment inne und dann mit noch mehr Sanftheit: "Mir liegt mehr an Miss Osmond als an allen Erbstücken Europas!" Madame Merle öffnete weit die Augen. "Kamen Sie, um mir das zu sagen?" "Ich kam, um Ihren Rat zu erbitten." Sie sah ihn mit einer freundlichen Stirnfalte an und strich sich mit ihrer großen weißen Hand über das Kinn. "Ein verliebter Mann bittet nicht um Rat, wissen Sie." "Warum nicht, wenn er sich in einer schwierigen Lage befindet? Das ist oft bei einem verliebten Mann der Fall. Ich war schon früher verliebt und weiß das. Aber noch nie so sehr wie dieses Mal - wirklich noch nie so sehr. Ich würde vor allem gerne wissen, was Sie von meinen Aussichten halten. Ich fürchte, dass ich für Mr. Osmond kein Sammlerstück bin." "Möchten Sie, dass ich vermittel?-", fragte Madame Merle, die ihre feinen Arme verschränkt hatte und ihren hübschen Mund nach links verzog. "Wenn Sie ein gutes Wort für mich einlegen könnten, wäre mir das sehr recht. Es hat keinen Sinn, Miss Osmond zu bedrängen, es sei denn, ich habe guten Grund zu der Annahme, dass ihr Vater zustimmen wird." "Sie sind sehr zuvorkommend; das spricht für Sie. Aber Sie gehen etwas schroff davon aus, dass ich Sie für einen Gewinn halte." "Sie waren sehr nett zu mir," sagte der junge Mann. "Deshalb bin ich gekommen." "Ich bin immer nett zu Menschen, die gute Louis-Quatorze haben. Das ist heute sehr selten, und man weiß nie, was man daraus machen kann." Mit diesen Worten drückte der linke Mundwinkel von Madame Merle den Scherz aus. Aber er sah trotzdem wortwörtlich besorgt und hartnäckig aus. "Ah, ich dachte, Sie mögen mich wegen mir selbst!" "Ich mag Sie sehr; aber bitte, lassen Sie uns nicht analysieren. Verzeihen Sie, wenn ich mich abfällig äußere, aber ich halte Sie für einen vollkommenen kleinen Gentleman. Ich muss Ihnen jedoch mitteilen, dass ich nicht für die Heirat von Pansy Osmond zuständig bin." "Das habe ich auch nicht angenommen. Aber Sie schienen mir eine enge Beziehung zu ihrer Familie zu haben, und ich dachte, Sie könnten Einfluss haben." Madame Merle überlegte. "Wen nennen Sie ihre Familie?" "Nun, ihren Vater; und - wie sagt man auf Englisch? - ihre schöne Mutter." "Mr. Osmond ist sicher ihr Vater; aber seine Frau kann kaum als Mitglied ihrer Familie bezeichnet werden. Mrs. Osmond hat nichts mit ihrer Heirat zu tun." "Das tut mir leid", sagte Rosier mit einem freundlichen Seufzer aufrichtigen Glaubens. "Ich den "Du weißt schon, ich bin furchtbar anständig", sagte Rosier ernst. "Ich sage nicht, dass ich keine Fehler habe, aber ich sage, dass ich keine Laster habe." "Das ist alles negativ und es hängt immer davon ab, was die Leute auch als Laster bezeichnen. Was ist die positive Seite? Was ist tugendhaft? Was hast du außer deiner spanischen Spitze und deinem Dresdner Teeservice?" "Ich habe ein komfortables kleines Vermögen - ungefähr vierzigtausend Franc pro Jahr. Mit meinem Talent für das Arrangieren können wir uns auf so einem Einkommen wunderbar leben." "Wundervoll, nein. Ausreichend, ja. Auch das hängt davon ab, wo du lebst." "Nun, in Paris. Ich würde es in Paris versuchen." Der Mund von Madame Merle verzog sich nach links. "Das wäre nicht berühmt; du müsstest das Teeservice benutzen, und es würde kaputt gehen." "Wir wollen nicht berühmt sein. Wenn Miss Osmond alles hübsch hätte, würde das reichen. Wenn man so hübsch ist wie sie, kann man sich - nun, ziemlich billige Fayence leisten. Sie sollte nie etwas anderes als Musselin tragen - ohne Blumenmuster", sagte Rosier nachdenklich. "Du würdest ihr nicht mal das Blumenmuster erlauben? Sie wäre dir auf jeden Fall für diese Theorie dankbar." "Es ist die richtige, versichere ich dir; und ich bin sicher, sie würde sie verstehen. Sie versteht das alles; deshalb liebe ich sie." "Sie ist ein sehr gutes Mädchen und sehr ordentlich - auch äußerst anmutig. Aber ihr Vater kann ihr meines Wissens nach nichts geben." Rosier widersprach kaum. "Ich wünsche überhaupt nicht, dass er es tut. Aber ich darf trotzdem bemerken, dass er wie ein reicher Mann lebt." "Das Geld gehört seiner Frau; sie hat ihm ein großes Vermögen mitgebracht." "Dann ist Mrs. Osmond sehr fond von ihrer Stieftochter; sie könnte etwas tun." "Für einen verliebten Verehrer hast du die Augen offen!" rief Madame Merle lachend. "Ich schätze ein Mitgift sehr. Darauf könnte ich verzichten, aber ich schätze es." "Mrs. Osmond", fuhr Madame Merle fort, "wird ihr Geld wahrscheinlich für ihre eigenen Kinder aufheben." "Ihre eigenen Kinder? Sie hat doch keine." "Sie könnte noch welche bekommen. Sie hatte vor zwei Jahren einen armen kleinen Jungen, der sechs Monate nach seiner Geburt starb. Es könnten also noch andere kommen." "Ich hoffe, sie wird glücklich damit sein. Sie ist eine großartige Frau." Madame Merle konnte sich nicht zurückhalten. "Oh, über sie kann man viel sagen. So großartig wie du willst! Wir haben nicht genau herausgefunden, dass du ein Parti bist. Das Fehlen von Lastern ist kaum eine Einkommensquelle." "Verzeihung, ich denke, es könnte so sein", sagte Rosier ziemlich klar. "Ihr werdet ein berührendes Paar sein, das von eurer Unschuld lebt!" "Ich denke, du unterschätzt mich." "Bist du nicht so unschuldig? Ernsthaft", sagte Madame Merle, "sind vierzigtausend Franc pro Jahr und ein guter Charakter eine Kombination, die bedacht werden sollte. Ich sage nicht, dass man dafür springen sollte, aber es könnte schlimmere Angebote geben. Mr. Osmond wird jedoch wahrscheinlich glauben, dass er etwas Besseres bekommen kann." "Er kann es vielleicht; aber was kann seine Tochter tun? Sie kann nichts Besseres tun, als den Mann zu heiraten, den sie liebt. Denn das tut sie, weißt du", fügte Rosier eifrig hinzu. "Das tut sie - das weiß ich." "Ah", rief der junge Mann, "ich wusste, dass du die richtige Person bist." "Aber ich weiß nicht, wie du das weißt, wenn du sie nicht gefragt hast", fuhr Madame Merle fort. "In solch einem Fall ist kein Fragen und Erzählen nötig; wie du sagst, wir sind ein unschuldiges Paar. Wie hast DU das herausgefunden?" "Ich, die nicht unschuldig bin? Indem ich sehr geschickt bin. Überlass es mir, ich werde es für dich herausfinden." Rosier stand auf und glättete seinen Hut. "Du sagst das ziemlich kühl. Finde nicht nur heraus, wie es ist, sondern versuche es so zu machen, wie es sein sollte." "Ich werde mein Bestes tun. Ich werde versuchen, das Beste aus deinen Vorteilen zu machen." "Vielen Dank dafür. In der Zwischenzeit werde ich ein Wort an Mrs. Osmond richten." "Gardez-vous-en bien!" Und Madame Merle stand auf. "Mach sie nicht auf, sonst zerstörst du alles." Rosier starrte in seinen Hut; er fragte sich, ob seine Gastgeberin nach allem die richtige Person gewesen war, an die er sich wenden konnte. "Ich glaube, ich verstehe dich nicht. Ich bin ein alter Freund von Mrs. Osmond und ich denke, sie würde wollen, dass ich Erfolg habe." "Sei so sehr ein alter Freund, wie du willst; je mehr alte Freunde sie hat, desto besser, denn sie kommt mit einigen ihrer neuen nicht sehr gut zurecht. Aber versuche vorerst nicht, sie dazu zu bringen, sich für dich einzusetzen. Ihr Mann hat vielleicht andere Pläne, und als jemand, der ihr Gutes wünscht, rate ich dir, die Unterschiede zwischen ihnen nicht zu vermehren." Das Gesicht von Rosier nahm einen Ausdruck der Alarmierung an; ein Werben um die Hand von Pansy Osmond war sogar noch komplizierter als sein Geschmack nach angemessenen Übergängen erlaubte. Aber der äußerst gute Verstand, den er unter einer Oberfläche verbarg, die an den eines sorgfältigen Besitzers "besten Sets" erinnerte, stand ihm zur Hilfe. "Ich sehe nicht, dass ich Mr. Osmond so sehr berücksichtigen muss!" rief er aus. "Nein, aber du solltest SIE berücksichtigen. Du sagst, du bist ein alter Freund. Würdest du sie leiden lassen?" "Auf keinen Fall." "Dann sei sehr vorsichtig und lass die Sache in Ruhe, bis ich ein paar Informationen eingeholt habe." "Lass die Sache in Ruhe, liebe Madame Merle? Bedenke, dass ich verliebt bin." "Ach, du wirst nicht verbrennen! Warum bist du zu mir gekommen, wenn du nicht auf das achten willst, was ich sage?" "Du bist sehr freundlich; ich werde sehr brav sein", versprach der junge Mann. "Aber ich fürchte, Mr. Osmond ist ziemlich hart", fügte er mit seiner sanften Stimme hinzu, als er zur Tür ging. Madame Merle lachte kurz. "Das wurde schon öfter gesagt. Aber seine Frau ist auch nicht einfach." "Ah, sie ist eine großartige Frau!", wiederholte Ned Rosier beim Abschied. Er beschloss, dass sein Verhalten einem Anwärter, der bereits ein Vorbild an Diskretion war, würdig sein sollte; aber in keiner seiner Zusagen an Madame Merle sah er etwas, das es unangemessen machen würde, sich ab und zu mit einem Besuch im Haus von Miss Osmond bei Laune zu halten. Er dachte ständig über das nach, was seine Beraterin ihm gesagt hatte, und überlegte sich den Eindruck von ihrem eher umsichtigen Ton. Er war de confiance, wie man es in Paris nannte, zu ihr gegangen; aber es war möglich, dass er voreilig gewesen war. Es fiel ihm schwer, an sich selbst als waghalsig zu denken - er hatte diese Vorwürfe so selten erhalten; aber es war sicher wahr, dass er Madame Merle erst seit einem Monat kannte und dass sein Glaube daran, dass sie eine entzückende Frau sei, wenn man genauer hinsah, kein Grund dafür war anzunehmen, dass sie bestrebt sein würde, Pansy Osmond in seine Arme zu drängen, so grazil angeordnet, wie diese Mitglieder auch sein mochten, um sie zu empfangen. Tatsächlich hatte sie ihm Freundlichkeit gezeigt, und sie war eine Person von Bedeutung in der Familie des Mädchens, wo sie einen recht bemerkenswerten Eindruck machte (Rosier hatte sich mehr als einmal gefragt, wie sie das schaffte), intim zu sein, ohne familiär zu sein. Aber möglicherweise hatte er diese Vorzüge übertrieben. Es gab keinen besonderen Grund, warum sie sich für ihn einsetzen sollte; eine charmante Frau war charmant zu jedem, und Rosier fühlte sich ziemlich dumm, wenn er daran dachte, dass er sie darum gebeten hatte, weil sie ihn ausgezeichnet hatte. Wahrscheinlich - obwohl sie es im Spaß zu sagen schien - dachte sie nur an seine Bibelots. War ihr in den Kopf gekommen, dass Mit diesen Gedanken begab er sich erneut zu Frau Osmonds, die einen "Abend" hatte - sie hatte sich den Donnerstag jeder Woche ausgesucht -, an dem seine Anwesenheit aus Gründen der Höflichkeit zu erwarten war. Das Objekt von Herrn Rosiers wohlregulierter Zuneigung lebte in einem hohen Haus im Herzen von Rom, ein dunkler und massiver Bau, der eine sonnige Piazzetta in der Nähe des Palazzo Farnese überblickte. Auch die kleine Pansy lebte in einem Palast - ein Palast nach römischen Maßstäben, aber ein Kerker in Rosiers angstvoller Vorstellung. Es schien ihm ein böses Omen zu sein, dass die junge Dame, die er heiraten wollte und deren anspruchsvollen Vater er bezweifelte, beschränkt in einer Art häuslicher Festung leben sollte, einem Gebäude, das einen strengen alten römischen Namen trug, der nach historischen Taten, Verbrechen, List und Gewalt roch, das im "Murray" erwähnt wurde und von Touristen besucht wurde, die bei einer vagen Überblick enttäuscht und niedergeschlagen aussahen und in dem sich im piano nobile Fresken von Caravaggio und eine Reihe von verstümmelten Statuen und staubigen Urnen in der großen, edel gewölbten Loggia befanden, die über den feuchten Hof ragte, wo aus einer moosigen Nische eine Fontäne sprudelte. In einem weniger beschäftigten Gemütszustand hätte er dem Palazzo Roccanera gerecht werden können; er hätte das Gefühl von Mrs. Osmond teilen können, die ihm einmal gesagt hatte, dass sie sich und ihrem Mann gefallen hatten, als sie sich in Rom niederließen und diese Behausung aus Liebe zum lokalen Flair gewählt hatten. Sie hatte genug lokales Flair, und obwohl er weniger über Architektur wusste als über Limoges Emaille, konnte er sehen, dass die Proportionen der Fenster und sogar die Details der Gesimse absolut vornehm waren. Aber Rosier wurde von der Überzeugung verfolgt, dass zu malerischen Zeiten junge Mädchen dort eingeschlossen wurden, um sie von ihren wahren Lieben fernzuhalten und dann unter Androhung, ins Kloster geworfen zu werden, in unheilvolle Ehen gezwungen wurden. Es gab jedoch einen Punkt, dem er immer gerecht wurde, wenn er sich erst einmal in Mrs. Osmonds warmen, reich aussehenden Empfangsräumen befand, die sich im zweiten Stock befanden. Er erkannte an, dass diese Menschen sehr "gute Dinge" hatten. Es war Osmunds eigener Geschmack, überhaupt nicht ihrer; das hatte sie ihm das erste Mal gesagt, als er ins Haus kam und sich eine Viertelstunde lang fragte, ob sie in Paris sogar noch "französischer" waren als er und dann an Ort und Stelle zugeben musste, dass sie das sehr viel waren, und seine Eifersucht als Gentleman bis zur Bewunderung ihrer Schätze überwunden hatte. Er erfuhr von Mrs. Osmond, dass ihr Mann vor ihrer Heirat eine große Sammlung angelegt hatte und dass er, obwohl er in den letzten drei Jahren eine Reihe von schönen Stücken ergänzt hatte, seine größten Erfolge in einer Zeit erzielt hatte, in der er nicht von ihren Ratschlägen profitierte. Rosier interpretierte diese Information nach seinen eigenen Grundsätzen. "Ratschläge" bedeuteten in seinen Augen "Bargeld", sagte er sich; und die Tatsache, dass Gilbert Osmond seine besten Preise während seiner mittellosen Zeit erzielt hatte, bestätigte seine kostbarste Lehre - die Lehre, dass ein Sammler ruhig arm sein kann, wenn er nur geduldig ist. Im Allgemeinen galt, dass, wenn sich Rosier an einem Donnerstagabend vorstellte, seine erste Anerkennung den Wänden des Salons galt; es gab drei oder vier Objekte, die seine Augen wirklich begehrten. Aber nach seinem Gespräch mit Madame Merle spürte er die äußerste Ernsthaftigkeit seiner Lage, und jetzt, als er kam, schaute er sich mit solcher Ungeduld nach der Tochter des Hauses um, wie es einem Herrn erlaubt ist, dessen Lächeln, wenn er eine Schwelle überschreitet, immer alles Bequeme als selbstverständlich nimmt. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Im Herbst 1876 besucht Edward Rosier Madame Merle. Der Leser wird sich erinnern, dass Edward Rosier Isabel kurz in Paris kennengelernt hatte. Er gehörte dort zum amerikanischen Kreis. Er besucht Madame Merle, weil er Pansy in Saint Moritz getroffen hatte und sich in sie verliebt hat. Er weiß, dass Madame Merle eng mit der Familie verbunden ist und möchte ihren Rat. Er betrachtet Pansy als "bewundernswert fertiggestellt", ein "vollendetes Stück". Es wird sich erinnern, dass Edward Rosier ein großer Sammler ist. Während er auf sie wartet, bewundert er sofort all die schönen Dinge von Madame Merle. Er erklärt Madame Merle, dass ihm Pansy Osmond mehr bedeutet als "alle Bibeloten in Europa". Er ist gekommen, um um Rat zu fragen und um über seine Aussichten als Freier für Pansy beraten zu werden. Madame Merle erklärt sich bereit, ihm zu helfen, fragt ihn jedoch, was er sonst noch in einer Ehe zu bieten hat. Er erzählt ihr, dass er ein Vermögen von vierzigtausend Francs im Jahr hat. Merle meint, dass man mit einer solchen Summe ausreichend leben könne, aber nicht schön. Sie erwähnt, dass Pansy wenig zu einer Ehe beitragen werde und dass sie nicht glaube, dass Isabel ihr eine Mitgift geben werde. Merle macht ein wenig Spaß über die Naivität von Edward Rosier in Bezug auf Geld. Wir erfahren, dass Isabel und Osmond noch keine Kinder haben und dass sie in allem gegensätzliche Meinungen haben. Merle denkt, dass Osmond geneigt sein wird, zu denken, dass er etwas Besseres für Pansy finden könnte. Rosier denkt jedoch, dass Pansy in ihn verliebt ist. Madame Merle weist darauf hin, dass er das nicht weiß - er hat Pansy nicht gefragt. Merle sagt, dass sie es für ihn herausfinden wird. Er möchte auch mit Isabel über die Angelegenheit sprechen, aber Merle warnt ihn davor, dass dies Osmond gegen ihn aufbringen würde. Edward Rosier geht dennoch zu Isabel, da ihm klar wird, dass es keinen wirklichen Grund gibt, warum Madame Merle ihm wirklich helfen würde. Pansy lebt nun in einem massiven Gebäude im Herzen von Rom mit Isabel und Osmond. Mr. Rosier betrachtet dieses Haus als böses Omen, als Verließer. Er dachte, dass der Palast ganz im Geschmack von Osmond sei und nicht im Geschmack von Isabel. Er hatte von Isabel erfahren, dass ihr Mann nach ihrer Hochzeit viel zu seiner Sammlung hinzugefügt hatte. Rosier hält Osmond für einen guten Sammler - er war geduldig in der Ehe und hat sich dann, nachdem er endlich geheiratet hatte, die großen Preise gesichert. Edward Rosier geht zu Isabel, die nun Mrs. Osmond 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: SCENE IV. Another part of the field. [Alarum. Enter, fighting, Soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, young Cato, Lucilius, and Others.] BRUTUS. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads! CATO. What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field:-- I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend; I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! [Charges the enemy.] BRUTUS. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country's friend; know me for Brutus! [Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls.] LUCILIUS. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius; And mayst be honour'd, being Cato's son. FIRST SOLDIER. Yield, or thou diest. LUCILIUS. Only I yield to die: There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight; [Offering money.] Kill Brutus, and be honour'd in his death. FIRST SOLDIER. We must not. A noble prisoner! SECOND SOLDIER. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. I'll tell the news. Here comes the General.-- [Enter Antony.] Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord. ANTONY. Where is he? LUCILIUS. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough: I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus: The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself. ANTONY. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness; I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see whether Brutus be alive or dead; And bring us word unto Octavius' tent How everything is chanced. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Auf dem Schlachtfeld, mitten im Kampf, tritt Brutus mit Young Cato, Lucilius und anderen auf. Er drängt sie alle, aufrecht und tapfer zu stehen. Er verlässt die Szene und Young Cato ruft seinen Namen und seine Loyalität zu Rom aus, obwohl einige Texte diese Zeilen, die seine Loyalität zu Brutus und Rom zeigen, Lucilius zuschreiben. Young Cato wird getötet und Lucilius wird von den Soldaten des Antonius gefangen genommen, die glauben, er sei Brutus. Er wird dann unter Bewachung gelassen, während ein Soldat zu Antonius läuft, um ihm den Gefangenen zu bringen, von dem er glaubt, dass es sich um Brutus handelt. Als Antonius ankommt und nach Brutus fragt, sagt Lucilius ihm, dass Brutus am Leben ist und niemals gefangen genommen wird. Antonius stellt Wache über den loyalen Lucilius und schickt seine Soldaten los, um nach Brutus zu suchen und ihm später im Zelt von Octavius Bericht zu erstatten.

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 twelve years, continued Mrs. Dean, following that dismal period were the happiest of my life: my greatest troubles in their passage rose from our little lady's trifling illnesses, which she had to experience in common with all children, rich and poor. For the rest, after the first six months, she grew like a larch, and could walk and talk too, in her own way, before the heath blossomed a second time over Mrs. Linton's dust. She was the most winning thing that ever brought sunshine into a desolate house: a real beauty in face, with the Earnshaws' handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons' fair skin and small features, and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not rough, and qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its affections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her mother: still she did not resemble her: for she could be soft and mild as a dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive expression: her anger was never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender. However, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her gifts. A propensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that indulged children invariably acquire, whether they be good tempered or cross. If a servant chanced to vex her, it was always--'I shall tell papa!' And if he reproved her, even by a look, you would have thought it a heart-breaking business: I don't believe he ever did speak a harsh word to her. He took her education entirely on himself, and made it an amusement. Fortunately, curiosity and a quick intellect made her an apt scholar: she learned rapidly and eagerly, and did honour to his teaching. Till she reached the age of thirteen she had not once been beyond the range of the park by herself. Mr. Linton would take her with him a mile or so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted her to no one else. Gimmerton was an unsubstantial name in her ears; the chapel, the only building she had approached or entered, except her own home. Wuthering Heights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect recluse; and, apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while surveying the country from her nursery window, she would observe-- 'Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills? I wonder what lies on the other side--is it the sea?' 'No, Miss Cathy,' I would answer; 'it is hills again, just like these.' 'And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?' she once asked. The abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted her notice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the topmost heights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in shadow. I explained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree. 'And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?' she pursued. 'Because they are a great deal higher up than we are,' replied I; 'you could not climb them, they are too high and steep. In winter the frost is always there before it comes to us; and deep into summer I have found snow under that black hollow on the north-east side!' 'Oh, you have been on them!' she cried gleefully. 'Then I can go, too, when I am a woman. Has papa been, Ellen?' 'Papa would tell you, Miss,' I answered, hastily, 'that they are not worth the trouble of visiting. The moors, where you ramble with him, are much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world.' 'But I know the park, and I don't know those,' she murmured to herself. 'And I should delight to look round me from the brow of that tallest point: my little pony Minny shall take me some time.' One of the maids mentioning the Fairy Cave, quite turned her head with a desire to fulfil this project: she teased Mr. Linton about it; and he promised she should have the journey when she got older. But Miss Catherine measured her age by months, and, 'Now, am I old enough to go to Penistone Crags?' was the constant question in her mouth. The road thither wound close by Wuthering Heights. Edgar had not the heart to pass it; so she received as constantly the answer, 'Not yet, love: not yet.' I said Mrs. Heathcliff lived above a dozen years after quitting her husband. Her family were of a delicate constitution: she and Edgar both lacked the ruddy health that you will generally meet in these parts. What her last illness was, I am not certain: I conjecture, they died of the same thing, a kind of fever, slow at its commencement, but incurable, and rapidly consuming life towards the close. She wrote to inform her brother of the probable conclusion of a four-months' indisposition under which she had suffered, and entreated him to come to her, if possible; for she had much to settle, and she wished to bid him adieu, and deliver Linton safely into his hands. Her hope was that Linton might be left with him, as he had been with her: his father, she would fain convince herself, had no desire to assume the burden of his maintenance or education. My master hesitated not a moment in complying with her request: reluctant as he was to leave home at ordinary calls, he flew to answer this; commanding Catherine to my peculiar vigilance, in his absence, with reiterated orders that she must not wander out of the park, even under my escort he did not calculate on her going unaccompanied. He was away three weeks. The first day or two my charge sat in a corner of the library, too sad for either reading or playing: in that quiet state she caused me little trouble; but it was succeeded by an interval of impatient, fretful weariness; and being too busy, and too old then, to run up and down amusing her, I hit on a method by which she might entertain herself. I used to send her on her travels round the grounds--now on foot, and now on a pony; indulging her with a patient audience of all her real and imaginary adventures when she returned. The summer shone in full prime; and she took such a taste for this solitary rambling that she often contrived to remain out from breakfast till tea; and then the evenings were spent in recounting her fanciful tales. I did not fear her breaking bounds; because the gates were generally locked, and I thought she would scarcely venture forth alone, if they had stood wide open. Unluckily, my confidence proved misplaced. Catherine came to me, one morning, at eight o'clock, and said she was that day an Arabian merchant, going to cross the Desert with his caravan; and I must give her plenty of provision for herself and beasts: a horse, and three camels, personated by a large hound and a couple of pointers. I got together good store of dainties, and slung them in a basket on one side of the saddle; and she sprang up as gay as a fairy, sheltered by her wide-brimmed hat and gauze veil from the July sun, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my cautious counsel to avoid galloping, and come back early. The naughty thing never made her appearance at tea. One traveller, the hound, being an old dog and fond of its ease, returned; but neither Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two pointers were visible in any direction: I despatched emissaries down this path, and that path, and at last went wandering in search of her myself. There was a labourer working at a fence round a plantation, on the borders of the grounds. I inquired of him if he had seen our young lady. 'I saw her at morn,' he replied: 'she would have me to cut her a hazel switch, and then she leapt her Galloway over the hedge yonder, where it is lowest, and galloped out of sight.' You may guess how I felt at hearing this news. It struck me directly she must have started for Penistone Crags. 'What will become of her?' I ejaculated, pushing through a gap which the man was repairing, and making straight to the high-road. I walked as if for a wager, mile after mile, till a turn brought me in view of the Heights; but no Catherine could I detect, far or near. The Crags lie about a mile and a half beyond Mr. Heathcliff's place, and that is four from the Grange, so I began to fear night would fall ere I could reach them. 'And what if she should have slipped in clambering among them,' I reflected, 'and been killed, or broken some of her bones?' My suspense was truly painful; and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in hurrying by the farmhouse, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying under a window, with swelled head and bleeding ear. I opened the wicket and ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance. A woman whom I knew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, answered: she had been servant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw. 'Ah,' said she, 'you are come a-seeking your little mistress! Don't be frightened. She's here safe: but I'm glad it isn't the master.' 'He is not at home then, is he?' I panted, quite breathless with quick walking and alarm. 'No, no,' she replied: 'both he and Joseph are off, and I think they won't return this hour or more. Step in and rest you a bit.' I entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rocking herself in a little chair that had been her mother's when a child. Her hat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at home, laughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to Hareton--now a great, strong lad of eighteen--who stared at her with considerable curiosity and astonishment: comprehending precious little of the fluent succession of remarks and questions which her tongue never ceased pouring forth. 'Very well, Miss!' I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an angry countenance. 'This is your last ride, till papa comes back. I'll not trust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty girl!' 'Aha, Ellen!' she cried, gaily, jumping up and running to my side. 'I shall have a pretty story to tell to-night; and so you've found me out. Have you ever been here in your life before?' 'Put that hat on, and home at once,' said I. 'I'm dreadfully grieved at you, Miss Cathy: you've done extremely wrong! It's no use pouting and crying: that won't repay the trouble I've had, scouring the country after you. To think how Mr. Linton charged me to keep you in; and you stealing off so! It shows you are a cunning little fox, and nobody will put faith in you any more.' 'What have I done?' sobbed she, instantly checked. 'Papa charged me nothing: he'll not scold me, Ellen--he's never cross, like you!' 'Come, come!' I repeated. 'I'll tie the riband. Now, let us have no petulance. Oh, for shame! You thirteen years old, and such a baby!' This exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her head, and retreating to the chimney out of my reach. 'Nay,' said the servant, 'don't be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean. We made her stop: she'd fain have ridden forwards, afeard you should be uneasy. Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should: it's a wild road over the hills.' Hareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his pockets, too awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did not relish my intrusion. 'How long am I to wait?' I continued, disregarding the woman's interference. 'It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the pony, Miss Cathy? And where is Phoenix? I shall leave you, unless you be quick; so please yourself.' 'The pony is in the yard,' she replied, 'and Phoenix is shut in there. He's bitten--and so is Charlie. I was going to tell you all about it; but you are in a bad temper, and don't deserve to hear.' I picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but perceiving that the people of the house took her part, she commenced capering round the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a mouse over and under and behind the furniture, rendering it ridiculous for me to pursue. Hareton and the woman laughed, and she joined them, and waxed more impertinent still; till I cried, in great irritation,--'Well, Miss Cathy, if you were aware whose house this is you'd be glad enough to get out.' 'It's _your_ father's, isn't it?' said she, turning to Hareton. 'Nay,' he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully. He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just his own. 'Whose then--your master's?' she asked. He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away. 'Who is his master?' continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. 'He talked about "our house," and "our folk." I thought he had been the owner's son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn't he, if he's a servant?' Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud at this childish speech. I silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her for departure. 'Now, get my horse,' she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she would one of the stable-boys at the Grange. 'And you may come with me. I want to see where the goblin-hunter rises in the marsh, and to hear about the _fairishes_, as you call them: but make haste! What's the matter? Get my horse, I say.' 'I'll see thee damned before I be _thy_ servant!' growled the lad. 'You'll see me _what_!' asked Catherine in surprise. 'Damned--thou saucy witch!' he replied. 'There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty company,' I interposed. 'Nice words to be used to a young lady! Pray don't begin to dispute with him. Come, let us seek for Minny ourselves, and begone.' 'But, Ellen,' cried she, staring fixed in astonishment, 'how dare he speak so to me? Mustn't he be made to do as I ask him? You wicked creature, I shall tell papa what you said.--Now, then!' Hareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang into her eyes with indignation. 'You bring the pony,' she exclaimed, turning to the woman, 'and let my dog free this moment!' 'Softly, Miss,' answered she addressed; 'you'll lose nothing by being civil. Though Mr. Hareton, there, be not the master's son, he's your cousin: and I was never hired to serve you.' '_He_ my cousin!' cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh. 'Yes, indeed,' responded her reprover. 'Oh, Ellen! don't let them say such things,' she pursued in great trouble. 'Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a gentleman's son. That my--' she stopped, and wept outright; upset at the bare notion of relationship with such a clown. 'Hush, hush!' I whispered; 'people can have many cousins and of all sorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; only they needn't keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad.' 'He's not--he's not my cousin, Ellen!' she went on, gathering fresh grief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms for refuge from the idea. I was much vexed at her and the servant for their mutual revelations; having no doubt of Linton's approaching arrival, communicated by the former, being reported to Mr. Heathcliff; and feeling as confident that Catherine's first thought on her father's return would be to seek an explanation of the latter's assertion concerning her rude-bred kindred. Hareton, recovering from his disgust at being taken for a servant, seemed moved by her distress; and, having fetched the pony round to the door, he took, to propitiate her, a fine crooked-legged terrier whelp from the kennel, and putting it into her hand, bid her whist! for he meant nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him with a glance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew. I could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the poor fellow; who was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking in features, and stout and healthy, but attired in garments befitting his daily occupations of working on the farm and lounging among the moors after rabbits and game. Still, I thought I could detect in his physiognomy a mind owning better qualities than his father ever possessed. Good things lost amid a wilderness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far over-topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a wealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and favourable circumstances. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated him physically ill; thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no temptation to that course of oppression: he had none of the timid susceptibility that would have given zest to ill-treatment, in Heathcliff's judgment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on making him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked for any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper; never led a single step towards virtue, or guarded by a single precept against vice. And from what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his deterioration, by a narrow-minded partiality which prompted him to flatter and pet him, as a boy, because he was the head of the old family. And as he had been in the habit of accusing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children, of putting the master past his patience, and compelling him to seek solace in drink by what he termed their 'offald ways,' so at present he laid the whole burden of Hareton's faults on the shoulders of the usurper of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn't correct him: nor however culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, apparently, to watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the lad was ruined: that his soul was abandoned to perdition; but then he reflected that Heathcliff must answer for it. Hareton's blood would be required at his hands; and there lay immense consolation in that thought. Joseph had instilled into him a pride of name, and of his lineage; he would, had he dared, have fostered hate between him and the present owner of the Heights: but his dread of that owner amounted to superstition; and he confined his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private comminations. I don't pretend to be intimately acquainted with the mode of living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights: I only speak from hearsay; for I saw little. The villagers affirmed Mr. Heathcliff was _near_, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house, inside, had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under female management, and the scenes of riot common in Hindley's time were not now enacted within its walls. The master was too gloomy to seek companionship with any people, good or bad; and he is yet. This, however, is not making progress with my story. Miss Cathy rejected the peace-offering of the terrier, and demanded her own dogs, Charlie and Phoenix. They came limping and hanging their heads; and we set out for home, sadly out of sorts, every one of us. I could not wring from my little lady how she had spent the day; except that, as I supposed, the goal of her pilgrimage was Penistone Crags; and she arrived without adventure to the gate of the farm-house, when Hareton happened to issue forth, attended by some canine followers, who attacked her train. They had a smart battle, before their owners could separate them: that formed an introduction. Catherine told Hareton who she was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the way: finally, beguiling him to accompany her. He opened the mysteries of the Fairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. But, being in disgrace, I was not favoured with a description of the interesting objects she saw. I could gather, however, that her guide had been a favourite till she hurt his feelings by addressing him as a servant; and Heathcliff's housekeeper hurt hers by calling him her cousin. Then the language he had held to her rankled in her heart; she who was always 'love,' and 'darling,' and 'queen,' and 'angel,' with everybody at the Grange, to be insulted so shockingly by a stranger! She did not comprehend it; and hard work I had to obtain a promise that she would not lay the grievance before her father. I explained how he objected to the whole household at the Heights, and how sorry he would be to find she had been there; but I insisted most on the fact, that if she revealed my negligence of his orders, he would perhaps be so angry that I should have to leave; and Cathy couldn't bear that prospect: she pledged her word, and kept it for my sake. After all, she was a sweet little girl. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die junge Cathy, die Merkmale beider Eltern aufweist, wächst auf dem Grange auf, ohne von Wuthering Heights und den Menschen, die dort leben, zu wissen. 13 Jahre lang erlaubt Edgar ihr nicht, das Grundstück alleine zu verlassen. Als neugieriges Mädchen bittet sie ihren Vater, sie zu der Feenhöhle auf Penistone Craggs mitzunehmen, aber der Weg führt an Wuthering Heights vorbei, und er ist nicht bereit, dorthin zu fahren. Während Cathy von der Feenhöhle besessen ist, schreibt Isabella an Edgar und informiert ihn über ihren bevorstehenden Tod. Sie bittet ihn, zu ihr zu kommen und Linton mit auf den Grange zu nehmen, um ihn vor Heathcliff zu schützen. Edgar geht zu ihr und lässt Nelly auf Cathy aufpassen. Nelly unterhält Cathy, indem sie sich in fantasievolle Abenteuer auf dem Grundstück vertieft, aber eines Morgens kehrt Cathy nicht zurück. Bei der Suche nach ihr entdeckt Nelly, dass Cathys Pony heute Morgen über die Hecken gesprungen ist und in Richtung Penistone Craggs unterwegs ist. Nelly findet schließlich Cathy in Wuthering Heights. Cathy ritt auf die Höhle zu, als sich die Hunde von Hareton und ihr verwickelten. Hareton und Cathy verbringen den Tag zusammen und amüsieren sich prächtig - bis Nelly eintrifft. Nelly besteht darauf, Cathy sofort nach Hause zu bringen, aber sie interessiert sich zu sehr für Hareton. Ihr Interesse verschwindet jedoch sofort, als sie erfährt, dass Hareton nicht der Sohn des Besitzers von Wuthering Heights ist. Sie geht sofort davon aus, dass er ein Diener ist, und das macht Hareton wütend. Ein Diener enthüllt, dass Hareton Cathys Cousin ist. Cathy enthüllt wiederum, dass ihr Vater nach London gegangen ist, um ihren Cousin zu suchen. Beide Neuigkeiten beunruhigen Nelly. Sie und Cathy beschließen, Edgar nichts von Cathys Besuch zu erzählen, weil keine von ihnen möchte, dass Nelly ihre Position auf dem Grange verliert.

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: Von Henrietta Stackpole erfuhr sie, wie Caspar Goodwood nach Rom gekommen war; ein Ereignis, das drei Tage nach Lord Warburtons Abreise stattfand. Dieser Vorfall wurde von einem für Isabel wichtigen Zwischenfall begleitet - der vorübergehenden Abwesenheit, erneut, von Madame Merle, die nach Neapel gereist war, um bei einem Freund zu bleiben, dem glücklichen Besitzer einer Villa in Posilippo. Madame Merle hatte aufgehört, zu Isabels Glück beizutragen, und sie fragte sich, ob die diskreteste aller Frauen nicht auch zufällig die gefährlichste sein könnte. Manchmal hatte sie nachts seltsame Visionen; es schien ihr, als sähe sie ihren Ehemann und ihren Freund - seinen Freund - in einem schwachen, nicht unterscheidbaren Zusammenspiel. Es schien ihr, dass sie noch nicht fertig mit ihr war; diese Dame hatte etwas in petto. Isabels Vorstellungskraft konzentrierte sich aktiv auf diesen flüchtigen Punkt, wurde aber gelegentlich von einer namenlosen Furcht gebremst, so dass sie, wenn sich die charmante Frau außerhalb Roms befand, fast ein Gefühl der Erleichterung hatte. Miss Stackpole hatte ihr bereits mitgeteilt, dass Caspar Goodwood in Europa war, nachdem Henrietta ihr geschrieben hatte, ihn sofort nach ihrer Begegnung in Paris zu informieren. Er selbst schrieb nie an Isabel, und obwohl er in Europa war, dachte sie, dass es durchaus möglich war, dass er sie nicht sehen wollte. Ihr letztes Treffen vor ihrer Heirat hatte den Charakter eines vollständigen Bruchs gehabt; wenn sie sich richtig erinnerte, hatte er gesagt, dass er seinen letzten Blick auf sie werfen wollte. Seitdem war er die widerstreitendste Überlebende ihrer früheren Zeit gewesen - der einzige, mit dem eine dauerhafte Schmerzen verbunden waren. Er hatte sie an diesem Morgen mit einem Gefühl des überflüssigsten Schocks verlassen: Es war wie eine Kollision zwischen Schiffen am helllichten Tag. Es gab keinen Nebel, keine verborgene Strömung, die es entschuldigte, und sie selbst hatte nur gewünscht, Abstand zu halten. Er hatte jedoch gegen ihren Bug gestoßen, während ihre Hand am Steuer war, und - um das Bild zu vervollständigen - dem leichteren Fahrzeug eine Spannung verliehen, die sich gelegentlich noch in einem leisen Knarren zeigte. Es war schrecklich gewesen, ihn zu sehen, denn er repräsentierte den einzigen ernsthaften Schaden, den sie (ihrem Glauben nach) jemals in der Welt angerichtet hatte: Er war die einzige Person mit einem unbefriedigten Anspruch an sie. Sie hatte ihn unglücklich gemacht, sie konnte nichts dagegen tun; und sein Unglück war eine düstere Realität. Vor Wut hatte sie geweint, nachdem er sie verlassen hatte, über ... sie wusste kaum was: Sie versuchte zu denken, dass es sein Fehlen an Rücksicht gewesen war. Er war mit seinem Unglück zu ihr gekommen, als ihr eigenes Glück perfekt war; er hatte sein Bestes getan, die Helligkeit dieser reinen Strahlen zu verdunkeln. Er war nicht gewalttätig gewesen, und doch hatte es einen Anstoß in dem Eindruck gegeben. Es hatte an einem Ort irgendwo einen Anstoß gegeben; vielleicht war es nur in ihrem eigenen Weinkrampf und in dem nachfolgenden Gefühl dafür, das drei oder vier Tage gedauert hatte. Die Wirkung seines letzten Appells war kurz gesagt verblasst, und im ersten Jahr ihrer Ehe war er aus ihren Gedanken verschwunden. Er war ein undankbares Thema für eine Erwähnung; es war unangenehm, an eine Person denken zu müssen, die verletzt und düster über einen ist und der man doch nichts tun kann, um zu helfen. Es wäre anders gewesen, wenn sie auch nur ein wenig an seinem unversöhnten Zustand hatte zweifeln können, so wie sie an Lord Warburtons zweifelte; leider war es jenseits jedes Zweifels, und dieses aggressive, kompromisslose Auftreten war gerade das, was es unattraktiv machte. Sie konnte sich nie sagen, dass hier ein Leidender war, der Entschädigungen hatte, wie sie es im Fall ihres englischen Verehrers sagen konnte. Sie hatte kein Vertrauen in Mr. Goodwoods Entschädigungen und keine Wertschätzung für sie. Eine Baumwollfabrik war keine Entschädigung für irgendetwas - am wenigsten dafür, Isabel Archer nicht geheiratet zu haben. Und doch, darüber hinaus wusste sie kaum, was er hatte - abgesehen natürlich von seinen intrinsischen Qualitäten. Oh, er war schon genug intrinsisch; sie dachte nie daran, dass er nach künstlicher Unterstützung suchen könnte. Wenn er sein Geschäft erweiterte - das war, nach bestem Wissen und Gewissen, die einzige Form, in der Anstrengung bei ihm auftreten könnte - würde es sein, weil es eine unternehmerische Sache war oder gut für das Geschäft; nicht im Geringsten, weil er hoffen könnte, dass es die Vergangenheit überlagern würde. Dies verlieh seiner Erscheinung eine gewisse Kargheit und Kühle, die den Zufall, ihm in Erinnerung oder Vorahnung zu begegnen, zu einem besonderen Zusammenstoß machte; ihm fehlte der soziale Schmuck, der in einem überzivilisierten Zeitalter die Schärfe menschlicher Kontakte dämpft. Sein vollkommendes Schweigen, darüber hinaus, dass sie nie von ihm hörte und nur selten Erwähnungen von ihm hörte, vertiefte diesen Eindruck seiner Einsamkeit. Von Zeit zu Zeit fragte sie Lily nach Neuigkeiten von ihm; aber Lily wusste nichts von Boston - ihre Vorstellungskraft endete östlich der Madison Avenue. Mit der Zeit dachte Isabel öfter an ihn, und mit weniger Einschränkungen; sie hatte mehr als einmal die Idee, ihm zu schreiben. Sie hatte ihrem Ehemann nie von ihm erzählt - nie Osmond von seinen Besuchen bei ihr in Florenz wissen lassen; eine Zurückhaltung, die in der frühen Phase nicht aus mangelndem Vertrauen in Osmond diktiert wurde, sondern einfach durch die Überlegung, dass die Enttäuschung des jungen Mannes nicht ihr Geheimnis, sondern seins war. Es wäre verkehrt von ihr gewesen, das einem anderen mitzuteilen, und Mr. Goodwoods Angelegenheiten hätten schließlich nur wenig Interesse für Gilbert. Als es darauf ankam, hatte sie ihm nie geschrieben; es schien ihr, dass sie, angesichts seiner Beschwerde, das Mindeste tun konnte, ihn in Ruhe zu lassen. Dennoch wäre sie gerne irgendwie näher bei ihm gewesen. Es war nicht so, dass es ihr je in den Sinn gekommen wäre, ihn zu heiraten; auch nachdem ihr die Konsequenzen ihrer tatsächlichen Vereinigung klar geworden waren, hatte sich diese bestimmte Überlegung, obwohl sie so viele durchstöberte, nicht getraut, sich zu präsentieren. Aber als sie feststellte, dass sie in Schwierigkeiten war, war er ein Mitglied dieses Kreises von Dingen geworden, mit denen sie ins Reine kommen wollte. Ich habe erwähnt, wie leidenschaftlich sie das Bedürfnis hatte, zu fühlen, dass ihr Unglück nicht aus ihrem eigenen Fehler stammte. Sie hatte keinen unmittelbaren Aussicht auf den Tod, und doch wünschte sie sich, ihren Frieden mit der Welt zu machen - ihre geistlichen Angelegenheiten in Ordnung zu bringen. Es fiel ihr von Zeit zu Zeit wieder ein, dass noch eine Rechnung mit Caspar offenstand, und sie sah sich selbst in der Lage oder in der Lage, sie heute zu begleichen, mit Konditionen, die für ihn einfacher waren als je zuvor. Trotzdem hatte sie Angst, als sie erfuhr, dass er nach Rom kam; es wäre unangenehmer für ihn als für jeden anderen, die intime Unordnung ihrer Angelegenheiten aufzudecken - da er sie, so wie er es tun WÜRDE, wie einen gefälschten Jahresabschluss oder so etwas Ähnliches betrachten würde. Tief in ihrem Inneren glaubte sie, dass er sein ganzes Hab und Gut in ihr Glück investiert hatte, während die anderen nur einen Teil investiert hatten. Er war eine weitere Person, vor der sie ihren Stress verbergen musste. Sie war jedoch beruhigt, nachdem er in Rom ankam, denn er verbrachte mehrere Tage, ohne sie zu besuchen. Henrietta Stackpole, man kann sich denken, war pünktlicher und Isabel wurde weitestgehend mit der Gesellschaft ihrer Freundin begünstigt. Sie war ganz darin aufgegangen. Denn jetzt, da sie es zu einem Punkt gemacht hatte, ihr Gewissen rein zu halten, war das eine Möglichkeit zu beweisen, dass sie nicht oberflächlich gewesen war - umso mehr, als die Jahre im Flug ihre Eigenheiten eher bereichert als verblüht hatten, die von Isabel humorvoll von Personen kritisiert worden waren, die weniger daran interessiert waren als Isabel und die immer noch deutlich genug waren, um der Treue einen Hauch von Heldentum zu verleihen. Henrietta war genauso intelligent, schnell und frisch wie eh und je und genauso ordentlich, frisch und fair. Ihre bemerkenswert offenen Augen, die wie große glasierte Bahnhöfe beleuchtet waren, hatten keine Fensterläden hochgezogen; ihre Kleidung hatte nichts von ihrer Knusprigkeit verloren, ihre Meinungen nichts von ihrem nationalen Bezug. Sie war jedoch keineswegs völlig unverändert, wie es Isabel schien. Ihr erschien es, als sei Henrietta unklarer geworden. Früher war sie nie unklar gewesen; obwohl sie viele Untersuchungen gleichzeitig durchgeführt hatte, war sie vollständig und präzise bei jedem. Sie hatte für alles, was sie tat, einen Grund; sie strotzte förmlich vor Motiven. Früher war sie nach Europa gekommen, weil sie es sehen wollte, aber jetzt, da sie es bereits gesehen hatte, hatte sie keine solche Entschuldigung. Sie gab für einen Moment nicht vor, dass der Wunsch, verfallene Zivilisationen zu untersuchen, etwas mit ihrem gegenwärtigen Vorhaben zu tun hatte; ihre Reise war eher ein Ausdruck ihrer Unabhängigkeit von der alten Welt als ein Gefühl weiterer Verpflichtungen ihr gegenüber. "Es ist nichts, nach Europa zu kommen", sagte sie zu Isabel; "es scheint mir, dass man dafür nicht so viele Gründe braucht. Es ist etwas, zu Hause zu bleiben; das ist viel wichtiger." Es geschah daher nicht mit dem Bewusstsein, etwas sehr Wichtiges zu tun, dass sie sich eine weitere Pilgerreise nach Rom genehmigte; sie hatte den Ort schon einmal gesehen und sorgfältig inspiziert; ihre gegenwärtige Tat war einfach ein Zeichen von Vertrautheit, dass sie alles darüber wusste und dass sie genauso viel recht hatte wie jeder andere dort zu sein. Das alles war sehr gut und Henrietta war rastlos; sie hatte auch das vollste Recht dazu, wenn man das so sagen darf. Aber sie hatte allem Anschein nach einen besseren Grund nach Rom zu kommen als dass ihr dieses so wenig am Herzen liegt. Ihre Freundin erkannte das problemlos und mit ihm den Wert der Treue der anderen. Sie hatte den stürmischen Ozean mitten im Winter überquert, weil sie vermutet hatte, dass Isabel traurig war. Henrietta hatte schon viel erraten, aber sie hatte nie so glücklich geraten wie damals. Isabels Befriedigungen waren im Moment gering, aber selbst wenn sie zahlreicher gewesen wären, hätte es immer noch etwas von individueller Freude in ihrem Gefühl der Rechtfertigung bestanden, immer hoch von Henrietta gedacht zu haben. Sie hatte große Zugeständnisse gemacht, was sie betraf, und doch darauf bestanden, dass sie trotz aller Vorbehalte sehr wertvoll war. Es war jedoch nicht ihr eigener Triumph, den sie gut fand; es war einfach die Erleichterung, dieser Vertrauten zu gestehen, der ersten Person, der sie es gestanden hatte, dass sie überhaupt nicht in Ruhe sei. Henrietta war selbst so schnell wie möglich zu diesem Punkt gelangt und hatte sie es ihr ins Gesicht gesagt, dass sie unglücklich sei. Sie war eine Frau, sie war eine Schwester; sie war nicht Ralph, nicht Lord Warburton, nicht Caspar Goodwood, und Isabel konnte sprechen. "Ja, ich bin unglücklich", sagte sie sehr mild. Es widerstrebte ihr, sich selbst so reden zu hören, sie versuchte es so gerichtlich wie möglich zu sagen. "Was tut er dir an?" fragte Henrietta, die die Stirn runzelte, als ob sie die Vorgänge eines Scharlatans untersuchte. "Er tut mir nichts. Aber er mag mich nicht." "Er ist sehr schwer zufriedenzustellen!" rief Miss Stackpole aus. "Warum verlässt du ihn nicht?" "Ich kann mich nicht so ändern", sagte Isabel. "Warum nicht, möchte ich wissen? Du würdest nicht zugeben, dass du einen Fehler gemacht hast. Du bist zu stolz." "Ich weiß nicht, ob ich zu stolz bin. Aber ich kann meinen Fehler nicht bekannt machen. Das ist nicht anständig. Ich würde viel lieber sterben." "Du wirst nicht immer so denken", sagte Henrietta. "Ich weiß nicht, wozu mich großes Unglück bringen könnte; aber es scheint mir, dass ich immer beschämt sein werde. Man muss seine Taten akzeptieren. Ich habe ihn vor aller Welt geheiratet; ich war völlig frei; es war unmöglich, absichtlicher zu handeln. Man kann sich nicht so ändern", wiederholte Isabel. "Du hast dich trotz der Unmöglichkeit verändert. Ich hoffe, du möchtest nicht behaupten, dass du ihn magst." Isabel überlegte. "Nein, ich mag ihn nicht. Das kann ich dir sagen, weil ich meiner geheimen Lage überdrüssig bin. Aber das reicht aus; ich kann es nicht auf den Dächern verkünden." Henrietta lachte. "Denkst du nicht, dass du etwas zu rücksichtsvoll bist?" "Es ist nicht ihn, auf den ich rücksicht nehme - es ist mich selbst!" antwortete Isabel. Es überraschte nicht, dass Gilbert Osmond keinen Trost in Miss Stackpole fand; sein Instinkt hatte ihn natürlich gegenüber einer jungen Dame in Opposition gesetzt, die fähig war, seine Frau zu überzeugen, vom ehelichen Hausstand Abstand zu nehmen. Als sie in Rom ankam, hatte er zu Isabel gesagt, er hoffe, dass sie ihrer Freundin dem Interviewer in Ruhe lassen würde; und Isabel hatte geantwortet, dass er zumindest nichts von ihr zu befürchten habe. Sie sagte zu Henrietta, dass sie sie nicht zum Essen einladen könne, da Osmond sie nicht möge, aber sie könnten sich problemlos anderswo treffen. Isabel empfing Miss Stackpole frei in ihrem eigenen Wohnzimmer und nahm sie wiederholt mit auf Fahrten, von Angesicht zu Angesicht mit Pansy, die sich ein wenig nach vorne lehnte, auf dem gegenüberliegenden Sitz des Wagens und die berühmte Schriftstellerin mit respektvoller Aufmerksamkeit anschaute, was Henrietta gelegentlich irritierte. Sie beschwerte sich bei Isabel, dass Miss Osmond so aussähe, als würde sie sich alles merken, was man sagte. "Ich will nicht auf diese Weise erinnert werden," erklärte Miss Stackpole; "Ich betrachte meinen Dialog nur für den Moment wie die Morgenausgaben der Zeitungen. Ihre Stieftochter sieht, wie sie dort sitzt, so aus, als würde sie alle alten Ausgaben aufbewahren und sie eines Tages gegen mich verwenden." Sie konnte sich nicht dazu bewegen, positiv über Pansy zu denken, deren Mangel an Initiative, an Gespräch, an persönlichen Ansprüchen ihr in einem Mädchen von zwanzig Jahren unnatürlich und sogar unheimlich erschien. Isabel sah bald ein, dass Osmond es gerne gesehen hätte, wenn sie etwas mehr die Sache ihrer Freundin unterstützt hätte, etwas mehr darauf bestanden hätte, dass er sie empfängt, damit er aus höflichkeit auch leiden könnte. Ihre unmittelbare Akzeptanz seiner Einwände versetzte ihn zu sehr in die falsche Position - es war in der Tat einer der Nachteile, Verachtung ausdrücken zu können, dass man nicht gleichzeitig den Kredit hat, Sympathie auszudrücken. Osmond beharrte auf seinem Ansehen und dennoch beharrte er auf seinen Einwänden - alles Elemente, die schwer zu vereinen waren. Das Richtige wäre gewesen, dass Miss Stackpole in den Palazzo Roccanera zum Abendessen kommen sollte, damit sie (trotz seiner oberflächlichen Freundlichkeit, die immer so groß war) selbst beurteilen könne, wie wenig Freude es ihm bereitet. Ab dem Moment, in dem beide Damen jedoch so wenig entgegenkommend waren, blieb für Osmond nichts anderes übrig, als zu hoffen, dass die Dame aus New York sich selbst irgendwohin verziehen würde. Es war erstaunlich, wie wenig Zufriedenheit er aus den Freunden seiner Frau zog; er nahm Anlass, Isabel darauf aufmerksam zu machen. Du bist sicherlich nicht glücklich mit deinen Intimen; ich wünschte, du könntest dir eine neue Sammlung zulegen", sagte er ihr eines Morgens in Bezug auf nichts Sichtbares in dem Moment, aber in einem Ton reifer Besinnung, der der Bemerkung jede brutale Härte nahm. "Es ist, als hättest du dir die Leute in der Welt ausgesucht, mit denen ich am wenigsten gemeinsam habe. Dein Cousin ist meiner Meinung nach ein eingebildeter Esel - abgesehen davon, dass er das hässlichste Geschöpf ist, das ich kenne. Dann ist es unausstehlich langweilig, dass man ihm das nicht sagen kann; man muss ihn wegen seiner Gesundheit schonen. Seine Gesundheit erscheint mir der beste Teil an ihm; sie verschafft ihm Privilegien, die sonst niemand genießt. Wenn er so verzweifelt krank ist, gibt es nur einen Weg, das zu beweisen; aber er scheint dafür kein Interesse zu haben. Ich kann nicht viel Gutes über den großen Warburton sagen. Wenn man wirklich darüber nachdenkt, war die kühne Dreistigkeit dieser Vorstellung etwas Seltenes! Er kommt und betrachtet meine Tochter, als wäre sie eine Wohnungssuite; er probiert die Türgriffe aus und schaut aus den Fenstern, klopft an die Wände und überlegt sogar, ob er den Platz einnehmen will. Könnten Sie bitte einen Mietvertrag ausstellen? Dann entscheidet er insgesamt, dass die Räume zu klein sind; er glaubt nicht, dass er im dritten Stock leben könnte; er muss nach einem Piano Nobile Ausschau halten. Und er geht weg, nachdem er einen Monat lang kostenlose Unterkunft in der armen kleinen Wohnung bekommen hat. Miss Stackpole hingegen ist Ihre wunderbarste Erfindung. Sie kommt mir wie eine Art Monster vor. Es gibt keinen Nerv in meinem Körper, den sie nicht zum Zittern bringt. Sie wissen, dass ich nie zugestanden habe, dass sie eine Frau ist. Wissen Sie, woran sie mich erinnert? An eine neue Feder - das widerlichste Ding in der Natur. Sie spricht so, wie eine Feder schreibt; sind ihre Briefe übrigens auf kariertem Papier? Sie denkt und bewegt sich und geht und schaut genau so, wie sie spricht. Man könnte sagen, dass sie mir nicht weh tut, da ich sie nicht sehe. Ich sehe sie nicht, aber ich höre sie; den ganzen Tag lang höre ich sie. Ihre Stimme ist in meinen Ohren; ich kann sie nicht loswerden. Ich weiß genau, was sie sagt, und jede Betonung des Tons, in dem sie es sagt. Sie sagt entzückende Dinge über mich, und sie geben Ihnen großen Trost. Ich mag es wirklich nicht, zu denken, dass sie über mich spricht - es fühlt sich so an, als ob ich wüsste, dass der Diener meinen Hut trägt." Henrietta sprach, wie seine Frau ihm versicherte, weniger über Gilbert Osmond, als er vermutete. Sie hatte genügend andere Themen, zwei von denen der Leser vermutlich besonders interessiert sein dürfte. Sie ließ ihre Freundin wissen, dass Caspar Goodwood selbst herausgefunden hatte, dass sie unglücklich war, obwohl ihre Fantasie nicht den Trost erahnen konnte, den er ihr zu geben hoffte, indem er nach Rom kam und sie dennoch nicht besuchte. Sie trafen ihn zwei Mal auf der Straße, aber er schien sie nicht zu sehen; sie waren im Auto unterwegs, und er hatte die Angewohnheit, geradeaus zu schauen, als wollte er immer nur ein Objekt auf einmal erfassen. Isabel könnte schwören, dass sie ihn am Tag zuvor gesehen hatte; es musste genau mit diesem Gesicht und Schritt gewesen sein, dass er aus Mrs. Touchetts Tür am Ende ihres letzten Treffens gegangen war. Er war genau so gekleidet, wie er an jenem Tag gekleidet gewesen war, Isabel erinnerte sich an die Farbe seiner Krawatte; und doch trotz dieses vertrauten Aussehens gab es auch eine Fremdheit in seiner Figur, etwas, das sie frisch empfand, dass er nach Rom gekommen war, war eher furchterregend. Er sah größer und herrischer aus als sonst, und in jenen Tagen erreichte er definitiv schon eine beachtliche Größe. Sie bemerkte, dass die Leute, an denen er vorbeiging, sich nach ihm umdrehten; aber er ging geradeaus weiter und hob sein Gesicht wie einen Himmel im Februar. Miss Stackpoles anderes Thema war sehr unterschiedlich; sie gab Isabel die neuesten Nachrichten über Mr. Bantling. Er war im Jahr zuvor in den Vereinigten Staaten gewesen, und sie freute sich, sagen zu können, dass sie ihm beträchtliche Aufmerksamkeit hatte zuteilwerden lassen. Sie wusste nicht, wie sehr er es genossen hatte, aber sie konnte versichern, dass es ihm gutgetan hatte; er war nicht mehr derselbe Mann wie am Anfang. Es hatte ihm die Augen geöffnet und ihm gezeigt, dass England nicht alles war. Er war an den meisten Orten sehr beliebt gewesen und galt als ausgesprochen einfach - einfacher als die Engländer gemeinhin vermutet wurden. Es gab Leute, die ihn für affektiert hielten; sie wusste nicht, ob sie meinten, dass seine Einfachheit eine Maskerade sei. Manche seiner Fragen waren zu entmutigend; er hielt wohl alle Zimmermädchen für Töchter von Bauern - oder alle Bauernmädchen für Zimmermädchen - sie konnte sich nicht genau erinnern, welche. Er schien das große Schulsystem nicht begreifen zu können; es war wirklich zu viel für ihn gewesen. Im Großen und Ganzen hatte er sich so verhalten, als gäbe es von allem zu viel - als ob er nur einen kleinen Teil erfassen könnte. Den Teil, den er gewählt hatte, waren das Hotelsystem und die Flussschifffahrt. Die Hotels hatten ihn wirklich fasziniert; er hatte von jedem Hotel, das er besucht hatte, ein Foto. Aber die Flussdampfer waren sein Hauptinteresse; er wollte nichts anderes tun, als auf den großen Schiffen zu fahren. Sie waren gemeinsam von New York nach Milwaukee gereist und hatten in den interessantesten Städten auf der Route Zwischenstation gemacht; und jedes Mal, wenn sie weiterfuhren, wollte er wissen, ob sie mit dem Dampfer fahren könnten. Er schien keine Ahnung von Geografie zu haben - er hatte den Eindruck, dass Baltimore eine Stadt im Westen sei und erwartete ständig, am Mississippi anzukommen. Er schien in ganz Amerika keinen anderen Fluss gehört zu haben als den Mississippi und war nicht darauf vorbereitet, die Existenz des Hudson anzuerkennen, obwohl er letztendlich eingestehen musste, dass er dem Rhein ebenbürtig war. Sie hatten einige angenehme Stunden in den Luxuswagen verbracht; er bestellte immer Eiscreme beim dunkelhäutigen Mann. Er konnte sich nie daran gewöhnen - dass man in den Wagen Eiscreme bekommen konnte. Natürlich konnte man das nicht, oder Ventilatoren, oder Süßigkeiten, oder irgendetwas in den englischen Wagen! Er fand die Hitze ganz überwältigend, und sie hatte ihm gesagt, sie erwarte tatsächlich, dass es die höchste sei, die er je erlebt habe. Er war jetzt in England, beim Jagen - "auf die Jagd gehen" nannte es Henrietta. Diese Vergnügungen waren die der amerikanischen Rothäute; wir hatten das längst hinter uns gelassen, die Freuden der Jagd. In England schien man im Allgemeinen zu glauben, dass wir Tomahawks und Federn tragen; aber ein solches Outfit passte besser zu den Gewohnheiten der Engländer. Mr. Bantling würde keine Zeit haben, sie in Italien zu besuchen, aber wenn sie nach Paris zurückkehren würde, beabsichtigte er zu kommen. Er wollte Versailles unbedingt wiedersehen; er mochte das alte Regime sehr. Darin waren sie sich nicht einig, aber dafür mochte sie Versailles, dass man sehen konnte, dass das alte Regime beseitigt worden war. Dort gab es keine Herzöge und Marquis mehr; sie erinnerte sich dagegen an einen Tag, an dem es dort fünf amerikanische Familien gab, die herumliefen. Mr. Bantling wollte unbedingt, dass sie sich mit dem Thema England wieder beschäftigte, und er dachte, dass es ihr jetzt besser gelingen könnte; England habe sich in den letzten zwei oder drei Jahren stark verändert. Er war fest entschlossen, dass sie, wenn sie dorthin ginge, seine Schwester Lady Pensil besuchen sollte und dass diesmal die Einladung direkt an sie gerichtet sein sollte. Das Rätsel um die andere Einladung war nie erklärt worden. Caspar Goodwood kam schließlich zum Palazzo Roccanera; er hatte Isabel zuvor einen Brief geschrieben, um um Erlaubnis zu bitten. Diese wurde prompt gewährt; sie würde um sechs Uhr nachmittags zu Hause sein. Sie verbrachte den Tag damit, sich zu fragen, warum er kam - welchen Nutzen er davon erwartete. Bisher hatte er sich als jemand dargestellt, der nicht in der Lage war, zu kompromittieren, der entweder das nehmen würde, worum er gebeten hatte, oder gar nichts. Isabels Gastfreundschaft rief jedoch keine Fragen hervor, und sie hatte keine große Schwierigkeit, glücklich genug zu erscheinen, um ihn zu täuschen. Zumindest war sie überzeugt, dass sie ihn täuschte und ihn dazu brachte, sich selbst zu sagen, dass er falsch informiert worden war. Aber sie sah auch, so glaubte sie zumindest, dass er nicht enttäuscht war, wie es andere Männer, von denen sie sicher war, gewesen wären; er war nicht nach Rom gekommen, um nach einer Gelegenheit zu suchen. Sie fand nie heraus, wofür er gekommen war; er bot keine Erklärung an; es konnte keine andere geben als die sehr einfache, dass er sie sehen wollte. Mit anderen Worten, er war zu seinem Vergnügen gekommen. Isabel folgte dieser Annahme mit großer Eile und war begeistert, eine Formel gefunden zu haben, die den Geist dieser alten Beschwerde des Gentleman beschwichtigen würde. Wenn er nach Rom gekommen war, um sich zu amüsieren, war genau das, was sie wollte; denn wenn er sich für Vergnügen interessierte, hatte er über seinen Herzschmerz hinweg gefunden. Wenn er über seinen Herzschmerz hinweg gekommen war, war alles so, wie es sein sollte und ihre Verantwortlichkeiten waren zu Ende. Es war wahr, dass er seine Erholung ein wenig steif nahm, aber er war noch nie locker und unbeschwert gewesen und sie hatte allen Grund zu glauben, dass er mit dem, was er sah, zufrieden war. Henrietta war nicht in sein Vertrauen eingeweiht, obwohl er in ihrem war, und Isabel erhielt daher keinen Einblick in seinen Gemütszustand. Er war offen für wenig Unterhaltung über allgemeine Themen; es fiel ihr wieder ein, dass sie einmal über ihn gesagt hatte: "Mr. Goodwood spricht viel, aber er redet nicht." Er sprach jetzt viel, aber er redete vielleicht so wenig wie je zuvor; angesichts dessen, wie viel es in Rom zu besprechen gab. Seine Ankunft war nicht dazu bestimmt, ihre Beziehungen zu ihrem Ehemann zu vereinfachen, denn wenn Mr. Osmond ihre Freunde nicht mochte, hatte Mr. Goodwood keinen Anspruch auf seine Aufmerksamkeit, außer dass er einer der Ersten von ihnen gewesen war. Es gab nichts über ihn zu sagen, außer dass er derjenige war, der am ältesten war; diese eher spärliche Zusammenfassung erschöpfte die Fakten. Sie hatte ihn gezwungenermaßen Gilbert vorzustellen; sie konnte unmöglich aufhören, ihn zum Abendessen und zu ihren Donnerstagabenden einzuladen, von denen sie sehr müde geworden war, zu denen ihr Ehemann jedoch noch aus dem Grund festhielt, dass er nicht so sehr Leute einladen wollte, sondern sie nicht einladen wollte. Zu den Donnerstagen kam Mr. Goodwood regelmäßig, feierlich und ziemlich früh; er schien sie mit großer Ernsthaftigkeit zu betrachten. Isabel hatte ab und zu einen Moment der Wut; es war etwas so wörtliches an ihm; sie dachte, er müsste wissen, dass sie nicht wusste, was sie mit ihm anfangen sollte. Aber sie konnte ihn nicht dumm nennen; er war das überhaupt nicht; er war nur außergewöhnlich ehrlich. So ehrlich zu sein, machte einen Mann sehr anders als die meisten Menschen; man musste ihm fast genauso ehrlich begegnen. Sie machte diese letzte Überlegung zu dem Zeitpunkt, als sie sich schmeichelte, ihn davon überzeugt zu haben, dass sie die unbeschwerteste Frau sei. Er hat keinen Zweifel an diesem Punkt aufkommen lassen, hat ihr nie persönliche Fragen gestellt. Er kam viel besser mit Osmond aus, als es wahrscheinlich schien. Osmond hatte eine große Abneigung dagegen, auf etwas zählen zu müssen; in einem solchen Fall hatte er ein unwiderstehliches Bedürfnis, Sie zu enttäuschen. Es war aufgrund dieses Prinzips, dass er sich selbst den Spaß machte, Gefallen an einem aufrechten Bostonier zu finden, auf den er darauf vertraut hatte, kalt zu sein. Er fragte Isabel, ob Mr. Goodwood auch sie heiraten wollte, und zeigte sich überrascht, dass sie ihn nicht angenommen hatte. Es wäre eine ausgezeichnete Sache gewesen, sozusagen unter einem hohen Glockenturm zu leben, der alle Stunden schlagen und eine eigenartige Schwingung in der oberen Luft erzeugen würde. Er erklärte, dass er gerne mit dem großen Goodwood sprach; es war nicht leicht zuerst, man musste eine endlos steile Treppe hinaufsteigen, bis man oben auf dem Turm war; aber wenn man dort war, hatte man eine große Aussicht und fühlte eine leichte Brise. Wie wir wissen, hatte Osmond herrliche Eigenschaften und er ließ Caspar Goodwood von all diesen Vorteilen profitieren. Isabel konnte sehen, dass Mr. Goodwood besser von ihrem Ehemann dachte, als er es jemals gewünscht hatte; er hatte ihr den Eindruck vermittelt, am Morgen in Florenz, dass er einem guten Eindruck unzugänglich war. Gilbert lud ihn wiederholt zum Abendessen ein und Mr. Goodwood rauchte anschließend eine Zigarre mit ihm und wollte sogar seine Sammlungen sehen. Gilbert sagte zu Isabel, dass er sehr originell sei; er sei so stark und von so gutem Stil wie ein englischer Reisekoffer - er habe viele Riemen und Schnallen, die niemals verschleißen würden, und ein ausgezeichnetes Patent-Schloss. Caspar Goodwood begann, auf der Campagna zu reiten, und widmete dieser Übung viel Zeit; daher sah Isabel ihn hauptsächlich abends. Sie überlegte sich einen Tag lang, ihm zu sagen, dass er ihr einen Gefallen tun könnte, wenn er wollte. Und dann fügte sie lächelnd hinzu: "Ich weiß jedoch nicht, welches Recht ich habe, dich um einen Gefallen zu bitten." "Du bist die Person auf der Welt, die am meisten Recht hat", antwortete er. "Ich habe dir Zusicherungen gegeben, die ich niemand anderem gegeben habe." Der Auftrag war, dass er zu ihrer Cousine Ralph gehen und ihn im Hotel de Paris alleine besuchen und so nett wie möglich zu ihm sein sollte, da er krank war. Mr. Goodwood hatte ihn noch nie gesehen, aber er würde wissen, wer der arme Kerl war; wenn sie sich nicht irrte, hatte Ralph ihn einmal nach Gardencourt eingeladen. Caspar erinnerte sich perfekt an die Einladung und hatte, obwohl er nicht als ein Mann mit viel Vorstellungskraft galt, genug Vorstellungskraft, um sich in die Lage eines armen Mannes zu versetzen, der in einem römischen Gasthaus im Sterben lag. Er besuchte das Hotel de Paris und fand Miss Stackpole neben seinem Sofa sitzend, als er in Anwesenheit des Herrn von Gardencourt gezeigt wurde. In der Tat hatte sich eine merkwürdige Veränderung im Verhältnis dieser Dame zu Ralph Touchett ereignet. Isabel hatte sie nicht gebeten, ihn zu besuchen, aber nachdem sie gehört hatte, dass er zu krank war, um herauszukommen, war sie sofort von sich aus gegangen. Danach besuchte sie ihn täglich - immer in dem Glauben, dass sie große Feinde waren. "Oh ja, wir sind vertraute Feinde", pflegte Ralph zu sagen, und er beschuldigte sie frei - so frei, wie es der Humor erlaubte - ihn zu Tode zu bedrängen. In Wirklichkeit wurden sie zu ausgezeichneten Freunden, wobei Henrietta sich wunderte, dass sie ihn nie zuvor gemocht hatte. Ralph mochte sie genauso wie immer; er hatte nie daran gezweifelt, dass sie ein ausgezeichneter Kamerad war. Sie sprachen über alles und waren immer anderer Meinung; über alles, außer Isabel - ein Thema, bei dem Ralph immer den Zeigefinger auf den Lippen hatte. Mr. Bantling hingegen erwies sich als eine große Ressource; Ralph war in der Lage, mit Henrietta stundenlang über Mr. Bantling zu diskutieren. Die Diskussion wurde natürlich durch ihre unvermeidliche Meinungsverschiedenheit angeregt - Ralph hatte sich amüsiert, indem er die Position einnahm, dass der freundliche ehemalige Leibgardist ein echter Machiavelli war. Caspar Goodwood konnte zu einer solchen Debatte nichts beitragen, aber nachdem er alleine mit seinem Gastgeber übrig blieb, fand er heraus, dass es verschiedene andere Themen gab, über die sie sprechen konnten. Man muss zugeben, dass die Frau, die gerade gegangen war, nicht zu diesen Themen gehörte; Caspar gewährte Miss Stackpoles Qualitäten im Voraus, hatte aber keine weiteren Bemerkungen über sie zu machen. Auch die beiden Männer schwärmten nach den ersten Andeutungen nicht von Mrs. Osmond - ein Thema, bei dem Goodwood genauso viele Gefahren wie Ralph erkannte. Er bedauerte diese nicht einzuordnende Person sehr; er konnte es nicht ertragen, einen angenehmen Mann, so angenehm trotz seiner Eigenartigkeiten, so unbegrenzt in seinen Handlungsmöglichkeiten, zu sehen. Für Goodwood gab es immer etwas zu tun und er tat es in diesem Fall, indem er mehrmals das Hotel de Paris besuchte. Isabel schien es, dass sie sehr clever gewesen war; sie hatte Caspar geschickt losgeworden. Sie hatte ihm eine Aufgabe gegeben; sie hatte ihn zu einem Betreuer für Ralph gemacht. Sie hatte vor, mit ihrem Cousin nach Norden zu reisen, sobald das erste milde Wetter dies zuließ. Lord Warburton hatte Ralph nach Rom gebracht und Mr. Goodwood sollte ihn fortbringen. Darin schien eine glückliche Harmonie zu liegen und sie wünschte sich jetzt inständig, dass Ralph abreisen sollte. Sie hatte ständig Angst, dass er vor ihren Augen sterben würde und schreckte vor dem Ereignis zurück, dass dies in einem Gasthaus vor ihrer Tür passieren würde, das er so selten betreten hatte. Ralph sollte seine letzte Ruhestätte in seinem eigenen lieben Haus finden, in einem dieser tiefen, dunklen Räume von Gardencourt, in denen der dunkle Efeu sich um die Ränder des schimmernden Fensters ranken würde. In diesen Tagen schien Isabel Gardencourt etwas Heiliges zu sein; kein Kapitel der Vergangenheit war vollkommener unzugänglich. Wenn sie an die Monate dachte, die sie dort verbracht hatte, stiegen ihr die Tränen in die Augen. Sie schmeichelte sich, wie gesagt, mit ihrer Einfallsreichtum, aber sie brauchte alles, was sie bekommen konnte; denn es traten mehrere Ereignisse ein, die ihr entgegenzustehen und sie zu trotzen schienen. Die Gräfin Gemini kam aus Florenz an - kam mit ihren Koffern, ihren Kleidern, ihrem Geschwätz, ihren Lügen, ihrer Frivolität, der seltsamen, unheiligen Legende von der Anzahl ihrer Liebhaber. Edward Rosier, der irgendwo gewesen war - niemand, nicht einmal Pansy, wusste wo - tauchte wieder in Rom auf und begann ihr lange Briefe zu schreiben, auf die sie nie antwortete. Madame Merle kehrte aus Neapel zurück und sagte mit einem seltsamen Lächeln zu ihr: "Was zum Teufel hast du mit Lord Warburton gemacht?" Als ob es sie etwas anging! Eines Tages gegen Ende Februar entschloss sich Ralph Touchett, nach England zurückzukehren. Er hatte seine eigenen Gründe für diese Entscheidung, die er nicht mitteilen musste; aber Henrietta Stackpole, der er seine Absicht mitteilte, schmeichelte sich, dass sie sie erraten hatte. Sie unterließ jedoch, sie auszusprechen; sie sagte nur, nachdem sie einen Moment lang an Ralphs Sofa gesessen hatte: "Ich nehme an, du weißt, dass du nicht alleine gehen kannst?" "Ich habe nicht vor, das zu tun", antwortete Ralph. "Ich werde Leute bei mir haben." "Was meinst du mit 'Leute'? Diener, die du bezahlst?" "Ah", sagte Ralph scherzhaft, "tatsächlich sind es Menschen." "Sind auch Frauen dabei?" wollte Miss Stackpole wissen. "Du redest, als hätte ich ein Dutzend! Nein, ich muss gestehen, dass ich keine Kammerzofe beschäftige." "Nun", sagte Henrietta ruhig, "so kannst du nicht nach England gehen. Du musst dich umsorgt wissen." "Ich habe mich so viel von dir umsorgt gewusst in den letzten zwei Wochen, dass ich eine Weile davon zehren werde." "Du hast noch nicht genug davon bekommen. Ich glaube, ich gehe trotzdem mit dir", sagte Henrietta. "Mit mir gehen?" Ralph richtete sich langsam von seinem Sofa auf. "Ja, ich weiß, du magst mich nicht, aber ich gehe trotzdem mit dir. Es wäre besser für deine Gesundheit, wenn du dich wieder hinlegst." Ralph sah sie eine Weile an und ließ sich dann langsam zurückfallen. "Ich mag dich sehr", sagte er nach einem Moment. Miss Stackpole lachte selten. "Glaube ja nicht, dass du mich dadurch loskaufen kannst. Ich gehe mit dir, und was noch wichtiger ist, ich werde auf dich aufpassen." "Du bist eine sehr gute Frau", sagte Ralph. "Warte ab, bis ich dich sicher nach Hause gebracht habe, bevor du das sagst. Es wird nicht einfach sein. Aber du solltest trotzdem gehen." Bevor sie ihn verließ, sagte Ralph zu ihr: "Meinst du es wirklich ernst damit, dich um mich zu kümmern?" "Nun, ich werde es versuchen." "Dann melde ich dir hiermit, dass ich mich ergebe. Oh, ich ergebe mich!" Und es war vielleicht ein Zeichen der Unterwerfung, dass er einige Minuten nachdem sie ihn alleine gelassen hatte, in ein lautes Lachen ausbrach. Es schien ihm so zusammenhanglos, ein überzeugender Beweis dafür, dass er alle Funktionen abgegeben und jede Aktivität aufgegeben hatte, auf eine Reise quer durch Europa unter der Aufsicht von Miss Stackpole zu gehen. Und die große Seltsamkeit war, dass ihm diese Aussicht gefiel; er war dankbar, luxuriös passiv. Er fühlte sogar Ungeduld, loszufahren; und "Oh dann, wenn es ihr eine Erleichterung ist, werde ich dich sicherlich mitnehmen. Auch wenn ich nicht sehe, warum es eine Erleichterung sein sollte", fügte Ralph hinzu. "Nun", sagte Caspar Goodwood einfach, "sie denkt, ich beobachte sie." "Beobachte sie?" "Versuche herauszufinden, ob sie glücklich ist." "Das ist leicht zu erkennen", sagte Ralph. "Sie ist die glücklichste Frau, die ich kenne." "Genau, ich bin zufrieden", antwortete Goodwood trocken. Trotz seiner Trockenheit hatte er jedoch noch mehr zu sagen. "Ich habe sie beobachtet; ich war ein alter Freund und es schien mir, als hätte ich das Recht dazu. Sie gibt vor, glücklich zu sein; das war es, was sie versprochen hat; und ich dachte, ich möchte selbst sehen, was es bedeutet. Ich habe es gesehen", fuhr er mit einem harten Ton in seiner Stimme fort, "und ich möchte nicht mehr sehen. Ich bin jetzt bereit zu gehen." "Weißt du, es scheint mir höchste Zeit zu sein, dass du das tust?", erwiderte Ralph. Und das war das einzige Gespräch, das diese Herren über Isabel Osmond führten. Henrietta bereitete sich auf ihre Abreise vor und fand es angebracht, ein paar Worte mit der Gräfin Gemini zu wechseln, die den Besuch zurückgab, den diese Dame ihr in Florenz abgestattet hatte. "Sie lagen völlig falsch in Bezug auf Lord Warburton", bemerkte sie zu der Gräfin. "Ich denke, es ist richtig, dass Sie das wissen." "In Bezug auf sein Werben um Isabel? Meine arme Dame, er war dreimal am Tag in ihrem Haus. Er hat Spuren seines Besuchs hinterlassen!", rief die Gräfin aus. "Er wollte Ihre Nichte heiraten, deshalb kam er ins Haus." Die Gräfin starrte und lachte dann unbedacht: "Ist das die Geschichte, die Isabel erzählt? Sie ist nicht schlecht, soweit solche Dinge gehen. Wenn er meine Nichte heiraten möchte, warum tut er es dann nicht? Vielleicht ist er gegangen, um den Ehering zu kaufen, und wird nächsten Monat damit zurückkommen, nachdem ich weg bin." "Nein, er wird nicht zurückkommen. Miss Osmond möchte ihn nicht heiraten." "Sie ist sehr zuvorkommend! Ich wusste, dass sie Isabel mochte, aber ich wusste nicht, dass sie es so weit treibt." "Ich verstehe Sie nicht", sagte Henrietta kühl und dachte, dass die Gräfin unangenehm widersprüchlich war. "Ich muss wirklich bei meinem Standpunkt bleiben - Isabel hat niemals die Aufmerksamkeiten von Lord Warburton ermutigt." "Meine liebe Freundin, was wissen Sie und ich darüber? Alles, was wir wissen, ist, dass mein Bruder zu allem fähig ist." "Ich weiß nicht, wozu Ihr Bruder fähig ist", sagte Henrietta würdevoll. "Nicht, dass sie Warburton ermutigt, tadel ich; es ist, dass sie ihn wegschickt. Ich möchte ihn besonders gerne sehen. Glauben Sie, sie dachte, dass ich ihn untreu machen würde?", fuhr die Gräfin mit kühner Beharrlichkeit fort. "Aber sie behält ihn nur; man spürt das. Das Haus ist voll von ihm, er ist ganz präsent. Oh ja, er hat Spuren hinterlassen; ich bin sicher, ich werde ihn noch sehen." "Nun", sagte Henrietta nach einer Weile mit einer jener Eingebungen, die das Glück ihrer Interviews machte: "Vielleicht wird er bei Ihnen mehr Glück haben als bei Isabel!" Als sie ihrem Freund das Angebot mitteilte, das sie Ralph gemacht hatte, antwortete Isabel, dass sie nichts getan hätte, was sie mehr freuen würde. Sie hatte immer daran geglaubt, dass Ralph und diese junge Frau sich im Grunde genommen verstehen würden. "Es ist mir egal, ob er mich versteht oder nicht", erklärte Henrietta. "Die Hauptsache ist, dass er nicht in den Zügen stirbt." "Das wird er nicht tun", sagte Isabel, den Kopf schüttelnd mit einem Anflug von Zuversicht. "Wenn ich es verhindern kann, wird er es nicht tun. Ich sehe, dass du willst, dass wir alle gehen. Ich weiß nicht, was du tun willst." "Ich möchte allein sein", sagte Isabel. "Das wirst du nicht sein, solange du zu Hause so viel Gesellschaft hast." "Ach, die sind Teil der Komödie. Ihr anderen seid Zuschauer." "Nennst du das eine Komödie, Isabel Archer?", fragte Henrietta ziemlich grimmig. "Dann eben eine Tragödie, wenn dir das lieber ist. Ihr alle schaut auf mich, das macht mich unwohl." Henrietta engagierte sich eine Weile in diesem Akt. "Du bist wie ein verwundetes Reh, das den innersten Schatten sucht. Oh, du gibst mir ein solches Gefühl von Hilflosigkeit!" brach es aus ihr heraus. "Ich bin überhaupt nicht hilflos. Es gibt viele Dinge, die ich tun werde." "Es geht nicht um dich, sondern um mich. Es ist zu viel, extra gekommen zu sein, um dich genau so zu verlassen, wie ich dich vorgefunden habe." "Das tust du nicht; du hinterlässt mich viel erfrischter", sagte Isabel. "Sehr milde Erfrischung - saure Limonade! Ich möchte, dass du mir etwas versprichst." "Das kann ich nicht tun. Ich werde nie wieder ein Versprechen abgeben. Ich habe vor vier Jahren ein so feierliches abgegeben und es so schlecht gehalten." "Du hast keine Ermutigung gehabt. In diesem Fall würde ich dir die größte geben. Verlasse deinen Ehemann, bevor das Schlimmste kommt; das möchte ich, dass du versprichst." "Was meinst du mit Schlimmstem?" "Bevor dein Charakter ruiniert wird." "Meinst du meine Veranlagung? Die wird nicht ruiniert", antwortete Isabel lächelnd. "Ich passe sehr gut darauf auf. Ich bin sehr beeindruckt", fügte sie hinzu und wandte sich ab, "von deiner beiläufigen Art, über das Verlassen eines Ehemannes zu sprechen. Man sieht leicht, dass du noch keinen gehabt hast!" "Nun", sagte Henrietta, als würde sie ein Argument beginnen, "nichts ist in unseren westlichen Städten verbreiteter, und in ihnen müssen wir schließlich die Zukunft suchen." Ihr Argument betrifft jedoch nicht diese Geschichte, die zu viele andere Handlungsstränge zu entwirren hat. Sie kündigte Ralph Touchett an, dass sie bereit sei, Rom mit jedem Zug zu verlassen, den er bestimmte, und Ralph machte sich sofort bereit zur Abreise. Isabel besuchte ihn zum Abschied, und er machte die gleiche Bemerkung wie Henrietta. Es kam ihm so vor, als sei Isabel außergewöhnlich froh, sie alle loszuwerden. Als Antwort darauf legte sie sanft ihre Hand auf seine und sagte leise mit einem schnellen Lächeln: "Mein lieber Ralph -!" Das war Antwort genug, und er war zufrieden. Aber er fuhr in derselben Art und Weise fort, scherzhaft und naiv: "Ich habe dich weniger gesehen, als ich könnte, aber es ist besser als nichts. Und dann habe ich viel über dich gehört." "Ich weiß nicht von wem, wenn du so lebst, wie du es getan hast." "Von Stimmen aus der Luft! Ohne von jemand anderem; ich lasse andere Leute nie über dich sprechen. Sie sagen immer, dass du 'charm' bist, und das ist so nichts sagend." "Ich hätte dich sicher öfter sehen können", sagte Isabel. "Aber wenn man verheiratet ist, hat man so viel zu tun." "Glücklicherweise bin ich nicht verheiratet. Wenn du mich in England besuchst, kann ich dich mit aller Freiheit eines Junggesellen unterhalten." Er fuhr fort, als würden sie sich sicherlich wiedersehen, und schaffte es, dass diese Annahme fast gerechtfertigt erschien. Er machte keine Anspielung darauf, dass seine Zeit bald vorbei sein würde, dass er den Sommer wahrscheinlich nicht überleben würde. Wenn er es so vorzog, war Isabel auch ganz zufrieden; die Realität war deutlich genug, ohne dass sie in ihrem Gespräch Wegweiser aufstellten. Das war für die frühere Zeit gut Ralph konnte kaum sagen, was ihr Ton bedeutete; er war so seltsam absichtlich--anscheinend so emotionslos. Wollte sie öffentlich Buße für einen Fehler tun, von dem sie nicht verurteilt worden war? Oder waren ihre Worte einfach ein Versuch der aufgeklärten Selbstanalyse? Wie dem auch sei, Ralph konnte einer so einfachen Gelegenheit nicht widerstehen. "Angst vor deinem Mann?" "Angst vor mir selbst!" sagte sie und stand auf. Sie stand einen Moment da und fügte dann hinzu: "Wenn ich Angst vor meinem Mann hätte, wäre das einfach meine Pflicht. Das wird von Frauen erwartet." "Ah ja," lachte Ralph. "Aber dafür gibt es immer irgendeinen Mann, der schreckliche Angst vor irgendeiner Frau hat!" Sie achtete nicht auf diesen Scherz, sondern nahm plötzlich eine andere Wendung. "Wenn Henrietta an der Spitze deiner kleinen Gruppe steht", rief sie abrupt aus, "wird für Mr. Goodwood nichts übrigbleiben!" "Ah, meine liebe Isabel", antwortete Ralph, "er ist das gewohnt. Es bleibt nichts für Mr. Goodwood übrig." Sie rötete sich und bemerkte dann schnell, dass sie gehen müsse. Sie standen einen Moment zusammen; ihre beiden Hände waren in seinen beiden. "Du warst mein bester Freund", sagte sie. "Du warst es, für den ich leben wollte. Aber ich bin dir nutzlos." Dann wurde ihr schmerzlicher bewusst, dass sie ihn nicht wiedersehen würde. Das konnte sie nicht akzeptieren; sie konnte sich nicht auf diese Weise von ihm trennen. "Wenn du mich rufen solltest, würde ich kommen", sagte sie schließlich. "Dein Mann wird dem nicht zustimmen." "Oh ja, ich kann das arrangieren." "Das werde ich mir für mein letztes Vergnügen aufbewahren!", sagte Ralph. Als Antwort küsste sie ihn einfach. Es war ein Donnerstag, und an diesem Abend kam Caspar Goodwood ins Palazzo Roccanera. Er war einer der Ersten, die eintrafen, und verbrachte einige Zeit in Gesprächen mit Gilbert Osmond, der fast immer anwesend war, wenn seine Frau Besuch empfing. Sie setzten sich zusammen und Osmond, redselig, kommunikativ, expansiv, schien von einer Art intellektueller Fröhlichkeit ergriffen zu sein. Er lehnte sich zurück, die Beine übereinandergeschlagen, schlenderte und plauderte, während Goodwood, unruhiger, aber überhaupt nicht lebhaft, seine Position wechselte, mit seinem Hut spielte und das kleine Sofa unter ihm quietschen ließ. Osmonds Gesicht trug ein scharfes, aggressives Lächeln; er war wie ein Mann, dessen Wahrnehmungen durch gute Nachrichten geschärft wurden. Er bedauerte gegenüber Goodwood, dass sie ihn verlieren würden; er selbst würde ihn besonders vermissen. Er sehe so wenige intelligente Männer, sie seien erstaunlich rar in Rom. Er müsse unbedingt wiederkommen; es sei etwas sehr Erfrischendes, für einen eingefleischten Italiener wie ihn selbst, mit einem echten Außenseiter zu sprechen. "Ich mag Rom wirklich sehr", sagte Osmond. "Aber ich treffe nichts lieber als Menschen, die nicht dieser Aberglaube haben. Die moderne Welt ist schließlich sehr gut. Du bist total modern und doch überhaupt nicht gewöhnlich. So viele der modernen Leute, die wir sehen, sind einfach sehr schlecht. Wenn sie die Kinder der Zukunft sind, sind wir gerne bereit, früh zu sterben. Natürlich sind auch die Alten oft sehr langweilig. Meine Frau und ich mögen alles, was wirklich neu ist - nicht nur die vorgeschobene Behauptung davon. Leider gibt es nichts Neues in Ignoranz und Dummheit. Davon sehen wir genug in Formen, die sich als Offenbarung des Fortschritts, des Lichtes, präsentieren. Eine Offenbarung der Vulgarität! Es gibt eine bestimmte Art von Vulgarität, die meiner Meinung nach wirklich neu ist; ich glaube nicht, dass es so etwas jemals zuvor gegeben hat. Tatsächlich finde ich Vulgarität vor dem aktuellen Jahrhundert überhaupt nicht. Du siehst eine leichte Bedrohung davon hier und da im letzten Jahrhundert, aber heute ist die Luft so dicht geworden, dass zarte Dinge buchstäblich nicht erkannt werden. Nun, wir haben dich gemocht!" Damit zögerte er einen Moment, legte seine Hand sanft auf Goodwoods Knie und lächelte mit einer Mischung aus Zuversicht und Verlegenheit. "Ich werde etwas sagen, das äußerst beleidigend und patronisierend ist, aber du musst mir die Befriedigung lassen. Wir haben dich gemocht, weil - weil du uns ein wenig mit der Zukunft versöhnt hast. Wenn es eine gewisse Anzahl von Menschen wie dir geben soll - umso besser! Ich spreche sowohl für meine Frau als auch für mich selbst, sie spricht für mich, meine Frau; warum sollte ich also nicht für sie sprechen? Wir sind so vereint, weißt du, wie der Kerzenhalter und der Zündhölzer. Übertreibe ich, wenn ich sage, dass ich verstanden habe, dass deine Beschäftigungen... nun, kaufmännisch waren? Da besteht eine Gefahr, weißt du; aber es ist die Art und Weise, wie du dem entkommen bist, was uns beeindruckt hat. Verzeih mir, wenn mein kleines Kompliment geschmacklos erscheint; zum Glück hört meine Frau mich nicht. Was ich meine, ist, dass du sein könntest - na ja, was ich gerade erwähnt habe. Die ganze amerikanische Welt war in der Verschwörung, dich dazu zu bringen. Aber du hast widerstanden, du hast etwas an dir, das dich gerettet hat. Und dabei bist du so modern, so modern, der modernste Mensch, den wir kennen! Es wird uns immer eine Freude sein, dich wiederzusehen." Ich habe gesagt, dass Osmond guter Laune war, und diese Bemerkungen werden davon ausreichend Zeugnis ablegen. Sie waren unendlich persönlicher als er es normalerweise sein wollte, und wenn Caspar Goodwood ihnen aufmerksamer gefolgt wäre, hätte er denken können, dass die Verteidigung der Feinfühligkeit in recht merkwürdigen Händen lag. Wir können jedoch glauben, dass Osmond sehr gut wusste, was er tat, und dass er, wenn er sich entschied, den Ton der Patronage mit einer Grobheit zu verwenden, die nicht in seinen Gewohnheiten lag, eine ausgezeichnete Begründung für den Ausflug hatte. Goodwood hatte nur eine vage Vorstellung, dass er es irgendwie übertrieb; er wusste kaum, wo die Mischung aufgetragen wurde. Tatsächlich wusste er kaum, wovon Osmond sprach; er wollte allein mit Isabel sein, und diese Vorstellung sprach lauter zu ihm als die perfekt eingestellte Stimme ihres Mannes. Er beobachtete sie, wie sie mit anderen Menschen sprach, und fragte sich, wann sie frei sein würde und ob er sie bitten könnte, in einen der anderen Räume zu gehen. Seine Stimmung war nicht, wie die von Osmond, die beste; es gab ein Element stumpfer Wut in seinem Bewusstsein der Dinge. Bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt hatte er Osmond persönlich nicht abgelehnt; er hatte ihn nur für sehr gut informiert und zuvorkommend gehalten und mehr, als er vermutet hatte, wie die Person, die Isabel Archer natürlich heiraten würde. Sein Gastgeber hatte ihm auf dem offenen Feld einen großen Vorteil verschafft, und Goodwood hatte zu viel Sinn für Fairplay, um sich dadurch zu einem Unterschätzen seiner Person provozieren zu lassen. Er hatte nicht positiv versucht, gut von ihm zu denken; dies war ein sentimentaler Wohlwollen, zu dem Goodwood selbst in den Tagen, als er sich am ehesten mit dem Geschehenen abfinden konnte, nicht in der Lage war. Er akzeptierte ihn als eine Art glänzende Person von amateurhafter Art, die mit einem Übermaß an Freizeit geschlagen war, das ihm Spaß machte, in kleinen Feinheiten des Gesprächs zu arbeiten. Aber er vertraute ihm nur halb; er konnte nie verstehen, weshalb zum Teufel Osmond irgendwelche Raffinessen auf IHM verschwenden sollte. Es ließ ihn vermuten, dass er darin eine private Unterhaltung fand, und es trug zu dem allgemeinen Eindruck bei, dass sein triumphierender Rivale eine Neigung zur Perversion in sich hatte. Er wusste zwar, dass Osmond keinen Grund haben konnte, ihm Böses zu wollen; er hatte nichts von ihm zu befürchten. Er hatte einen höchsten Vorteil davongetragen und konnte sich die Güte erlauben, nett zu einem Mann zu sein, der alles verloren Das war alles, worauf er heute Abend ein Ohr hatte; er war sich bewusst, dass Osmond sogar mehr als sonst darauf bestand, auf die eheliche Harmonie, die im Palazzo Roccanera herrschte, hinzuweisen. Er hatte sich noch sorgfältiger als sonst bemüht, so zu sprechen, als hätten er und seine Frau alles in süßer Gemeinschaft und es sei für beide so natürlich, "wir" zu sagen wie "ich". In all dem lag eine Absicht, die unseren armen Bostoner verwirrte und verärgerte, der nur zu seinem Trost feststellen konnte, dass Mrs. Osmonds Beziehung zu ihrem Ehemann nicht sein Angelegenheit war. Er hatte keinerlei Beweis dafür, dass ihr Ehemann sie falsch darstellte, und wenn er sie nach dem äußeren Anschein beurteilte, musste er glauben, dass ihr das Leben gefiel. Sie hatte ihm niemals das geringste Zeichen der Unzufriedenheit gegeben. Miss Stackpole hatte ihm gesagt, dass sie ihre Illusionen verloren habe, aber Miss Stackpole neigte dazu, sensationelle Geschichten zu schreiben. Sie war zu sehr an frühen Neuigkeiten interessiert. Außerdem hatte sie seit ihrer Ankunft in Rom viel Vorsicht walten lassen; sie hatte damit aufgehört, ihm ihr Laternchen entgegenscheinen zu lassen. Das muss ihr zugute gehalten werden. Sie hatte nun die Realität von Isabels Situation gesehen und das hatte sie zu einer gewissen Zurückhaltung inspiriert. Was auch immer getan werden konnte, um sie zu verbessern, die nützlichste Form von Hilfe wäre sicherlich nicht, ihre früheren Liebhaber mit einem Gefühl von Unrecht aufzuhetzen. Miss Stackpole interessierte sich weiterhin lebhaft für Mr. Goodwoods Gefühlszustand, aber sie zeigte es ihm gegenwärtig nur dadurch, dass sie ihm ausgewählte, humorvolle und andere Auszüge aus amerikanischen Zeitungen schickte, von denen sie mehrere mit jeder Post bekam und die sie immer mit einer Schere in der Hand durchsah. Die Artikel, die sie ausschnitt, steckte sie in einen Umschlag mit der Adresse von Mr. Goodwood, den sie eigenhändig in seinem Hotel abgab. Er stellte ihr niemals eine Frage über Isabel: war er nicht fünftausend Meilen gereist, um selbst zu sehen? Deshalb war er überhaupt nicht befugt, anzunehmen, dass Mrs. Osmond unglücklich sei; aber diese mangelnde Befugnis wirkte als Reizmittel, trug zur Härte bei, mit der er, trotz seiner Annahme, dass ihm alles gleichgültig geworden sei, jetzt erkannte, dass die Zukunft für ihn in Bezug auf sie nichts mehr zu bieten hatte. Er hatte nicht einmal die Genugtuung, die Wahrheit zu kennen; offensichtlich konnte man auch ihm nicht vertrauen, wenn sie denn unglücklich WÄRE. Er war hoffnungslos, hilflos, nutzlos. Auf diese letzte Eigenschaft hatte sie ihn durch ihren genialen Plan aufmerksam gemacht, ihn dazu zu bringen, Rom zu verlassen. Er hatte absolut nichts dagegen, was er für ihren Cousin tun konnte, aber es brachte ihn dazu, mit den Zähnen zu knirschen, dass sie ausgerechnet diese eine Sache von ihm verlangen wollte. Es bestand keine Gefahr, dass sie eine gewählt hätte, die ihn in Rom gehalten hätte. Heute Abend dachte er vor allem daran, dass er sie morgen verlassen sollte und dass er nichts erreicht hatte, indem er gekommen war, außer der Erkenntnis, dass er so wenig gewollt wurde wie je zuvor. Über sie hatte er nichts erfahren; sie war unerschütterlich, unergründlich, undurchdringlich. Die alte Verbitterung, die er sich so schwer zu schlucken versucht hatte, stieg wieder in seinem Hals empor, und er wusste, dass es Enttäuschungen gibt, die ein Leben lang dauern. Osmond sprach weiter; Goodwood wurde sich vage bewusst, dass er erneut über seine perfekte Intimität mit seiner Frau sprach. Es schien ihm einen Moment lang, als hätte der Mann eine Art dämonische Vorstellungskraft; es war unmöglich, dass er ohne Bosheit ein so ungewöhnliches Thema ausgewählt haben sollte. Aber was machte es schon alles aus, ob er dämonisch war oder nicht und ob sie ihn liebte oder hasste? Sie könnte ihn bis in den Tod hassen, ohne dass man dadurch selbst einen Deut gewinnen würde. "Sie reisen übrigens mit Ralph Touchett," sagte Osmond. "Ich nehme an, das bedeutet, Sie werden sich langsam fortbewegen?" "Ich weiß es nicht. Ich werde tun, was er möchte." "Sie sind sehr zuvorkommend. Wir sind Ihnen unendlich dankbar; das müssen wir wirklich sagen. Mein Frau hat Ihnen wahrscheinlich ausgedrückt, was wir empfinden. Touchett war uns den ganzen Winter über auf dem Herzen; mehr als einmal sah es so aus, als ob er niemals Rom verlassen würde. Er hätte niemals kommen sollen; es ist schlimmer als Unvorsichtigkeit für Menschen in seinem Zustand zu reisen; es ist eine Art von Geschmacklosigkeit. Ich würde um nichts in der Welt in einer solchen Schuld bei Touchett stehen wollen, wie er es meiner Frau und mir gegenüber getan hat. Andere Leute müssen zwangsläufig auf ihn aufpassen, und nicht jeder ist so großzügig wie Sie." "Ich habe nichts anderes zu tun", sagte Caspar trocken. Osmond sah ihn einen Moment schräg an. "Sie sollten heiraten, dann hätten Sie genug zu tun! Es ist wahr, dass Sie dann nicht ganz so verfügbar für gute Taten wären." "Finden Sie, dass verheiratet sein ein solcher Zeitvertreib ist?" fragte der junge Mann automatisch. "Oh, sehen Sie, verheiratet zu sein ist an sich eine Beschäftigung. Es ist nicht immer aktiv; oft ist es passiv; aber das erfordert sogar noch mehr Aufmerksamkeit. Dann machen meine Frau und ich so viele Dinge zusammen. Wir lesen, wir studieren, wir musizieren, wir gehen spazieren, wir fahren Auto - wir unterhalten uns sogar, wie damals, als wir uns kennenlernten. Bis jetzt freue ich mich noch über jedes Wort, das meine Frau sagt. Wenn Sie jemals gelangweilt sind, nehmen Sie meinen Rat an und heiraten Sie. Ihre Frau mag Sie in diesem Fall vielleicht langweilen; aber Sie werden sich niemals selbst langweilen. Sie werden immer etwas zu sich selbst sagen haben - immer ein Thema zur Reflexion haben." "Ich bin nicht gelangweilt", sagte Goodwood. "Ich habe reichlich zu denken und mir selbst zu sagen." "Mehr als anderen zu sagen!" rief Osmond mit einem leichten Lachen aus. "Wo werden Sie als Nächstes hingehen? Nachdem Sie Touchett seinen natürlichen Betreuern übergeben haben - ich glaube, seine Mutter kommt endlich zurück, um sich um ihn zu kümmern. Diese kleine Dame ist großartig; sie vernachlässigt ihre Pflichten mit einer gewissen Eleganz -! Vielleicht werden Sie den Sommer in England verbringen?" "Ich weiß es nicht. Ich habe keine Pläne." "Glücklicher Mann! Das ist ein wenig kahl, aber es ist sehr frei." "Oh ja, ich bin sehr frei." "Ich hoffe, Sie kommen wieder nach Rom", sagte Osmond, als er sah, wie eine Gruppe von neuen Besuchern den Raum betrat. "Denken Sie daran, dass wir zählen, wenn Sie das tun!" Goodwood hatte geplant, früh zu gehen, aber der Abend verstrich, ohne dass er eine Gelegenheit hatte, mit Isabel zu sprechen, außer als einer von mehreren assoziierten Gesprächspartnern. Es schien etwas Verkehrtes in der Hartnäckigkeit, mit der sie ihn mied; seine unerschütterliche Verbitterung entdeckte eine Absicht, obwohl es sicherlich keinen Anschein davon gab. Es gab absolut keinen Anschein davon. Sie begegnete seinem Blick mit ihrem klaren gastfreundlichen Lächeln, das beinahe danach zu fragen schien, ob er kommen und ihr helfen könne, einige ihrer Besucher zu unterhalten. Solchen Vorschlägen jedoch widersetzte er sich nur ungeduldig. Er ging umher und wartete; er sprach mit den wenigen Leuten, die er kannte und die ihn zum ersten Mal als z "Darf ich dir jetzt kein Wort sagen?", fragte Goodwood sie. Sie stand sofort auf und lächelte. "Natürlich, wir können woanders hingehen, wenn du möchtest." Sie gingen zusammen und ließen die Gräfin bei ihrer kleinen Gruppe zurück. Einen Moment lang sprach keiner von ihnen, nachdem sie die Türschwelle überschritten hatten. Isabel setzte sich nicht hin. Sie stand mitten im Raum und fächelte sich langsam. Sie hatte für ihn dieselbe vertraute Anmut. Es schien, als wartete sie darauf, dass er sprach. Jetzt, wo er alleine mit ihr war, strömte all die Leidenschaft, die er nie erstickt hatte, in seine Sinne. Sie summte in seinen Augen und ließ die Dinge um ihn herum schwimmen. Der helle, leere Raum wurde dunkler und verschwommener, und durch den aufsteigenden Schleier fühlte er sie vor sich schweben, mit glänzenden Augen und halb geöffneten Lippen. Wenn er deutlicher gesehen hätte, hätte er gemerkt, dass ihr Lächeln angespannt und etwas gezwungen war - dass sie vor dem, was sie in seinem eigenen Gesicht sah, Angst hatte. "Ich nehme an, du willst mir Lebewohl sagen?", sagte sie. "Ja - aber es gefällt mir nicht. Ich will Rom nicht verlassen", antwortete er mit fast klaghafter Aufrichtigkeit. "Das kann ich gut verstehen. Es ist wunderbar von dir. Ich kann dir nicht sagen, wie nett ich das von dir finde." Für einen Moment sagte er nichts. "Mit ein paar Worten wie diesen bringst du mich dazu zu gehen." "Du musst irgendwann wiederkommen", erwiderte sie fröhlich. "Irgendwann? Du meinst so weit in der Zukunft wie möglich." "Oh nein, das meine ich nicht." "Was meinst du dann? Ich verstehe es nicht! Aber ich habe gesagt, dass ich gehe und ich werde gehen", fügte Goodwood hinzu. "Komm zurück, wann du willst", sagte Isabel mit versuchter Leichtigkeit. "Ich schere mich nicht um deinen Cousin!" Caspar platzte heraus. "Ist das, was du mir sagen wolltest?" "Nein, nein, ich wollte dir nichts sagen; ich wollte dich fragen..." Er pausierte einen Moment und dann: "Was hast du eigentlich aus deinem Leben gemacht?", sagte er in einem leisen, schnellen Tonfall. Er hielt wieder inne, als warte er auf eine Antwort; aber sie sagte nichts und er fuhr fort: "Ich kann es nicht verstehen, ich kann dich nicht durchschauen! Was soll ich glauben - was möchtest du, dass ich denke?" Sie sagte immer noch nichts; sie stand nur da und sah ihn an, jetzt ohne sich zu verstellen. "Mir wurde gesagt, dass du unglücklich bist, und wenn du es bist, würde ich es gerne wissen. Das wäre etwas für mich. Aber du selbst sagst, dass du glücklich bist, und du bist irgendwie so ruhig, so glatt, so hart. Du hast dich komplett verändert. Du verbirgst alles; ich bin dir nie wirklich nahe gekommen." "Du kommst sehr nahe", sagte Isabel sanft, aber mit einem warnenden Ton. "Und trotzdem berühre ich dich nicht! Ich möchte die Wahrheit wissen. Hast du es gut gemacht?" "Du verlangst viel." "Ja - ich habe immer viel verlangt. Natürlich wirst du es mir nicht sagen. Ich werde es nie erfahren, wenn du es verhindern kannst. Und dann geht es mich auch nichts an." Er hatte sichtlich Mühe, sich zu beherrschen, um einem rücksichtslosen Gemütszustand eine höfliche Form zu geben. Aber das Gefühl, dass es seine letzte Chance war, dass er sie liebte und verloren hatte, dass sie ihn für einen Narren halten würde, egal was er sagen würde, gab ihm plötzlich einen Schlag und verlieh seiner leisen Stimme eine tiefe Schwingung. "Du bist vollkommen unergründlich, und das lässt mich denken, dass du etwas verbergen willst. Ich sage dir, ich schere mich nicht einen Deut um deinen Cousin, aber ich meine nicht, dass ich ihn nicht mag. Ich meine, dass ich nicht deshalb mit ihm gehe, weil ich ihn mag. Ich würde gehen, selbst wenn er ein Idiot wäre und du mich gefragt hättest. Wenn du mich fragen würdest, würde ich morgen nach Sibirien gehen. Warum möchtest du, dass ich diesen Ort verlasse? Du musst einen Grund dafür haben; wenn du so zufrieden wärst, wie du vorgibst zu sein, würde es dir nichts ausmachen. Ich würde lieber die Wahrheit über dich wissen, selbst wenn sie verdammt ist, als umsonst hierhergekommen zu sein. Das ist nicht der Grund, warum ich hierher gekommen bin. Ich dachte, es würde mir nichts ausmachen. Ich kam, weil ich mich vergewissern wollte, dass ich nicht mehr an dich denken muss. Ich habe an nichts anderes gedacht, und du hast ganz recht, dass du willst, dass ich gehe. Aber wenn ich gehen muss, ist es kein Fehler, wenn ich mich für einen Augenblick äußere, oder? Wenn du wirklich verletzt bist - wenn ER dich verletzt - wird mich nichts, was ich sage, verletzen. Wenn ich dir sage, dass ich dich liebe, ist es einfach das, wofür ich gekommen bin. Ich dachte, es wäre für etwas anderes; aber es war dafür. Ich würde es nicht sagen, wenn ich nicht glauben würde, dich nie wiederzusehen. Es ist das letzte Mal - lass mich eine einzige Blume pflücken! Ich habe kein Recht dazu zu sagen, das weiß ich; und du hast kein Recht zuzuhören. Aber du hörst nicht zu; du hörst nie zu, du denkst immer an etwas anderes. Danach muss ich natürlich gehen; so werde ich zumindest einen Grund haben. Dass du mich bittest zu gehen, ist kein Grund, kein echter. Ich kann nicht nach deinem Ehemann urteilen", fuhr er irrelevanterweise und fast zusammenhanglos fort, "Ich verstehe ihn nicht; er sagt mir, dass ihr euch anbetet. Warum sagt er mir das? Was geht mich das an? Wenn ich das zu dir sage, siehst du komisch aus. Aber du siehst immer komisch aus. Ja, du hast etwas zu verbergen. Es geht mich nichts an - sehr wahr. Aber ich liebe dich", sagte Caspar Goodwood. Als er das sagte, sah sie seltsam aus. Sie wandte ihre Augen zur Tür, durch die sie hereingekommen waren, und hob ihren Fächer wie zur Warnung. "Du hast dich so gut verhalten, verderbe es nicht", sagte sie leise. "Niemand hört mich. Es ist erstaunlich, mit was du versucht hast, mich loszuwerden. Ich liebe dich, wie ich dich noch nie geliebt habe." "Ich weiß es. Ich wusste es, sobald du zugestimmt hast zu gehen." "Du kannst es nicht ändern - natürlich nicht. Du würdest, wenn du könntest, aber du kannst nicht, leider. Leider für mich, meine ich. Ich verlange nichts - jedenfalls nichts, was ich nicht sollte. Aber ich fordere eine einzige Zufriedenheit: - dass du mir sagst - dass du mir sagst -!" "Dass du mir was sagst?" "Würdest du das mögen?", fragte Isabel und versuchte wieder zu lächeln. "Dir leidtun? Mit Sicherheit! Dazu wäre ich bereit, mein Leben zu geben." Sie hob ihren Fächer vor ihr Gesicht, der es bis auf ihre Augen bedeckte. Diese ruhten einen Moment auf seinen. "Gib dein Leben nicht dafür, aber denke hin und wieder darüber nach." Und damit ging sie zurück zur Gräfin Gemini. 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.

Henrietta kommt in Rom an und Isabel soll ihr ein Zimmer in einem Hotel besorgen, da Osmond Henrietta so stark ablehnt. Aber endlich kann Isabel jemandem gestehen, wie elend sie ist. Henrietta möchte, dass Isabel Osmond verlässt, aber Isabel erklärt, dass sie ihren Fehler nicht vor der ganzen Welt publik machen kann. Caspar Goodwood wird ein häufiger Besucher in Isabels Haus. Sie fragt ihn einmal, ob er auch Ralph besuchen würde, der allein und krank ist. Sie erklärt, dass sie nicht so oft zu ihm gehen kann, wie sie gerne möchte. Henrietta besucht Ralph auch häufig. Als er beschließt, nach England zurückzukehren, kündigt Henrietta ihm an, dass sie ihn begleiten wird, um sich um ihn zu kümmern. In der Zwischenzeit hat Isabel Caspar Goodwood gefragt, ob er auch mit Ralph reisen würde. Bevor sie geht, bittet Henrietta Isabel erneut, Osmond zu verlassen, bevor ihr "Charakter verdorben wird." Isabel versichert Henrietta, dass sie sich nicht ändern wird. Beim Abschied von Ralph sagt Isabel ihm, dass sie kommen würde, wenn er sie schicken würde. Er meint, dass Osmond das nicht mögen würde, und Isabel sagt ihm, dass sie trotzdem kommen würde. Als Caspar kommt, um Isabel Lebewohl zu sagen, zieht er sie von der Gesellschaft weg und sagt ihr wieder, wie sehr er sie immer noch liebt. Er fragt sich, ob er sie ein wenig bemitleiden dürfe. Sie sagt ihm, dass er ab und zu daran denken 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. KAPITEL: Cyrano, Christian, ein Kapuziner-Pater. CYRANO (zum Pater): Was tust du da, spielst du Diogenes? DER PATER: Ich suche das Haus von Madame... CHRISTIAN: Oh! Die Pest soll ihn holen! DER PATER: Madeleine Robin... CHRISTIAN: Was will er denn?... CYRANO (zeigt auf eine Straße hinten): Dieser Weg! Geradeaus... DER PATER: Ich danke Ihnen und werde bei Ihrem Vorhaben meinen Rosenkranz bis zum letzten Perlenkorn beten. (Er geht hinaus.) CYRANO: Viel Glück! Meine Segnungen ruhen auf deiner Kapuze! (Er geht zurück zu Christian.) 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.

Wie geplant steht Christian unter Roxanes Balkon und wiederholt die Worte, die Cyrano ihm aus seinem Versteck im Dunkeln zuflüstert. Obwohl es eine wunderbare bildhafte Rede über Liebe und ihre Wirkungen ist, ist Roxane mit der Art der Vortragsweise unzufrieden. Christian spricht sehr stockend, da er ständig auf Cyrano's Anstöße warten muss. Als Cyrano bemerkt, was vor sich geht, übernimmt er immer noch im Schutz der Dunkelheit. Er imitiert Christians Stimme und gibt seiner großen Leidenschaft in brillanter poetischer Bildsprache vollkommenen Ausdruck. Am Ende gesteht er seine große Liebe und was er für Roxane tun würde. Sie antwortet, indem sie ihre Begeisterung für ihn erklärt. An diesem Punkt springt Christian zurück und bittet um einen Kuss. Roxane antwortet, indem sie sich zurückzieht. Die Peinlichkeit der Situation wird gelindert, als plötzlich die Diener ihre Warnmusik spielen. Da es sowohl eine glückliche als auch traurige Melodie zu sein scheint, versteht Cyrano nicht, ob die Person, die sich nähert, ein Mann oder eine Frau ist. Er versteht es jedoch, als er einen Kapuzinermönch, eine eher geschlechtslose Figur, auf sich zukommen sieht.

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. Delamere's coachman, who, in accordance with instructions left by Miller, had brought the carriage around to the jail and was waiting anxiously at the nearest corner, drove up with some trepidation as he saw his master emerge from the prison. The old gentleman entered the carriage and gave the order to be driven to the office of the Morning Chronicle. According to Jerry, the porter, whom he encountered at the door, Carteret was in his office, and Mr. Delamere, with the aid of his servant, climbed the stairs painfully and found the editor at his desk. "Carteret," exclaimed Mr. Delamere, "what is all this talk about lynching my man for murder and robbery and criminal assault? It's perfectly absurd! The man was raised by me; he has lived in my house forty years. He has been honest, faithful, and trustworthy. He would no more be capable of this crime than you would, or my grandson Tom. Sandy has too much respect for the family to do anything that would reflect disgrace upon it." "My dear Mr. Delamere," asked Carteret, with an indulgent smile, "how could a negro possibly reflect discredit upon a white family? I should really like to know." "How, sir? A white family raised him. Like all the negroes, he has been clay in the hands of the white people. They are what we have made them, or permitted them to become." "We are not God, Mr. Delamere! We do not claim to have created these--masterpieces." "No; but we thought to overrule God's laws, and we enslaved these people for our greed, and sought to escape the manstealer's curse by laying to our souls the flattering unction that we were making of barbarous negroes civilized and Christian men. If we did not, if instead of making them Christians we have made some of them brutes, we have only ourselves to blame, and if these prey upon society, it is our just punishment! But my negroes, Carteret, were well raised and well behaved. This man is innocent of this offense, I solemnly affirm, and I want your aid to secure his safety until a fair trial can be had." "On your bare word, sir?" asked Carteret, not at all moved by this outburst. Old Mr. Delamere trembled with anger, and his withered cheek flushed darkly, but he restrained his feelings, and answered with an attempt at calmness:-- "Time was, sir, when the word of a Delamere was held as good as his bond, and those who questioned it were forced to maintain their skepticism upon the field of honor. Time was, sir, when the law was enforced in this state in a manner to command the respect of the world! Our lawyers, our judges, our courts, were a credit to humanity and civilization. I fear I have outlasted my epoch,--I have lived to hear of white men, the most favored of races, the heirs of civilization, the conservators of liberty, howling like red Indians around a human being slowly roasting at the stake." "My dear sir," said Carteret soothingly, "you should undeceive yourself. This man is no longer your property. The negroes are no longer under our control, and with their emancipation ceased our responsibility. Their insolence and disregard for law have reached a point where they must be sternly rebuked." "The law," retorted Mr. Delamere, "furnishes a sufficient penalty for any crime, however heinous, and our code is by no means lenient. To my old-fashioned notions, death would seem an adequate punishment for any crime, and torture has been abolished in civilized countries for a hundred years. It would be better to let a crime go entirely unpunished, than to use it as a pretext for turning the whole white population into a mob of primitive savages, dancing in hellish glee around the mangled body of a man who has never been tried for a crime. All this, however, is apart from my errand, which is to secure your assistance in heading off this mob until Sandy can have a fair hearing and an opportunity to prove his innocence." "How can I do that, Mr. Delamere?" "You are editor of the Morning Chronicle. The Chronicle is the leading newspaper of the city. This morning's issue practically suggested the mob; the same means will stop it. I will pay the expense of an extra edition, calling off the mob, on the ground that newly discovered evidence has shown the prisoner's innocence." "But where is the evidence?" asked Carteret. Again Mr. Delamere flushed and trembled. "My evidence, sir! I say the negro was morally incapable of the crime. A man of forty-five does not change his nature over-night. He is no more capable of a disgraceful deed than my grandson would be!" Carteret smiled sadly. "I am sorry, Mr. Delamere," he said, "that you should permit yourself to be so exercised about a worthless scoundrel who has forfeited his right to live. The proof against him is overwhelming. As to his capability of crime, we will apply your own test. You have been kept in the dark too long, Mr. Delamere,--indeed, we all have,--about others as well as this negro. Listen, sir: last night, at the Clarendon Club, Tom Delamere was caught cheating outrageously at cards. He had been suspected for some time; a trap was laid for him, and be fell into it. Out of regard for you and for my family, he has been permitted to resign quietly, with the understanding that he first pay off his debts, which are considerable." Mr. Delamere's face, which had taken on some color in the excitement of the interview, had gradually paled to a chalky white while Carteret was speaking. His head sunk forward; already an old man, he seemed to have aged ten years in but little more than as many seconds. "Can this be true?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. "Is it--entirely authentic?" "True as gospel; true as it is that Mrs. Ochiltree has been murdered, and that this negro killed her. Ellis was at the club a few minutes after the affair happened, and learned the facts from one of the participants. Tom made no attempt at denial. We have kept the matter out of the other papers, and I would have spared your feelings,--I surely would not wish to wound them,--but the temptation proved too strong for me, and it seemed the only way to convince you: it was your own test. If a gentleman of a distinguished name and an honorable ancestry, with all the restraining forces of social position surrounding him, to hold him in check, can stoop to dishonor, what is the improbability of an illiterate negro's being at least capable of crime?" "Enough, sir," said the old gentleman. "You have proved enough. My grandson may be a scoundrel,--I can see, in the light of this revelation, how he might be; and he seems not to have denied it. I maintain, nevertheless, that my man Sandy is innocent of the charge against him. He has denied it, and it has not been proved. Carteret, I owe that negro my life; he, and his father before him, have served me and mine faithfully and well. I cannot see him killed like a dog, without judge or jury,--no, not even if he were guilty, which I do not believe!" Carteret felt a twinge of remorse for the pain he had inflicted upon this fine old man, this ideal gentleman of the ideal past,--the past which he himself so much admired and regretted. He would like to spare his old friend any further agitation; he was in a state of health where too great excitement might prove fatal. But how could he? The negro was guilty, and sure to die sooner or later. He had not meant to interfere, and his intervention might be fruitless. "Mr. Delamere," he said gently, "there is but one way to gain time. You say the negro is innocent. Appearances are against him. The only way to clear him is to produce the real criminal, or prove an alibi. If you, or some other white man of equal standing, could swear that the negro was in your presence last night at any hour when this crime could have taken place, it might be barely possible to prevent the lynching for the present; and when he is tried, which will probably be not later than next week, he will have every opportunity to defend himself, with you to see that he gets no less than justice. I think it can be managed, though there is still a doubt. I will do my best, for your sake, Mr. Delamere,--solely for your sake, be it understood, and not for that of the negro, in whom you are entirely deceived." "I shall not examine your motives, Carteret," replied the other, "if you can bring about what I desire." "Whatever is done," added Carteret, "must be done quickly. It is now four o'clock; no one can answer for what may happen after seven. If he can prove an alibi, there may yet be time to save him. White men might lynch a negro on suspicion; they would not kill a man who was proven, by the word of white men, to be entirely innocent." "I do not know," returned Mr. Delamere, shaking his head sadly. "After what you have told me, it is no longer safe to assume what white men will or will not do;--what I have learned here has shaken my faith in humanity. I am going away, but shall return in a short time. Shall I find you here?" "I will await your return," said Carteret. He watched Mr. Delamere pityingly as the old man moved away on the arm of the coachman waiting in the hall. He did not believe that Mr. Delamere could prove an alibi for his servant, and without some positive proof the negro would surely die,--as he well deserved to die. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der alte Herr Delamere geht ins Büro des Morning Chronicle, um Major Carteret zu befragen. Er ruft aus, dass Sandy "zu viel Respekt für die Familie hat, um etwas zu tun, das Schande darüber bringt" und verlangt, dass der Morning Chronicle die Nachricht druckt, dass neue Beweise aufgetaucht sind, nämlich die Aussage von Herrn Delamere selbst. Als Carteret sich weigert, Delameres Wort anzunehmen, wird der alte Mann wütend. Delamere sagt Carteret, dass seine Zeitung nichts anderes tut, als "weiße Männer, die bevorzugteste Rasse, die Erben der Zivilisation, die Bewahrer der Freiheit, wie rote Indianer um einen langsam am Pflock gerösteten Menschen heulen zu lassen". Carteret sagt Delamere traurig, dass er sich von einem "wertlosen Schurken, der sein Recht zu leben verwirkt hat", täuschen lassen hat. Dann sagt er Delamere, dass sein Enkel Tom am Abend zuvor beim Kartenspielen erwischt wurde und dass er aus dem Club entlassen wird, unter der Bedingung, dass er seine beträchtlichen Schulden zurückzahlt. Die Nachricht erschüttert Delamere. Er ist jedoch sicher, dass sein Enkel zwar ein Schurke sein mag, sein Diener aber kein Mörder ist. Carteret sagt ihm, dass der einzige Weg, um eine Lynchjustiz an diesem Abend zu verhindern, darin besteht, eine glaubwürdige weiße Person zu finden, die Sandys Unschuld bezeugt. Wenn dies geschieht, könnte es eine Chance auf einen Prozess geben und Sandy könnte sich verteidigen. Delamere verlässt das Büro mit nur wenigen Stunden vor Einbruch der Dunkelheit.

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: Meine Tante, die wohl langsam ernsthaft unbehaglich wurde wegen meiner anhaltenden Niedergeschlagenheit, täuschte vor, besorgt zu sein, dass ich nach Dover fahren sollte, um zu sehen, ob im Ferienhaus, das vermietet war, alles gut lief, und um mit demselben Mieter eine Vereinbarung über eine längere Beschäftigungsdauer zu treffen. Janet wurde für den Dienst bei Mrs. Strong abgestellt, wo ich sie täglich sah. Nachdem sie Dover verlassen hatte, war sie unentschlossen, ob sie das Bildungsziel, das sie hatte, den Menschen aufzugeben, vervollständigen sollte, indem sie einen Piloten heiratet; doch sie entschied sich gegen dieses Wagnis. Nicht so sehr wegen des Prinzips, glaube ich, sondern weil sie ihn einfach nicht mochte. Obwohl es schwerfiel, Miss Mills zu verlassen, ließ ich mich eher bereitwillig auf die Vortäuschung meiner Tante ein, um ein paar ruhige Stunden mit Agnes zu verbringen. Ich konsultierte den guten Doktor, was eine dreitägige Abwesenheit betraf; und obwohl der Doktor wollte, dass ich mich mehr entspanne; aber meine Energie konnte das nicht ertragen - entschied ich mich, zu gehen. Was meine Pflichten im Unterhaus anging, musste ich nicht besonders penibel sein. Um die Wahrheit zu sagen, unser Ruf bei den erstklassigen Prokuratoren war nicht besonders gut, und wir rutschten immer schneller in eine eher zweifelhafte Position ab. Das Geschäft lief bereits unter Mr. Jorkins schlecht, noch bevor die Zeit von Mr. Spenlow begann; und obwohl es durch den Neuzugang an Personal beschleunigt wurde und auch durch die Präsentation, die Mr. Spenlow abgab, war es nicht auf einer ausreichend starken Basis etabliert, um einen solchen Schlag wie den plötzlichen Verlust seines aktiven Managers ohne Erschütterung zu überstehen. Es ging stark bergab. Mr. Jorkins, trotz seines Rufs in der Firma, war ein leichtlebiger, unfähiger Mann, dessen Ruf außerhalb des Büros nicht geeignet war, ihn zu stützen. Nun wurde ich ihm übergeben und als ich sah, wie er sich schnupfte und das Geschäft vernachlässigte, bedauerte ich das Tausend Pfund meiner Tante mehr denn je. Doch das war noch nicht das Schlimmste daran. Im Unterhaus gab es eine Reihe von Halbwelten und Außenseitern, die zwar selbst keine Prokuratoren waren, jedoch formale Geschäfte erledigten und es von echten Prokuratoren erledigen ließen, die ihnen ihre Namen zur Verfügung stellten, im Austausch für einen Anteil am Gewinn; und es gab davon eine ganze Menge. Da unser Unternehmen nun Geschäft auf jedweder Basis wollte, schlossen wir uns dieser adeligen Gruppe an und legten Lockmittel aus für die Außenseiter und Halbwelten, um ihr Geschäft zu uns zu bringen. Heiratslizenzen und kleine Erbschaften waren das, wonach wir alle suchten und was uns am besten zahlte; und der Wettbewerb darum war äußerst hoch. Entführer und Lockvögel wurden in allen Einfallstoren für das Unterhaus positioniert, mit der Anweisung, jeden in Trauerkleidung und alle Herren, die etwas Verlegenes an sich hatten, abzufangen und in die Büros zu locken, für die ihre jeweiligen Arbeitgeber sich interessierten; diese Anweisungen wurden so gut befolgt, dass ich selbst, bevor ich persönlich bekannt war, zweimal in die Räume unseres Hauptkonkurrenten geschoben wurde. Die gegensätzlichen Interessen dieser solcherart arbeitenden Herren führten zu persönlichen Zusammenstößen; und das Unterhaus war sogar über den Hauptlockvogel (der früher im Weingeschäft und dann als vereidigter Vermittler tätig gewesen war) empört, der einige Tage mit einem Veilchen herumging. Auf diese Weise wurden mir viele Gefangene gebracht. Was die Heiratslizenzen anging, stieg der Wettbewerb so sehr, dass ein scheuer Herr, der eine solche brauchte, nichts anderes tun musste, als sich dem erstbesten Lockvogel zu stellen oder umkämpft zu werden und zum Opfer des Stärkeren zu werden. Einer unserer Angestellten, der ein Außenseiter war, pflegte, während dieser Auseinandersetzungen, mit Hut auf zu sitzen, damit er bereit war herauszustürzen und vor einem Standesbeamten jeden eingelieferten Wiederbelebten zu beschwören. Der Lockvogelmechanismus existiert, glaube ich, bis heute. Als ich das letzte Mal im Unterhaus war, sprang eine herzliche, muskulöse Person mit einem weißen Schürzen über mich her und flüsterte mir das Wort 'Heiratslizenz' ins Ohr; nur mit größter Mühe konnte ich verhindern, dass er mich in seine Arme nahm und mich in das Büro eines Prokurators hob. Nach dieser Abschweifung kommen wir nun zu Dover. Ich fand alles zufriedenstellend im Ferienhaus und konnte meine Tante sehr erfreuen, indem ich berichtete, dass der Mieter ihren Feind geerbt hatte und unermüdlichen Krieg gegen Esel führte. Nachdem ich die kleinen Angelegenheiten dort erledigt hatte und eine Nacht dort geschlafen hatte, ging ich früh am Morgen weiter nach Canterbury. Nun begann der Winter, und der frische, kalte, windige Tag und die weiten Hügel belebten meine Hoffnungen etwas. Als ich in Canterbury ankam, schlenderte ich mit ruhigem Vergnügen durch die alten Straßen, das beruhigte meine Stimmung und erleichterte mein Herz. Da waren die alten Schilder, die alten Namen über den Geschäften, die alten Leute, die darin arbeiteten. Es schien so lange her zu sein, seit ich dort ein Schuljunge gewesen war, dass ich mich wunderte, dass sich der Ort so wenig verändert hatte, bis ich darüber nachdachte, wie wenig ich mich selbst verändert hatte. Merkwürdigerweise schien der ruhige Einfluss, der in meinem Kopf untrennbar mit Agnes verbunden war, sogar die Stadt, in der sie lebte, zu durchdringen. Die ehrwürdigen Türme der Kathedrale und die Dohlen und Krähen, deren luftiges Gezwitscher sie abgelegener erscheinen ließ als vollkommene Stille: die verwitterten Tore, von denen eines mit Statuen vollgesteckt war, lange heruntergefallen und zerbröckelt, wie die verehrungswürdigen Pilger, die sie bestaunten; die ruhigen Ecken, an denen das mit Efeu bewachsene Gebälk der Jahrhunderte über Giebelenden und zerfallene Mauern kroch; die alte Häuser, die pastoralen Landschaften von Feld, Obstgarten und Garten; überall - auf allem - spürte ich die gleiche ruhigere Luft, den gleichen besonnenen, milden und leicht machenden Geist. Bei Mr. Wickfields Haus fand ich, im kleinen Zimmer im Erdgeschoss, in dem Uriah Heep früher gewöhnlich saß, Mr. Micawber, der mit großer Ausdauer seine Feder schwang. Er war in einen schwarz aussehenden Anzug gekleidet und wirkte gallertmäßig und groß in diesem kleinen Büro. Mr. Micawber war äußerst erfreut, mich zu sehen, doch auch etwas verwirrt. Er hätte mich sofort in die Gegenwart von Uriah geführt, aber ich lehnte ab. 'Du erinnerst dich, dass mir das Haus bekannt ist', sagte ich, 'und ich werde meinen Weg nach oben finden. Wie gefällt dir das Recht, Mr. Micawber?' 'Mein lieber Copperfield', antwortete er. 'Für einen Menschen mit höheren Vorstellungskräften besteht der Einwand gegen juristische Studien dar "Nicht viel", sagte Herr Micawber abfällig. "Mr. Wickfield ist, wie ich vermute, ein Mann mit sehr vorzüglichen Absichten; aber er ist - kurz gesagt, er ist überholt." "Ich befürchte, dass sein Partner versucht, ihn so zu machen", sagte ich. "Mein lieber Copperfield!", erwiderte Herr Micawber nach einigen unruhigen Bewegungen auf seinem Hocker, "erlauben Sie mir eine Anmerkung! Ich bin hier in einer Vertrauensposition. Ich bin hier in einer Position des Vertrauens. Die Diskussion einiger Themen, selbst mit Frau Micawber selbst (schon lange die Partnerin meiner unterschiedlichen Launen und eine Frau von bemerkenswerter Intelligenz), ist, so wie ich meinen, unvereinbar mit den Funktionen, die jetzt auf mir lasten. Ich möchte daher die Freiheit haben, vorzuschlagen, dass wir in unserem freundschaftlichen Umgang - den ich hoffe, niemals gestört wird! - eine Grenze ziehen. Auf einer Seite dieser Grenze", sagte Herr Micawber und bildete sie mit dem Lineal auf dem Schreibtisch nach, "befindet sich die gesamte Bandbreite des menschlichen Denkens, mit einer geringen Ausnahme; auf der anderen Seite BEFINDET sich diese Ausnahme; das heißt die Angelegenheiten von Messrs Wickfield und Heep, mit allem, was dazugehört und damit zusammenhängt. Ich hoffe, dass ich den Begleiter meiner Jugend nicht beleidige, wenn ich diesen Vorschlag seinem kühleren Urteil unterbreite?" Obwohl ich eine unruhige Veränderung bei Herrn Micawber bemerkte, die eng auf ihm saß, als ob seine neuen Aufgaben nicht passten, fühlte ich, dass ich kein Recht hatte, beleidigt zu sein. Als ich ihm das sagte, schien es ihn zu erleichtern, und er schüttelte mir die Hand. "Ich bin begeistert, Copperfield", sagte Herr Micawber, "lass es mich Ihnen versichern, von Miss Wickfield. Sie ist eine sehr überlegene junge Dame, mit bemerkenswerten Anziehungskräften, Anmut und Tugenden. Bei meiner Ehre", sagte Herr Micawber und küsste seine Hand und verbeugte sich mit seinem vornehmsten Auftreten, "erweise ich Miss Wickfield meine Reverenz! Hem!" "Das freut mich zumindest", sagte ich. "Wenn Sie uns nicht versichert hätten, lieber Copperfield, zu dem Zeitpunkt, als wir den angenehmen Nachmittag mit Ihnen verbracht haben, dass D. Ihr Lieblingsbuchstabe ist", sagte Herr Micawber, "so hätte ich zweifellos vermutet, dass A. es gewesen wäre." Wir alle haben Erfahrungen mit einem Gefühl, das gelegentlich über uns kommt, dass das, was wir gerade sagen und tun, bereits in einer entfernten Zeit gesagt und getan wurde - dass wir vor langer Zeit von denselben Gesichtern, Gegenständen und Umständen umgeben waren - dass wir perfekt wissen, was als nächstes gesagt wird, als ob wir uns plötzlich daran erinnert hätten! Ich hatte diesen mysteriösen Eindruck in meinem Leben noch nie so stark wie vor dem Aussprechen dieser Worte. Ich verabschiedete mich von Herrn Micawber für den Moment und trug ihm meine besten Grüße für Zuhause auf. Als ich ihn verließ und er wieder auf seinem Hocker saß und seinen Stift nehmen wollte und seinen Kopf in die richtige Schreibhaltung brachte, merkte ich deutlich, dass etwas zwischen ihm und mir war, seitdem er seine neuen Aufgaben übernommen hatte, was verhinderte, dass wir wie früher miteinander umgingen und den Charakter unserer Beziehung vollkommen veränderte. Im seltsamen, alten Wohnzimmer war niemand, obwohl es Hinweise auf den Aufenthaltsort von Mrs. Heep gab. Ich schaute in das Zimmer von Agnes und sah sie am Feuer sitzen, an einem hübschen, altmodischen Schreibtisch, an dem sie schrieb. Als ich das Licht verdunkelte, schaute sie auf. Welch eine Freude, die Ursache für diese strahlende Veränderung in ihrem aufmerksamen Gesicht zu sein und Gegenstand dieser süßen Zuwendung und willkommen zu sein! "Ach, Agnes!", sagte ich, als wir Seite an Seite zusammen saßen, "ich habe dich in letzter Zeit so sehr vermisst!" "Tatsächlich?", antwortete sie. "Schon wieder! Und so schnell?" Ich schüttelte den Kopf. "Ich weiß nicht, wie es kommt, Agnes. Es scheint, als fehle mir eine bestimmte Fähigkeit im Geist, die ich eigentlich haben sollte. Du warst in den glücklichen alten Tagen hier so daran gewöhnt, für mich zu denken, und ich kam so natürlich zu dir für Rat und Unterstützung, dass ich wirklich denke, dass ich es verpasst haben muss, es zu lernen." "Und was ist es?", fragte Agnes fröhlich. "Ich weiß nicht, wie ich es nennen soll", antwortete ich. "Ich denke, ich bin ernsthaft und beharrlich?" "Da bin ich mir sicher", sagte Agnes. "Und geduldig, Agnes?" fragte ich zögernd. "Ja", antwortete Agnes lachend. "Ziemlich gut." "Und dennoch", sagte ich, "werde ich so unglücklich und besorgt, und bin so instabil und unentschlossen in meiner Fähigkeit, mir selbst zu versichern, dass ich weiß, dass ich wohl...soll ich es Zuversicht nennen, in irgendeiner Form brauche?" "Nenne es so, wenn du möchtest", sagte Agnes. "Nun!", erwiderte ich. "Hör mal! Du kommst nach London, und ich verlasse mich auf dich, und ich habe auf einmal ein Ziel und einen Weg. Ich werde davon abgehalten, ich komme hierher, und in dem kurzen Augenblick fühle ich eine veränderte Person. Die Umstände, die mich beunruhigt haben, haben sich seitdem ich in diesem Raum bin nicht geändert, aber eine Einfluss kommt in diesem kurzen Zeitabstand über mich, der mich verändert, oh wie viel zum Besseren! Was ist es? Was ist dein Geheimnis, Agnes?" Sie senkte den Kopf und schaute ins Feuer. "Es ist die alte Geschichte", sagte ich. "Lach nicht, aber es war immer dasselbe bei kleinen Dingen wie bei größeren. Meine alten Sorgen waren Unsinn, und jetzt sind sie ernsthaft; aber egal wie oft ich von meiner Adoptivschwester weggegangen bin -" Agnes schaute auf - mit einem göttlichen Gesichtsausdruck - und gab mir ihre Hand, die ich küsste. "Wann immer ich dich nicht hatte, Agnes, um mich am Anfang zu beraten und zu unterstützen, schien es, als ob ich verrückt werden würde und in allerlei Schwierigkeiten geraten würde. Wenn ich schließlich zu dir gekommen bin (wie ich es immer getan habe), kam ich zu Frieden und Glück. Jetzt komme ich nach Hause wie ein müder Reisender und finde so ein gesegnetes Gefühl der Ruhe!" Ich fühlte so tief, was ich sagte, es berührte mich so aufrichtig, dass meine Stimme versagte und ich meine Hand vor das Gesicht legte und in Tränen ausbrach. Ich schreibe die Wahrheit. Was auch immer für Widersprüche und Inkonsistenzen es in mir gab, wie es bei so vielen von uns der Fall ist, egal wie anders und besser es hätte sein können, egal was ich getan hatte, in dem ich eigensinnig von der Stimme meines eigenen Herzens abgewichen bin, davon wusste ich nichts. Mir war nur bekannt, dass ich inbrünstig im Ernst war, als ich die Ruhe und den Frieden spürte, Agnes in meiner Nähe zu haben. In ihrer ruhigen, schwesterlichen Art und Weise, mit ihren strahlenden Augen, mit ihrer zarten Stimme und mit dieser süßen Gelassenheit, die das Haus, das sie bewohnte, schon vor langer Zeit für mich zu einem heiligen Ort gemacht hatte, gewann sie mich bald von dieser Schwäche weg und führte mich dazu, alles zu erzählen, was seit unserem letzten Treffen passiert war Ich fühlte mich so dankbar gegenüber Agnes und bewunderte sie so sehr! Ich sah die beiden zusammen in einem positiven Licht, so gut miteinander befreundet und sie schmückten einander so sehr! "Was sollte ich dann tun, Agnes?" fragte ich, nachdem ich eine Weile ins Feuer geschaut hatte. "Was wäre richtig zu tun?" "Ich denke", sagte Agnes, "der ehrenhafte Weg wäre, an diese beiden Damen zu schreiben. Denkst du nicht, dass jeder geheime Weg unwürdig ist?" "Ja. Wenn DU das denkst", sagte ich. "Ich bin nicht gut qualifiziert, um über solche Dinge zu urteilen", antwortete Agnes bescheiden, "aber ich fühle auf jeden Fall - kurz gesagt, ich fühle, dass dein Geheimhalten und Verborgensein nicht zu dir passt." "Zu mir, in deiner zu hohen Meinung von mir, Agnes, fürchte ich", sagte ich. "Zu dir, in der Offenheit deines Wesens", erwiderte sie, "und deshalb würde ich an diese beiden Damen schreiben. Ich würde so offen und ehrlich wie möglich alles, was passiert ist, erzählen und um ihre Erlaubnis bitten, manchmal ihr Haus zu besuchen. Angesichts deines jungen Alters und deiner Bemühungen, einen Platz im Leben zu finden, denke ich, es wäre gut zu sagen, dass du bereit bist, dich an alle Bedingungen zu halten, die sie dir auferlegen könnten. Ich würde sie bitten, deine Bitte nicht ohne Rücksprache mit Dora abzulehnen und sie zu besprechen, wenn sie denken, dass die Zeit geeignet ist. Ich würde nicht zu energisch sein", sagte Agnes sanft, "oder zu viel vorschlagen. Ich würde meiner Treue und Ausdauer - und Dora - vertrauen." "Aber wenn sie Dora wieder erschrecken würden, Agnes, indem sie mit ihr sprechen", sagte ich. "Und wenn Dora weinen würde und nichts über mich sagen würde!" "Ist das wahrscheinlich?" fragte Agnes mit demselben süßen Erwägen in ihrem Gesicht. "Gott segne sie, sie ist so leicht zu erschrecken wie ein Vogel", sagte ich. "Könnte sein! Oder wenn die beiden Miss Spenlows (ältere Damen dieser Art sind manchmal seltsame Charaktere) nicht die richtigen Personen wären, um auf diese Weise anzusprechen!" "Ich denke nicht, Trotwood", erwiderte Agnes und hob ihre sanften Augen zu mir, "das würde ich nicht berücksichtigen. Vielleicht wäre es besser, nur zu überlegen, ob es richtig ist, dies zu tun; und wenn ja, es zu tun." Ich hatte keinen Zweifel mehr an der Sache. Mit leichtem Herzen, aber mit einem tiefen Bewusstsein für die bedeutsame Bedeutung meiner Aufgabe, widmete ich den ganzen Nachmittag der Ausarbeitung des Entwurfs dieses Briefes; zu diesem großen Zweck gab Agnes mir ihren Schreibtisch auf. Aber zuerst ging ich nach unten, um Mr. Wickfield und Uriah Heep zu sehen. Ich fand Uriah in seinem neuen, nach Gips riechenden Büro im Garten vor; er sah außerordentlich jämmerlich aus, mitten in einer Menge von Büchern und Papieren. Er empfing mich auf seine gewohnt kriechende Art und tat so, als ob er nichts von meiner Ankunft von Mr. Micawber gehört hätte - ein Vorwand, dem ich die Freiheit nahm, nicht zu glauben. Er begleitete mich in Mr. Wickfields Zimmer, der nur noch der Schatten seines ehemaligen Selbst war - er hatte eine Vielzahl von Annehmlichkeiten verloren, um Platz für den neuen Partner zu schaffen - und stand vor dem Feuer, wärmte seinen Rücken und rasierte sich mit seiner knochigen Hand das Kinn, während Mr. Wickfield und ich uns begrüßten. "Du bleibst bei uns, Trotwood, solange du in Canterbury bist?", sagte Mr. Wickfield und warf dabei einen Blick auf Uriah, ob er einverstanden war. "Is da Platz für mich?", sagte ich. "Ich bin sicher, Meister Copperfield - ich sollte lieber Mister sagen, aber das andere kommt so natürlich", sagte Uriah, - "ich würde mich freuen, aus Ihrem alten Zimmer auszuziehen, wenn es Ihnen angenehm wäre." "Nein, nein", sagte Mr. Wickfield. "Warum sollten Sie sich Unannehmlichkeiten bereiten? Es gibt ein weiteres Zimmer. Es gibt ein weiteres Zimmer." "Oh, aber wissen Sie", erwiderte Uriah mit einem Grinsen, "ich würde mich wirklich freuen!" Um das Thema abzukürzen, sagte ich, dass ich entweder das andere Zimmer oder keins haben würde; so war es beschlossen, dass ich das andere Zimmer haben sollte; und, mich bis zum Abendessen von der Firma verabschiedend, ging ich wieder nach oben. Ich hatte gehofft, keine andere Begleitung als Agnes zu haben. Aber Frau Heep hatte um Erlaubnis gebeten, sich selbst und ihr Stricken in jenem Raum in der Nähe des Feuers mitzubringen; mit der Begründung, dass es einen für ihre Rheumatismen günstigeren Ausblick als das Wohnzimmer oder Esszimmer hätte, da der Wind zu dieser Zeit wehte. Obwohl ich sie fast ohne Bedauern dem Wind auf dem höchsten Turm der Kathedrale überlassen hätte, machte ich aus der Not eine Tugend und grüßte sie freundlich. "Ich danke Ihnen Demutsvoll, mein Herr", sagte Frau Heep, als Dank für meine Erkundigungen nach ihrer Gesundheit, "aber ich bin nur ziemlich gut. Ich habe nicht viel zu rühmen. Wenn ich meinen Uriah gut im Leben untergebracht sehen könnte, könnte ich nicht viel mehr erwarten, denke ich. Was halten Sie von meinem Ury, mein Herr?" Ich fand ihn so böse wie immer und antwortete, dass ich keine Veränderung an ihm sah. "Ach, denken Sie nicht, dass er sich verändert hat?" sagte Frau Heep. "Da muss ich höflich widersprechen. Sehen Sie keine Abmagerung bei ihm?" "Nicht mehr als sonst", antwortete ich. "Aber Sie beachten ihn nicht mit eine Mutterblick!" sagte Frau Heep. Ihr Mutterblick war für den Rest der Welt ein böser Blick, dachte ich, als er auf meinen traf, so liebevoll er auch zu ihm sein mochte; und ich glaube, sie und ihr Sohn waren einander verschrieben. Es ging an mir vorbei und wandte sich an Agnes. "Siehst DU nicht, wie er dahinschwindet und sich verbraucht, Miss Wickfield?" fragte Frau Heep. "Nein", sagte Agnes ruhig und widmete sich weiter ihrer Arbeit. "Du sorgst dich zu sehr um ihn. Es geht ihm gut." Frau Heep nahm ihr Stricken mit einem gewaltigen Schnüffeln wieder auf. Sie hörte nie auf oder ließ uns einen Moment allein. Ich war früh am Tag angekommen, und wir hatten immer noch drei oder vier Stunden bis zum Abendessen; aber sie saß dort und verwendete ihre Stricknadeln genauso monoton wie eine Sanduhr ihre Sande ausgießen würde. Sie saß auf einer Seite des Feuers, ich saß am Schreibtisch davor; ein wenig weiter, auf der anderen Seite, saß Agnes. Immer wenn ich meine Augen langsam über meinen Brief schweifen ließ und das nachdenkliche Gesicht von Agnes traf, sah ich es klar und mit ermutigendem Ausdruck auf mich strahlen. Mir wurde sofort bewusst, dass der böse Blick an mir vorbeizog, zu ihr ging, dann wieder zu mir zurückkehrte und heimlich auf das Stricken fiel. Was sie strickte, weiß ich nicht, da ich keine Kenntnisse in dieser Kunst hatte, aber es sah aus wie ein Netz; und während sie mit diesen chinesischen Stäbchen von Stricknadeln arbeitete, zeigte sie sich im Feuerschein wie eine übel aussehende Zauberin, die bisher von der strahlenden Güte gegenüber vereitelt wurde, aber bald bereit sein würde, ihr Netz auszuwerfen. Beim Abendessen behielt sie ihre Wache bei, mit den gleichen unwinkenden Augen. Nach dem Abendessen kam ihr Sohn an die Reihe; und als Mr. Wickfield, er selbst und ich alleine im Raum waren, gaffte er mich an und wand sich, dass ich es kaum ertragen konnte. Im Wohnzimmer sa Ich hatte nicht die Möglichkeit, mit Agnes zu sprechen, für zehn Minuten. Ich konnte ihr kaum meinen Brief zeigen. Ich schlug ihr vor, mit mir spazieren zu gehen; aber Mrs. Heep beschwerte sich immer wieder, dass es ihr schlechter ging, so dass Agnes barmherzig drinnen blieb, um ihr Gesellschaft zu leisten. Gegen die Dämmerung ging ich alleine raus und grübelte darüber nach, was ich tun sollte und ob es gerechtfertigt war, Agnes länger vorzuenthalten, was mir Uriah Heep in London erzählt hatte; denn das begann mich wieder sehr zu beunruhigen. Ich war noch nicht weit genug aus der Stadt herausgegangen, um ganz frei von der Stadt zu sein, auf dem Weg nach Ramsgate, wo es einen guten Weg gab, als ich durch den Staub von jemandem hinter mir angesprochen wurde. Die humpelnde Gestalt und der knappe Mantel waren nicht zu übersehen. Ich blieb stehen und Uriah Heep kam zu mir. "Nun?" sagte ich. "Wie schnell du gehst!" sagte er. "Meine Beine sind ziemlich lang, aber du hast ihnen ganz schön zu tun gegeben." "Wo gehst du hin?" sagte ich. "Ich gehe mit dir, Meister Copperfield, wenn du mir die Freude eines Spaziergangs mit einem alten Bekannten erlaubst." Damit fiel er mit einer ruckartigen Bewegung seines Körpers, die sowohl versöhnlich als auch spöttisch hätte sein können, neben mir her. "Uriah!" sagte ich so höflich wie möglich nach einer Pause. "Meister Copperfield!" sagte Uriah. "Um die Wahrheit zu sagen (wofür du dich nicht beleidigt fühlen wirst), bin ich alleine losgegangen, weil ich so viel Gesellschaft hatte." Er schaute mich seitlich an und sagte mit seinem hartesten Grinsen: "Du meinst Mutter." "Ja, das tue ich", sagte ich. "Ach ja! Aber du weißt, wir sind so sehr demütig", erwiderte er. "Und da wir so gut über unsere Demut Bescheid wissen, müssen wir wirklich aufpassen, dass wir von denen, die nicht demütig sind, nicht an die Wand gedrängt werden. In der Liebe sind alle Kniffe erlaubt, Sir." Er hob seine großen Hände bis sie sein Kinn berührten, rieb sie sanft aneinander und lachte leise. Er sah so aus wie ein boshafter Pavian, dachte ich, so wie nur etwas Menschliches aussehen kann. "Weißt du", sagte er und umarmte sich noch immer auf diese unangenehme Weise und schüttelte den Kopf über mich, "du bist ein ziemlich gefährlicher Nebenbuhler, Meister Copperfield. Du warst es schon immer, weißt du." "Bewachst du Miss Wickfield und machst ihr Zuhause zu keinem Zuhause wegen mir?" sagte ich. "Oh! Meister Copperfield! Das sind sehr harte Worte", antwortete er. "Gib meinem Wort irgendeine Bedeutung, die du willst", sagte ich. "Du weißt, was ich meine, Uriah, genauso gut wie ich." "Oh nein! Du musst es in Worte fassen", sagte er. "Oh wirklich! Das könnte ich selbst nicht." "Glaubst du", sagte ich und zwang mich, ihm gegenüber Agnes zuliebe sehr gelassen und ruhig zu sein, "dass ich Miss Wickfield anders betrachte als eine sehr liebe Schwester?" "Nun, Meister Copperfield," antwortete er, "siehst du, ich bin nicht verpflichtet, diese Frage zu beantworten. Du musst es nicht tun, weißt du. Aber dann, siehst du, könntest du es doch tun!" Ich hatte noch nie einen so niederschmetternden Ausdruck wie in seinem Gesicht und in seinen schattenlosen Augen ohne den Hauch einer Wimper gesehen. "Also los!" sagte ich. "Um Agnes Wickfield willen..." "Meine Agnes!" rief er mit einer krankhaften, unnatürlichen Verrenkung seines Körpers aus. "Wärst du so nett, sie Agnes zu nennen, Meister Copperfield!" "Um Agnes Wickfield willen - Gott segne sie!" "Danke für den Segen, Meister Copperfield!" fiel er ein. "Ich werde dir sagen, was ich in jeder anderen Situation, genauso gut Jack Ketch erzählen könnte." "Wen, Herr?" sagte Uriah und streckte seinen Hals aus und hielt sich die Hand über das Ohr. "Dem Henker", antwortete ich. "Der unwahrscheinlichsten Person, an die ich denken konnte", obwohl sein eigenes Gesicht die Anspielung genauso natürlich nahegelegt hatte. "Ich bin mit einer anderen jungen Dame verlobt. Ich hoffe, das genügt dir." "Bei deiner Seele?" sagte Uriah. Ich war gerade dabei, meine Behauptung aufgebracht zu bestätigen, als er meine Hand ergriff und sie drückte. "Oh, Meister Copperfield!" sagte er. "Hättest du doch nur die Güte gehabt, mein Vertrauen zu erwidern, als ich dir die Fülle meiner Kunst mitteilte, in der Nacht, in der ich dich so aus dem Weg geschafft habe, indem ich vor deinem Wohnzimmerfeuer geschlafen habe. Dann hätte ich dir niemals misstraut. Aber so wie es ist, bin ich sicher, dass ich Mutter bald entfernen werde und nur zu glücklich. Ich hoffe, du entschuldigst die Vorsicht der Zuneigung, nicht wahr? Was für ein Pech, Meister Copperfield, dass du meine Vertraulichkeit nicht erwidert hast! Ich bin sicher, ich habe dir jede Gelegenheit dazu gegeben. Aber du bist mir gegenüber nie so herablassend gewesen, wie ich es mir gewünscht hätte. Ich weiß, dass du mich nie so gemocht hast, wie ich dich mochte!" Die ganze Zeit über drückte er meine Hand mit seinen feuchten, fischigen Fingern, während ich mich nach Kräften bemühte, sie anständig wegzuziehen. Aber ich hatte keinen Erfolg. Er zog sie unter den Ärmel seines morbbeerfarbenen Mantels und ich ging fast gezwungenermaßen mit ihm, Arm in Arm. "Sollen wir umdrehen?" sagte Uriah, indem er mich nach einer Weile mit dem Gesicht zur Stadt wendete, auf die inzwischen der frühe Mond schien und die entfernten Fenster silbern beleuchtete. "Ehe wir das Thema verlassen, solltest du verstehen", sagte ich und unterbrach eine recht lange Stille, "dass ich Agnes Wickfield so weit über dir und allen deinen Bestrebungen sehe, wie den Mond selbst!" "Beruhigend! Ist sie nicht!" sagte Uriah. "Sehr! Jetzt gestehe, Meister Copperfield, dass du mich nicht ganz so gemocht hast, wie ich dich mochte. Du hast mich die ganze Zeit für zu umgänglich gehalten, nicht wahr?" "Ich bin nicht fond von Bekundungen der Demut", erwiderte ich, "oder irgendwelchen anderen Bekundungen." "Siehst du!" sagte Uriah und wirkte bleich und bleifarben im Mondlicht. "Das wusste ich doch! Aber wie wenig du über den rechtmäßigen Gehorsam einer Person in meiner Position nachdenkst, Meister Copperfield! Vater und ich wurden an einer Stiftungsschule für Jungen erzogen; und Mutter wurde ebenfalls an einer öffentlichen, art von wohltätigen Stiftung erzogen. Sie haben uns viel von Demut beigebracht – nicht viel anderes, das ich weiß, vom Morgen bis zum Abend. Wir sollten dem einen gegenüber demütig sein und dem anderen gegenüber demütig; und hier die Mütze abnehmen und dort Bogen machen; und immer unseren Platz kennen und uns vor unseren Besseren erniedrigen. Und wir hatten so viele Bessere! Vater bekam die Auszeichnung des Aufpassers, weil er demütig war. Ich auch. Vater wurde ein Mesner, weil er demütig war. Er hatte bei den Edelleuten den Ruf, ein so gut erzogener Mann zu sein, dass sie entschlossen waren, ihn zu holen. "Sei demütig, Uriah", sagte Vater zu mir, "und du wirst es schaffen. Das war es, was dir und mir in der Schule immer wieder eingebläut wurde; das gefällt am besten. Sei demütig", sagte Vater, "und du wirst Erfolg haben!" Und wirklich Sein Bericht über sich selbst war so erfolgreich, dass er seine Hand zurückzog, um sich unter dem Kinn zu umarmen. Sobald wir auseinander waren, war ich entschlossen, getrennt zu bleiben, und wir gingen schweigend nebeneinander her. Ob seine Stimmung durch die Mitteilung, die ich ihm gemacht hatte, oder durch diese Rückschau angehoben wurde, weiß ich nicht, aber sie wurde von irgendeinem Einfluss erhöht. Er sprach mehr beim Abendessen als üblich, fragte seine Mutter (im Dienst, seit wir ins Haus zurückgekehrt waren), ob er nicht zu alt für einen Junggesellen sei, und sah Agnes einmal so an, dass ich alles gegeben hätte, um ihm eine Ohrfeige zu verpassen. Als wir drei Männer nach dem Abendessen allein waren, geriet er in einen abenteuerlichen Zustand. Er hatte wenig oder keinen Wein getrunken; und ich vermute, es war die bloße Überheblichkeit des Triumphs, die ihn ermutigte, vielleicht auch angestachelt durch die Versuchung, die meine Anwesenheit bot. Ich hatte gestern beobachtet, dass er versuchte, Mr. Wickfield zum Trinken zu verführen, und habe, als ich den Blick, den Agnes mir gegeben hatte, interpretierte, mich auf ein Glas beschränkt und dann vorgeschlagen, ihr zu folgen. Das hätte ich heute wieder getan, aber Uriah war mir zuvorgekommen. "Wenig sehen wir unseren heutigen Besucher, Sir", sagte er und sprach Mr. Wickfield an, der am anderen Ende des Tisches saß und ihm so konträr war. "Und ich würde vorschlagen, ihm in einem oder zwei weiteren Gläsern Wein Willkommen zu heißen, wenn Sie keine Einwände haben. Mr. Copperfield, ihr Wohl und ihre Glücklichkeit!" Ich war gezwungen, den ausgestreckten Hand zu nehmen, die er mir entgegenstreckte, und dann, mit sehr unterschiedlichen Gefühlen, nahm ich die Hand des gebrochenen Herrn, seines Partners. "Los, Mitpartner", sagte Uriah, "wenn ich mich darüber hinwegsetzen darf - nun, nehmen Sie an, Sie geben uns etwas oder etwas anderes, das zu Copperfield passt!" Ich übergehe, wie Mr. Wickfield meine Tante vorschlägt, wie er Mr. Dick vorschlägt, wie er Doctors' Commons vorschlägt, wie er Uriah vorschlägt, wie er alles zweimal trinkt; sein Bewusstsein seiner eigenen Schwäche, der erfolglose Versuch, dagegen anzukämpfen; der Kampf zwischen seiner Scham über Uriahs Verhalten und seinem Wunsch, ihn zu besänftigen; die offenkundige Freude, mit der Uriah ihn verdreht und vor mir hochhält. Es machte mich krank vor Entsetzen, das zu sehen, und meine Hand weigert sich, es aufzuschreiben. "Also, Mitpartner!", sagte Uriah schließlich, "ich gebe Ihnen noch einen, und ich bitte um ganz volle Gläser, da ich es vorhabe, sie für die erhabenste aller Frauen zu machen." Ihr Vater hatte sein leeres Glas in der Hand. Ich sah, wie er es abstellte, auf das Bild schaute, das sie so ähnlich sah, sich die Hand an die Stirn legte und in seinem Armsessel zurückzuckte. "Ich bin ein bescheidener Mensch, Ihnen ihr Wohlergehen zu wünschen", fuhr Uriah fort, "aber ich bewundere - vergöttere sie." Kein körperlicher Schmerz, den der graue Kopf ihres Vaters ertragen haben könnte, denke ich, konnte für mich schrecklicher sein als das seelische Leiden, das ich jetzt in beiden seinen Händen sah. "Agnes", sagte Uriah, ob er ihn nicht bemerkte oder nicht wusste, was er damit bezweckte, "Agnes Wickfield ist, das kann ich sicher sagen, die erhabenste aller Frauen. Darf ich unter Freunden sprechen? Ihr Vater zu sein, ist eine stolze Auszeichnung, aber ihr Ehemann zu sein..." Bewahre mich davor, jemals wieder einen solchen Schrei zu hören wie den, mit dem ihr Vater vom Tisch aufsprang! "Was ist los?", sagte Uriah und wurde dabei leichenblass. "Sie sind doch nicht verrückt geworden, Mr. Wickfield, hoffe ich? Wenn ich sage, dass ich Ambitionen habe, Ihre Agnes zu meiner Agnes zu machen, habe ich genauso ein Recht dazu wie ein anderer Mann. Ich habe ein besseres Recht dazu als irgendein anderer Mann!" Ich hatte meine Arme um Mr. Wickfield geschlungen und ihn unter allem angefleht, was mir einfiel, am häufigsten unter seiner Liebe zu Agnes, sich etwas zu beruhigen. Für den Moment war er verrückt; er zerrte an seinen Haaren, schlug sich auf den Kopf, versuchte mich von ihm wegzustoßen und sich selbst von mir wegzudrängen, antwortete kein Wort, sah niemanden an oder bemerkte irgendjemanden; er strebte blind danach, er wusste nicht, wonach, sein Gesicht starr und entstellt - ein entsetzlicher Anblick. Ich beschwor ihn wirr, aber auf die leidenschaftlichste Art und Weise, sich dieser Wildheit nicht hinzugeben, sondern mich anzuhören. Ich bat ihn, an Agnes zu denken, mich mit Agnes in Verbindung zu bringen, sich daran zu erinnern, wie Agnes und ich gemeinsam aufgewachsen waren, wie ich sie ehre und liebe, wie sie sein Stolz und seine Freude ist. Ich versuchte, ihr Bild in irgendeiner Form vor ihm aufzubauen, ich tadelte ihn sogar, dass er nicht die Standhaftigkeit habe, ihr das Wissen um eine solche Szene zu ersparen. Vielleicht habe ich etwas bewirkt, oder seine Raserei hat sich verbraucht; aber nach und nach kämpfte er weniger und begann, mich anzuschauen - zuerst seltsam, dann mit Erkennen in seinen Augen. Schließlich sagte er: "Ich weiß es, Trotwood! Mein liebes Kind und du - ich weiß! Aber schau ihn an!" Er zeigte auf Uriah, der blass und grimmig in einer Ecke stand, offensichtlich sehr von seinen Berechnungen abgewichen und überrascht war. "Schau meinen Peiniger an", antwortete er. "Vor ihm habe ich Name und Ruf, Frieden und Ruhe, Haus und Heim Schritt für Schritt aufgegeben." "Ich habe deinen Namen und deinen Ruf für dich bewahrt, und deinen Frieden und deine Ruhe, und dein Haus und dein Heim auch", sagte Uriah mit einem trotzig-unterwürfigen, hastigen, besiegt wirkenden Kompromiss. "Sei nicht töricht, Mr. Wickfield. Wenn ich ein bisschen über das Ziel hinausgegangen bin, kann ich wohl wieder zurückgehen, oder? Es ist nichts geschehen." "Ich dachte, ich würde in jedem Einzelnen eigennützige Motive sehen", sagte Mr. Wickfield, "und ich war zufrieden, dass ich ihn an mich gebunden hatte aus Eigeninteresse. Aber seht, was er ist - oh, seht, was er ist!" "Ich würde dich besser stoppen, Copperfield, wenn du kannst", rief Uriah und zeigte mit seinem langen Zeigefinger auf mich. "Er wird gleich etwas sagen - pass auf! - er wird sich später darüber ärgern, dass er es gesagt hat, und du wirst bedauern, dass du es gehört hast!" "Ich sage alles!" rief Mr. Wickfield mit verzweifelter Miene. "Warum sollte ich nicht in der Macht der ganzen Welt sein, wenn ich in deiner Macht bin?" "Pass auf! Ich sage es dir!", sagte Uriah und warnte mich weiterhin. "Wenn du ihm nicht den Mund verbietest, bist du nicht sein Freund! Warum solltest du nicht in der Macht der ganzen Welt sein, Mr. Wickfield? Weil du eine Tochter hast. Du und Du musst nicht so viel sagen, auch nicht die Hälfte, noch irgendetwas", bemerkte Uriah, halb trotzig, halb kriecherisch. "Du hättest es nicht so aufgegriffen, wenn es nicht wegen des Weins gewesen wäre. Morgen wirst du es besser überdenken, Sir. Wenn ich zu viel gesagt habe oder mehr als ich wollte, was macht das schon? Ich habe nicht dazu gestanden!" Die Tür öffnete sich und Agnes trat herein, ohne eine Spur von Farbe im Gesicht. Sie legte ihren Arm um seinen Hals und sagte ruhig: "Papa, dir geht es nicht gut. Komm mit mir!" Er legte seinen Kopf auf ihre Schulter, als ob er sich schwer schämte, und ging mit ihr nach draußen. Ihre Augen trafen sich für einen Moment mit meinen, doch ich sah, wie viel sie von dem, was geschehen war, wusste. "Ich hätte nicht erwartet, dass er so unfreundlich reagiert, Master Copperfield", sagte Uriah. "Aber das macht nichts. Morgen werde ich wieder mit ihm befreundet sein. Es ist für sein Bestes. Ich bin demütig besorgt um sein Wohl." Ich gab ihm keine Antwort und ging hinauf in das ruhige Zimmer, in dem Agnes so oft neben mir bei meinen Büchern gesessen hatte. Niemand kam bis spät in der Nacht in meine Nähe. Ich nahm ein Buch zur Hand und versuchte zu lesen. Ich hörte die Uhren zwölf schlagen und las immer noch, ohne zu wissen, was ich las, als Agnes mich berührte. "Du wirst morgen früh losgehen, Trotwood! Lass uns jetzt Abschied nehmen!" Sie hatte geweint, aber ihr Gesicht war ruhig und schön! "Gott segne dich!", sagte sie und reichte mir ihre Hand. "Liebste Agnes!", erwiderte ich. "Ich sehe, dass du mich bittest, nichts von heute Abend zu sagen - aber gibt es nichts, was getan werden kann?" "Wir können uns auf Gott verlassen!", antwortete sie. "Kann ich nichts tun - ich, der zu dir mit meinen eigenen kleinen Sorgen komme?" "Und machst meine so viel leichter", antwortete sie. "Liebster Trotwood, nein!" "Liebe Agnes", sagte ich, "es ist vermessen von mir, der so arm in all dem ist, worin du so reich bist - Güte, Entschlossenheit, alle noblen Eigenschaften - an dir zu zweifeln oder dich zu lenken; aber du weißt, wie sehr ich dich liebe und wie sehr ich dir schulde. Du wirst dich niemals einem falschen Pflichtgefühl opfern, Agnes?" Einen Moment lang war sie aufgeregter als je zuvor, nahm ihre Hände von mir und trat einen Schritt zurück. "Sag, dass du einen solchen Gedanken nicht hast, liebe Agnes! Viel mehr als eine Schwester! Denk an das unschätzbare Geschenk eines solchen Herzens wie deines, einer solchen Liebe wie deiner!" Oh! Lange, lange danach sah ich dieses Gesicht vor mir auftauchen, mit seinem flüchtigen Blick, nicht wundernd, nicht anklagend, nicht bedauernd. Oh, lange, lange danach sah ich diesen Blick vergehen, wie er es jetzt tat, in das schöne Lächeln, mit dem sie mir sagte, dass sie keine Angst um sich selbst hatte - ich musste keine um sie haben - und sich von mir als Bruder verabschiedete und verschwand! Es war dunkel am Morgen, als ich vor der Tür des Gasthauses in den Kutschen stieg. Der Tag brach gerade an, als wir losfahren wollten, und da ich an sie dachte, kämpfte sich Uriahs Kopf durch den Wagen herauf, durch den gemischten Tag und die Nacht. "Copperfield!", flüsterte er krächzend, während er an der Eisenstange auf dem Dach hing, "ich dachte, du würdest dich freuen, es zu hören, bevor du weggehst, dass zwischen uns nichts gebrochen ist. Ich war schon in seinem Zimmer und wir haben alles geklärt. Obwohl ich demütig bin, bin ich nützlich für ihn, weißt du; und er versteht sein eigenes Interesse, wenn er nicht betrunken ist! Was für ein angenehmer Mann er doch ist, Master Copperfield, nach alldem!" Ich zwang mich zu sagen, dass ich froh war, dass er sich entschuldigt hatte. "Oh, natürlich!", sagte Uriah. "Wenn jemand demütig ist, weißt du, was ist eine Entschuldigung schon? So einfach! Ich sage! Ich nehme an", mit einem Ruck, "du hast manchmal eine Birne gepflückt, bevor sie reif war, Master Copperfield?" "Ich nehme an, ja", antwortete ich. "Das habe ich gestern Abend gemacht", sagte Uriah, "aber sie wird noch reifen! Sie braucht nur Pflege. Ich kann warten!" Übersetzung Ende "Ich hatte den Gedanken, heute Abend zu Ihnen zu kommen, Sir, um mich nach Ihnen zu erkundigen", sagte er, "aber als ich erfuhr, dass Ihre Tante bei Ihnen lebt - denn ich war unten, in der Nähe von Yarmouth -, befürchtete ich, es sei zu spät. Ich hätte früh am Morgen kommen sollen, Sir, bevor ich weggehe." "Wieder?", sagte ich. "Ja, Sir", antwortete er geduldig und schüttelte den Kopf, "ich gehe morgen weg." "Wohin wollten Sie jetzt gehen?", fragte ich. "Nun!", antwortete er und schüttelte den Schnee aus seinem langen Haar, "Ich wollte irgendwo hineingehen." Damals gab es einen Nebeneingang zum Stallhof des Golden Cross, der Gasthof, der mir in Verbindung mit seinem Unglück so unvergesslich war, fast gegenüber von unserem Standort. Ich wies auf das Tor, legte meinen Arm um seinen und wir gingen hinüber. Zwei oder drei öffentliche Räume öffneten sich zum Stallhof hin; und als ich in einen von ihnen sah und feststellte, dass er leer war und ein gutes Feuer brannte, führte ich ihn dort hinein. Als ich ihn im Licht sah, bemerkte ich nicht nur, dass sein Haar lang und zerschlissen war, sondern auch, dass sein Gesicht von der Sonne dunkel verbrannt war. Er war grauer geworden, die Linien in seinem Gesicht und auf seiner Stirn waren tiefer, und er hatte jedes Aussehen von jemandem, der sich durch alle Arten von Wetter gequält und umhergeirrt hatte; aber er sah sehr stark aus und wie ein Mann, der durch Standhaftigkeit unterstützt wird, den nichts ermüden kann. Er schüttelte den Schnee von seinem Hut und seinen Kleidern und wischte ihn von seinem Gesicht, während ich diese Bemerkungen innerlich machte. Als er sich mir gegenüber an einen Tisch setzte, mit dem Rücken zur Tür, durch die wir hereingekommen waren, streckte er wieder seine raue Hand aus und ergriff meine herzlich. "Ich werde Ihnen, Mas'r Davy, erzählen, wo ich überall war und was wir alles gehört haben. Ich bin weit gereist und wir haben wenig erfahren, aber ich werde es Ihnen erzählen!" Ich läutete das Glöckchen für etwas Heißes zu trinken. Er wollte nichts stärkeres als Bier; und während es gebracht wurde und sich am Feuer erwärmte, saß er nachdenklich da. Es lag eine ernsthafte und gewichtige Haltung in seinem Gesicht, die ich mich nicht traute zu stören. "Als sie ein Kind war", sagte er, den Kopf hochhebend, kurz nachdem wir allein gelassen worden waren, "hatte sie viel über das Meer gesprochen und über die Küsten, wo das Meer so dunkelblau wurde und in der Sonne leuchtete und funkelte. Ich dachte manchmal, dass der Tod ihres Vaters sie daran denken ließ. Ich weiß es nicht, sehen Sie, aber vielleicht glaubte - oder hoffte - sie, er sei dorthin getrieben worden, wo die Blumen immer blühen und das Land hell ist." "Wahrscheinlich war es nur eine kindliche Fantasie", antwortete ich. "Als sie - verloren ging", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "wusste ich in meinem Inneren, dass er sie in diese Länder bringen würde. Ich wusste in meinem Inneren, dass er ihr Wunder davon erzählt hätte und wie sie dort eine Dame sein sollte und wie er sie zuerst mit solchen Dingen beeindruckt hatte. Als wir seine Mutter sahen, wusste ich ganz genau, dass ich richtig lag. Ich fuhr nach Frankreich über den Ärmelkanal und landete dort, als wäre ich vom Himmel gefallen." Ich sah die Tür sich bewegen und den Schnee hereinwehen. Ich sah, wie sie sich noch etwas mehr bewegte und eine Hand sich sanft darauflegte, um sie offen zu halten. "Ich habe einen englischen Herrn gefunden, der in Autorität war", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "und ihm gesagt, dass ich meine Nichte suchen würde. Er hat mir die Papiere gegeben, die ich brauchte, um mich weiterzubringen - ich weiß nicht genau, wie sie genannt werden - und er hätte mir Geld gegeben, aber ich war dankbar, dass ich es nicht brauchte. Ich danke ihm herzlich für alles, was er getan hat, da bin ich sicher! 'Ich habe Ihnen geschrieben', sagt er zu mir, 'und ich werde mit vielen sprechen, die diesen Weg entlang kommen, und viele werden Sie kennen, wenn Sie alleine unterwegs sind.' Ich habe ihm so gut ich konnte gesagt, wie dankbar ich war, und bin dann durch Frankreich gereist." "Alleine und zu Fuß?", sagte ich. "Meistens zu Fuß", erwiderte er, "manchmal in Karren mit Leuten, die zum Markt fahren, manchmal in leeren Kutschen. Viele Meilen am Tag zu Fuß und oft mit irgendeinem armen Soldaten oder anderen, der seine Freunde besucht. Ich konnte nicht mit ihm reden", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "und er nicht mit mir; aber wir waren Gesellschaft füreinander, entlang der staubigen Straßen." Das hätte ich an seinem freundlichen Ton erkennen sollen. "Wenn ich in eine Stadt kam", fuhr er fort, "fand ich die Herberge und wartete im Hof, bis jemand auftauchte (es tauchte meistens jemand auf), der Englisch sprach. Dann erzählte ich, dass ich auf dem Weg war, meine Nichte zu suchen, und sie erzählten mir, welche Art von Leuten im Haus waren, und ich wartete, ob jemand wie sie aussah, herein- oder herausging. Wenn es nicht Em'ly war, ging ich weiter. Stück für Stück, als ich in ein neues Dorf kam oder so etwas, fanden die armen Leute dort heraus, wer ich war. Sie ließen mich an ihren Hütten ab und gaben mir etwas zum Essen und Trinken und zeigten mir, wo ich schlafen konnte; und viele Frauen, Mas'r Davy, die eine Tochter in etwa Em'lys Alter hatten, habe ich dort vor dem Dorf an unserem Heiligen Kreuz getroffen, um mir ähnliche Freundlichkeiten zu erweisen. Manche hatten Töchter, die gestorben waren. Und nur Gott weiß, wie gut diese Mütter zu mir waren!" Es war Martha an der Tür. Ich sah ihr abgemagertes, lauschendes Gesicht deutlich. Meine Angst war, dass er den Kopf wenden und sie auch sehen würde. "Oft setzten sie ihre Kinder - insbesondere ihre kleinen Mädchen", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "auf meinen Schoß; und oft genug könnten Sie mich an ihren Türen sitzen sehen, wenn die Nacht hereinbrach, fast so, als wären sie meine lieben Kinder gewesen. Oh, meine Liebe!" Überwältigt von plötzlicher Trauer schluchzte er laut. Ich legte meine zitternde Hand auf die Hand, die er vor sein Gesicht gelegt hatte. "Danke, Sir", sagte er, "beachten Sie es nicht." Nach kurzer Zeit nahm er seine Hand weg, legte sie auf seine Brust und fuhr mit seiner Geschichte fort. "Sie sind oft mit mir gegangen", sagte er, "morgens vielleicht ein oder zwei Meilen auf meinem Weg; und als wir uns trennten und ich sagte: 'Ich danke Ihnen sehr! Gott segne Sie!' schienen sie das immer zu verstehen und antworteten freundlich. Schließlich kam ich ans Meer. Es war nicht schwer, wie Sie sich vorstellen können, für einen Seemann wie mich den Weg nach Italien zu finden. Als ich dort ankam, wanderte ich weiter, wie ich es zuvor getan hatte. Die Menschen waren genauso freundlich zu mir und ich hätte von Stadt zu Stadt und vielleicht auch durchs Land gereist, aber dann erhielt ich die Nachricht, dass man sie dort in den Schweizer Bergen gesehen hatte. Jemand, der seinen Diener kannte, hatte sie alle drei dort gesehen und mir erzählt, wie sie gereist waren und wo sie waren. Ich steuerte auf diese Berge zu, Mas'r Davy, Tag und Nacht. So sehr ich auch vorankam, so sehr schienen sich die Berge von mir fortzubewegen. Aber ich kam zu ihnen und über Er war für mich jetzt nichts mehr. Em'ly war alles. Ich kaufte ein ländliches Kleid für sie. Und ich wusste, dass sie, wenn ich sie erst gefunden hatte, neben mir über die steinigen Straßen gehen würde, wo immer ich hinwollte, und mich niemals, niemals verlassen würde. Ihr dieses Kleid anzuziehen und das abzulegen, was sie trug – sie wieder an meinen Arm zu nehmen und in Richtung Heimat zu wandern – manchmal auf der Straße anzuhalten und ihre verletzten Füße und ihr gebrochenes Herz zu heilen – das war jetzt alles, woran ich dachte. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich ihm auch nur einen Blick gewidmet hätte. Aber, Mas'r Davy, es sollte nicht sein – noch nicht! Ich war zu spät und sie waren fort. Wo, konnte ich nicht in Erfahrung bringen. Manche sagten hier, manche sagten dort. Ich reiste hierhin und dorthin, aber ich fand keine Em'ly und kehrte nach Hause zurück. "Wie lange ist das her?" fragte ich. "Eine Angelegenheit von vier Tagen", sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit sah ich das alte Boot und das Licht, das im Fenster leuchtete. Als ich näher kam und durch das Glas hineinsah, sah ich die treue Mrs. Gummidge allein am Feuer sitzen, wie wir es abgemacht hatten. Ich rief: 'Hab keine Angst! Es ist Daniel!' und ich ging hinein. Ich hätte mir niemals vorstellen können, dass das alte Boot so seltsam geworden wäre!" Aus einer Tasche in seiner Brust nahm er mit äußerster Vorsicht ein kleines Päckchen mit zwei oder drei Briefen oder kleinen Paketen heraus und legte sie auf den Tisch. "Dies kam zuerst", sagte er und nahm es von den anderen hervor, "bevor ich eine Woche weg gewesen war. Ein Fünfzig-Pfund-Banknote in einem Blatt Papier, an mich adressiert und in der Nacht unter die Tür geschoben. Sie versuchte, ihre Handschrift zu verbergen, aber sie konnte sie nicht vor mir verbergen!" Er faltete den Brief wieder zusammen, mit großer Geduld und Sorgfalt in genau derselben Form, und legte ihn beiseite. "Dies kam vor zwei oder drei Monaten zu Mrs. Gummidge", sagte er und öffnete einen weiteren Brief. Nachdem er ihn einige Augenblicke betrachtet hatte, gab er ihn mir und fügte leise hinzu: "Seien Sie so freundlich, ihn vorzulesen, Sir." Ich las folgendes: "Oh, was wirst du empfinden, wenn du diese Schrift siehst und weißt, dass sie von meiner bösen Hand stammt! Aber versuch, versuch – nicht meinetwegen, sondern wegen der Güte deines Onkels – dein Herz ein wenig für mich erweichen zu lassen! Versuche, bitte, zu einer elenden, elenden Zeitlänge gegenüber einem unglücklichen Mädchen nachsichtig zu sein, und schreibe auf ein Stück Papier, wie es ihm geht und was er über mich gesagt hat, bevor du aufhörtest, mich je unter euch zu erwähnen – und ob du ihn manchmal abends, wenn es meine alte Zeit war, nach Hause zu kommen, siehst, als ob er an jemanden denken würde, den er so sehr geliebt hat. Oh, mein Herz bricht, wenn ich daran denke! Ich kniee vor dir nieder und flehe dich an, nicht so hart mit mir zu sein, wie ich es verdiene – wie ich gut, gut weiß, dass ich es verdiene – sondern so liebevoll und gut, mir etwas über ihn aufzuschreiben und es mir zu schicken. Du musst mich nicht Little nennen, du musst mich nicht bei dem Namen nennen, mit dem ich mich in Schande gebracht habe; aber oh, höre mein Leid und sei mir so weit gnädig, mir etwas über ihn zu schreiben und es mir zu schicken, das niemals, niemals in dieser Welt von meinen Augen gesehen wird! "Lieber, wenn dein Herz hart gegen mich ist – gerechterweise hart, das weiß ich – aber höre, wenn es hart ist, liebe, bitte ihn, den ich am meisten verletzt habe – ihn, dessen Frau ich hätte sein sollen – bevor du ganz gegen mein armseliges, armseliges Flehen entscheidest! Wenn er so mitfühlend wäre zu sagen, dass du etwas für mich zu schreiben hättest – ich denke, er würde es tun, oh, ich denke, er würde es tun, wenn du ihn nur bitten würdest, denn er war immer so tapfer und so vergebend – dann sag ihm (aber nur dann), dass wenn ich den Wind nachts wehen höre, es sich anfühlt, als ob er nach einem Anblick von ihm und seinem Onkel wütend weggeht und sich gegen mich vor Gott erhebt. Sag ihm, dass ich, wenn ich morgen sterben würde (und oh, wenn ich nur tauglich wäre, würde ich so gerne sterben!), ihn und meinen Onkel mit meinen letzten Worten segnen und mit meinem letzten Atem für sein glückliches Zuhause beten würde!" In diesem Brief war auch Geld beigelegt. Fünf Pfund. Es war unberührt wie der vorherige Betrag, und er faltete es auf die gleiche Weise wieder zusammen. Detaillierte Anweisungen bezüglich der Adresse einer Antwort wurden hinzugefügt, die zwar das Eingreifen mehrerer Personen verrieten und es schwer machten, zu einer sehr wahrscheinlichen Schlussfolgerung über ihren Versteckort zu gelangen, aber zumindest nicht ungewöhnlich waren, dass sie von dem Ort geschrieben hatte, an dem sie gesehen worden sein sollte. "Welche Antwort wurde geschickt?" fragte ich Mr. Peggotty. "Missis Gummidge", antwortete er, "weil sie keine gute Schülerin ist, hat Ham sie freundlicherweise für sie niedergeschrieben und sie hat eine Kopie gemacht. Sie haben ihr gesagt, dass ich sie suchen gegangen bin und was meine Abschiedsworte waren." "Das ist ein anderer Brief in Ihrer Hand, oder?" sagte ich. "Es ist Geld, Sir", sagte Mr. Peggotty und entfaltete es ein wenig. "Zehn Pfund sehen Sie. Und innen steht geschrieben: 'Von einem wahren Freund', genauso wie beim Ersten. Aber der Erste wurde unter die Tür geschoben und dieser kam mit der Post, vorgestern. Ich werde sie am Poststempel suchen gehen." Er zeigte es mir. Es war eine Stadt am oberen Rhein. In Yarmouth hatte er einige ausländische Händler gefunden, die dieses Land kannten, und sie hatten ihm eine grobe Karte auf Papier gezeichnet, die er sehr gut verstehen konnte. Er legte sie zwischen uns auf den Tisch und verfolgte mit dem Kinn auf der Hand seinen Kurs darauf. Ich fragte ihn, wie es Ham geht. Er schüttelte den Kopf. "Er arbeitet, Sir", sagte er, "so tapfer wie ein Mann. Sein Name ist dort überall in dieser Gegend genauso gut wie der eines Mannes, irgendwo auf der Welt. Jeder ist bereit, ihm zu helfen, verstehen Sie, und er ist bereit, ihnen zu helfen. Er hat nie geklagt. Aber meine Schwester glaubt (unter uns gesagt), dass es ihn tief getroffen hat." "Armer Kerl, das kann ich mir vorstellen!" "Er hat keine Sorgen, Mas'r Davy", flüsterte Mr. Peggotty feierlich. "Er kümmert sich um sein Leben überhaupt nicht. Wenn ein Mann für harte Aufgaben bei schlechtem Wetter gebraucht wird, ist er da. Wenn es harte Pflicht mit Gefahr gibt, tritt er vor alle seine Kameraden. Und dennoch ist er so sanft wie jedes Kind. Es gibt kein Kind in Yarmouth, das ihn nicht kennt." Er sammelte die Briefe nachdenklich ein und strich sie glatt mit seiner Hand, steckte sie in ihr kleines Bündel und legte es zärtlich wieder in seine Brust. Das Gesicht war von der Tür verschwunden. Ich sah immer noch den Ich kehrte zum Hof der Herberge zurück und suchte beeindruckt von meiner Erinnerung an das Gesicht furchtbar danach Ausschau. Es war nicht da. Der Schnee hatte unsere früheren Fußspuren bedeckt; meine neue Spur war die einzige, die zu sehen war; und selbst diese begann langsam zu verschwinden (es schneite so stark), als ich über meine Schulter zurückblickte. 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.

Tante Betsey schickt David nach Dover, um die Vermietung ihrer Hütte zu überwachen, das einzige Besitztum, das ihr noch geblieben ist. Sie hofft, dass diese Verantwortung David aus seiner Depression heraushelfen wird. David schließt das Geschäft in Dover schnell ab und reist weiter nach Canterbury, um Mr. Wickfield und Agnes zu besuchen. Bei Mr. Wickfields Haus spricht David mit Mr. Micawber über seinen neuen Job. David findet heraus, dass Mr. Micawber mit seinem neuen Arbeitgeber zufrieden ist und seine Arbeit als "große Beschäftigung" betrachtet. David spürt jedoch eine "unbehagliche Veränderung" in ihm. David spricht mit Agnes über seine Probleme und wie sehr er ihren Rat vermisst. Er sagt, dass es ihm schwerfällt, sich genauso an Dora zu wenden, da sie so "leicht gestört und verängstigt" ist. Agnes schlägt David vor, an Doras Tanten zu schreiben und um Erlaubnis zu bitten, Dora zu besuchen. Nachdem er Agnes verlassen hat, geht David nach unten, um Uriah Heep und Mr. Wickfield zu sehen. Auch Mrs. Heep wohnt dort, und David denkt an die Heeps als "zwei große Fledermäuse, die über dem ganzen Haus hängen und es mit ihren hässlichen Formen verdunkeln". Am nächsten Tag macht David einen Spaziergang. Uriah folgt ihm und gesteht, dass er befürchtet, dass David ein Rivale für Agnes sein könnte. David sagt widerwillig Uriah, dass er mit einer anderen jungen Dame verlobt ist, was Uriah offensichtlich erleichtert. Beruhigt erzählt Uriah David von seiner Schulbildung in den Londoner Wohltätigkeitsschulen, wo er gelernt hat, "umble pie mit Appetit zu essen". Jetzt ist Uriah stolz darauf, dass er "ein wenig Macht" hat. Beim Abendessen sieht David, wie Uriah diese Macht nutzt, indem er hofft, Agnes zu heiraten. Mr. Wickfield wird wütend, und David versucht, ihn zu beruhigen. Uriah wird besorgt, dass Mr. Wickfield in seinem Ärger etwas sagen wird, "wofür er sich später schämen wird", und versucht in seine "Unterwürfigkeit" zurückzukehren. Wickfield drückt David seine Scham über seinen absteigenden Lebensweg aus und fängt langsam an zu schluchzen. Agnes kommt herein und tröstet ihren Vater, und sie verlassen das Zimmer zusammen. Später in der Nacht lässt David sie versprechen, dass sie sich niemals für einen "falschen Pflichtsinn" opfern wird. Am nächsten Morgen, als David geht, gibt Uriah zu, dass er vielleicht "eine Birne gepflückt hat, bevor sie reif war". Aber, sagt der unheimliche Uriah, "Sie wird noch reifen! Ich kann warten!" An einem verschneiten Abend auf dem Heimweg von Dr. Strongs trifft David eine Frau auf der Straße, die er erkennt, sich aber nicht erinnern kann. Sekunden später, als er Mr. Peggotty begegnet, erkennt er, dass die Frau, an der er vorbeigegangen ist, niemand anders als Martha Endell ist, die "gefallene Frau", der Em'ly einst geholfen hat. Das zufällige Treffen mit Mr. Peggotty findet auf den Stufen der St. Martins Kirche statt, auf einem Weg, den David nur wegen des Sturms gewählt hat. Mr. Peggotty zeigt David verschiedene Briefe, die er von Em'ly erhalten hat, in denen sie um Verständnis und Vergebung bittet und deutlich macht, dass sie nie zurückkehren wird. Die Briefe enthalten auch Geld, offensichtlich von Steerforth stammend, aber Mr. Peggotty schwört, dass er jeden Cent des Geldes zurückgeben wird, selbst wenn er "zehntausend Meilen" gehen muss. Die letzte erhaltene Notiz trägt den Poststempel einer Stadt am Oberen Rhein, und Mr. Peggotty erklärt, dass er jetzt dorthin geht, um Em'ly zu suchen. Während Mr. Peggottys Geschichte sieht David, wie Martha Endell an der Tür der Gaststube lauscht. Nach einer Weile trennen sie sich, und der trauernde Onkel setzt "seine einsame Reise fort".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Das Mädchen Maggie erblühte in einer Pfütze. Sie wurde zu einer äußerst seltenen und wunderbaren Erscheinung eines Mietshausviertels - einem hübschen Mädchen. Kein bisschen Schmutz von der Rum Alley schien in ihr zu stecken. Die Philosophen oben, unten und auf der gleichen Etage rätselten darüber. Als Kind wurde sie beim Spielen und Kämpfen mit den Gamins auf der Straße durch den Schmutz verdeckt. In Lumpen und Dreck gekleidet, wurde sie nicht gesehen. Doch dann kamen die jungen Männer aus der Nachbarschaft und sagten: "Diese Johnson Göre sieht ziemlich gut aus." Um diese Zeit sagte ihr Bruder zu ihr: "Mag, das sag ich dir! Verstehst du? Du musst entweder zur Hölle gehen oder arbeiten gehen!" Daraufhin ging sie arbeiten, denn sie hatte eine Abneigung dagegen, zur Hölle zu gehen. Durch einen glücklichen Zufall bekam sie eine Stelle in einer Firma, die Kragen und Manschetten herstellte. Sie erhielt einen Hocker und eine Maschine in einem Raum, in dem zwanzig Mädchen sitzten, deren Laune in verschiedenen Gelbtönen schwankte. Sie saß auf dem Hocker und betätigte den Fußtritt an ihrer Maschine den ganzen Tag, um Kragen herzustellen, deren Marke nichts mit Kragen zu tun hatte. Am Abend kehrte sie zu ihrer Mutter zurück. Jimmie wurde groß genug, um die vage Position des Familienoberhaupts einzunehmen. In dieser Funktion stolperte er spät in der Nacht die Treppe hinauf, so wie es sein Vater zuvor getan hatte. Er torkelte im Raum herum, schimpfte auf seine Verwandten oder schlief auf dem Boden. Die Mutter hatte allmählich eine gewisse Berühmtheit erlangt, so dass sie mit ihren Bekannten unter den Polizei-Richtern Wortgefechte führen konnte. Gerichtsbeamte sprachen sie mit ihrem Vornamen an. Wenn sie auftauchte, verfolgten sie einen Kurs, den sie seit Monaten verfolgten. Sie grinsten immer und riefen: "Hallo, Mary, wieder hier?" Ihr grauer Kopf nickte in vielen Gerichtssälen. Sie belagerte immer wieder die Richterbank mit langen Erklärungen, Entschuldigungen, Apologien und Gebeten. Ihr flammendes Gesicht und ihre rollenden Augen waren eine Art vertrauter Anblick auf der Insel. Sie maß die Zeit anhand von Trinkgelagen und war ständig geschwollen und zerzaust. Eines Tages tauchte der junge Mann Pete auf, der als junger Bursche den Devil's Row Knirps im Hinterkopf geschlagen und die Gegner seines Freundes Jimmie in die Flucht geschlagen hatte. Er traf Jimmie eines Tages auf der Straße, versprach, ihn zu einem Boxkampf in Williamsburg mitzunehmen, und holte ihn abends ab. Maggie beobachtete Pete. Er saß auf einem Tisch im Haus der Johnsons und baumelte mit seinen karierten Beinen, verführerisch unbeschwert. Seine Haare fielen ihm in einer geölten Stirnlocke über die Stirn. Seine etwas pugnase Nase schien sich vor Kontakt mit einem buschigen Schnurrbart aus kurzen, drahtähnlichen Haaren zu scheuen. Sein blaues, doppeltreihiges Jackett, gesäumt mit schwarzer Schnur, knöpfte er eng an einen roten Puff-Krawatte und seine Lacklederschuhe sahen aus wie mörderische Waffen. Seine Eigenarten zeigten, dass er ein Mann war, der ein korrektes Verständnis seiner persönlichen Überlegenheit hatte. In seinem Blick lag Tapferkeit und Verachtung für die Umstände. Er wedelte mit den Händen wie ein Mann von Welt, der Religion und Philosophie abweist und sagt "Quatsch". Er hatte mit Sicherheit alles schon einmal gesehen und mit jeder Kräuselung seiner Lippen erklärte er, dass es nichts bedeute. Maggie dachte, er müsse ein sehr eleganter und anmutiger Barkeeper sein. Er erzählte Jimmie Geschichten. Maggie beobachtete ihn heimlich, mit halb geschlossenen Augen, die von einem vagen Interesse beleuchtet waren. "Hully gee! Die machen mich müde", sagte er. "Fast jeden Tag kommt hier ein Bauer rein und will den Laden übernehmen. Siehst du? Aber die werden direkt auf die Straße geworfen! Ich werfe sie direkt auf die Straße, bevor sie wissen, wo sie sind! Siehst du?" "Sicher," sagte Jimmie. "Da kam neulich so ein Kerl in den Laden und dachte, er würde den Laden übernehmen! Hully gee, er wollte den Laden übernehmen! Ich hab' gesehen, dass er einen Störenfried hatte und ich wollte ihm nichts verkaufen, also hab' ihm gesagt: 'Verschwinde hierhin und mach' keinen Ärger,' hab' ich dann gesagt! Siehst du? 'Verschwinde hierhin und mach' keinen Ärger,' hab' ich gesagt. Siehst du? 'Verschwinde hierhin,' hab' ich gesagt. Siehst du?" Jimmie nickte verständnisvoll. Über sein Gesicht spielte ein eifriger Drang, die Menge seiner Tapferkeit in einer ähnlichen Krise zu erklären, aber der Erzähler fuhr fort. "Nun, der Kerl sagte: 'Zum Teufel damit! Ich suche keinen Streit', sagte er (Siehst du?), 'aber' sagte er, 'ich bin ein respektabler Bürger und ich will verdammt nochmal trinken und zwar bald!', sagte er. Siehst du? 'Zum Teufel,' sagte ich. So. 'Zum Teufel,' sagte ich. Siehst du? 'Mach' keinen Ärger', habe ich gesagt. So. 'Mach' keinen Ärger.' Siehst du? Dann hat sich der Kerl aufgestellt und gesagt, dass er mit seinen Fäusten gut drauf ist (Siehst du?) und er wollte verdammt schnell einen Drink. Das hat er gesagt. Siehst du?" "Sicher, wiederholte Jimmie. Pete fuhr fort. "Sag mal, ich habe mich nur über die Theke gebeugt und den Kerl auf die Art niedergeworfen. Siehst du? Genau! Aufs Kinn! Siehst du? Hully gee, er hat einen Spucknapf direkt aus dem Fenster geworfen. Sag mal, ich dachte, ich würde sterben. Aber der Boss kam dann rein und sagte: 'Pete, du hast genau das Richtige gemacht! Du musst Ordnung halten und das ist in Ordnung.' Siehst du? 'Das ist in Ordnung,' hat er gesagt. Das hat er gesagt." Die beiden führten eine technische Diskussion. "Der Kerl war 'ne Wucht," sagte Pete abschließend, "aber er hätte keinen Ärger machen sollen. Das habe ich ihnen gesagt: 'Komm' hier nicht rein und mach' keinen Ärger,' habe ich gesagt, so. 'Mach' keinen Ärger.' Siehst du?" Während Jimmie und sein Freund sich erzählten, wie tapfer sie waren, lehnte sich Maggie im Schatten zurück. Ihre Augen betrachteten Pete mit Verwunderung und eher sehnsüchtig. Die zerbrochenen Möbel, dreckigen Wände und die allgemeine Unordnung und der Schmutz ihres Zuhauses begannen plötzlich, eine potenzielle Bedeutung anzunehmen. Petes aristokratisches Auftreten schien an Wert zu verlieren. Sie betrachtete ihn aufmerksam, ab und zu, und fragte sich, ob er Verachtung empfand. Doch Pete schien von seiner eigenen Vergangenheit eingenommen zu sein. "Hully gee," sagte er, "diese Kerle können mir nichts anhaben. Sie wissen, dass ich auf der Straße mit jedem von ihnen fertig werden kann." Wenn er sagte: "Ach, was zum Teufel," dann war seine Stimme von Verachtung für das Unausweichliche und von Verachtung für alles, was das Schicksal ihn ertragen lassen könnte, erfüllt. Maggie erkannte, dass hier der Beau ideal eines Mannes vorlag. Ihre gedanklichen Zweifel waren oft auf der Suche nach fernen Ländern, wo die kleinen Hügel am Morgen zusammen singen, wie es Gott sagt. Unter den Bäumen ihrer Traumgärten ging immer ihr Liebhaber spazieren. 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.

Zurück zu Maggie, einem hübschen jungen Mädchen in einem heruntergekommenen Mietsblock. Welche Hoffnung hat sie, wenn sie in Rum Alley aufwächst? Ihre zarte Schönheit verblasst bei ihren Kollegen in der Sweatshop, wo sie Kragen und Manschetten näht. Jimmie ist jetzt für das Haus verantwortlich. Betrunkene Mary ist immer noch da, gerät in Schlägereien und entwickelt ihre eigene Beziehung zu Polizeirichtern. Lassen Sie uns einfach sagen, dass sie mit den örtlichen Bowery-Polizisten per Du ist. Dann kommt Pete daher - er ist derjenige, der Jimmie den Arsch gerettet hat, als er vor so vielen Jahren Probleme mit diesen Rotzlöffeln aus der Devil's Row hatte. Aus Maggies Sicht ist Pete ein Traumtyp und ein Retter. Seine Verachtung für die Welt und sein Hauch von Überlegenheit beflügeln sie; sie ist ganz dabei. Als sie Pete anstarrt, wird Maggie sich des Schmutzes und Chaos in ihrem Zuhause hyperbewusst. Verglichen mit diesem edlen Herrn ist ihre Umgebung eine Schande. Sie entscheidet, dass er der "ideale Mann" 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: Ich sah Uriah Heep nicht mehr, bis zum Tag, an dem Agnes die Stadt verließ. Ich war an der Kutschenstation, um mich von ihr zu verabschieden und sie gehen zu sehen. Und da war er wieder, der mit demselben Transportmittel nach Canterbury zurückkehrte. Es war eine kleine Genugtuung für mich, zu bemerken, wie sein schlanker, kurzer, hochschultriger, Maulbeerfarbener Mantel, in Begleitung eines kleinen Zeltes ähnlichen Regenschirms, auf dem hinteren Sitzrand des Daches thronte, während Agnes natürlich drinnen saß. Aber was ich in meinen Bemühungen, freundlich mit ihm zu sein, während Agnes zusah, durchmachte, verdiente vielleicht diese kleine Belohnung. Am Kutschenfenster, wie auch schon beim Dinner, schwebte er unablässig um uns herum wie ein großer Geier, der sich an jedem Silbenklang labte, den ich zu Agnes sagte oder Agnes zu mir sagte. In dem Zustand der Verwirrung, in den mich seine Enthüllung vor meinem Kamin warf, dachte ich viel über die Worte nach, die Agnes in Bezug auf die Partnerschaft benutzt hatte. "Ich habe getan, was ich für richtig hielt. In dem Gefühl, dass es für Papas Frieden notwendig war, dass das Opfer gemacht wurde, bat ich ihn, es zu machen." Eine elende Ahnung, dass sie diesem Gefühl nachgeben und sich selbst dadurch stärken würde, hatte mich seitdem bedrückt. Ich wusste, wie sehr sie ihn liebte. Ich wusste, welche Hingabe ihre Natur hatte. Ich wusste aus ihrem eigenen Mund, dass sie sich als unschuldige Ursache seiner Fehler ansah und ihm eine große Schuld schuldig war, die sie glühend zu begleichen wünschte. Es war mir kein Trost zu sehen, wie unterschiedlich sie von diesem abscheulichen Rufus mit dem mauvefarbenen Mantel war, denn ich fühlte, dass gerade in dem Unterschied zwischen ihnen, in der Selbstaufopferung ihrer reinen Seele und der erbärmlichen Gemeinheit seiner, die größte Gefahr lag. All dies wusste er zweifellos genau und hatte es in seiner List gut durchdacht. Aber ich war so sicher, dass die Aussicht auf ein solches Opfer in der Ferne das Glück von Agnes zerstören musste, und ich war so sicher, dass es von ihr damals noch nicht bemerkt wurde und noch keinen Schatten auf sie geworfen hatte, dass ich ihr genauso wenig hätte Schaden zufügen können wie ihr eine Warnung vor dem Unheil hätte geben können, das bevorstand. So trennten wir uns also ohne Erklärung: Sie winkte mir zum Abschied zu und lächelte aus dem Kutschenfenster; ihr böser Geist auf dem Dach windend, als hätte er sie in seinen Klauen und triumphierte. Ich konnte dieses Abschiedsgeschenk von ihnen lange Zeit nicht vergessen. Als Agnes mir schrieb, um mir von ihrer sicheren Ankunft zu berichten, war ich so unglücklich wie bei ihrem Abschied. Immer wenn ich in einen nachdenklichen Zustand geriet, tauchte dieses Thema auf, und mein Unbehagen wurde immer größer. Kaum eine Nacht verging, ohne dass ich davon träumte. Es wurde ein Teil meines Lebens und war so untrennbar mit meinem Leben verbunden wie mein eigener Kopf. Ich hatte reichlich Zeit, um meine Unruhe zu verfeinern: Denn Steerforth war, wie er mir schrieb, in Oxford. Und wenn ich nicht bei der Anwaltskammer war, war ich sehr allein. Ich glaube, zu dieser Zeit hatte ich ein gewisses Misstrauen gegenüber Steerforth. Ich antwortete ihm auf seine Briefe sehr liebevoll, aber im Großen und Ganzen war ich froh, dass er gerade nicht nach London kommen konnte. Ich vermutete, dass der Einfluss von Agnes auf mich anders auf mich wirkte, und dass er deshalb so mächtig auf mich war, weil sie einen so großen Teil meiner Gedanken und meines Interesses einnahm. In der Zwischenzeit vergingen Tage und Wochen. Ich wurde bei Spenlow und Jorkins in die Lehre genommen. Meine Tante zahlte mir neunzig Pfund im Jahr (ohne Miete und andere Nebensachen). Meine Zimmer waren für zwölf Monate fest verpflichtet: Und obwohl ich sie abends immer noch trist fand und die Abende lang, konnte ich mich in einen Zustand gleichbleibender Niedergeschlagenheit zurückziehen und mich dem Kaffee überlassen - von dem ich im Rückblick zu dieser Zeit anscheinend Unmengen getrunken zu haben scheine. Zu dieser Zeit machte ich auch drei Entdeckungen: Erstens, dass Frau Krupp an einer seltsamen Störung namens 'den Spazzums' litt, die normalerweise von einer Entzündung der Nase begleitet war und ständig mit Pfefferminze behandelt werden musste. Zweitens, dass irgendetwas Besonderes in der Temperatur meiner Speisekammer dazu führte, dass die Kognakflaschen platzten; Drittens, dass ich alleine auf der Welt war und dies gerne in Fragmenten englischer Verse aufzeichnete. An dem Tag, als ich in die Lehre ging, fand keine Feier statt, außer dass ich Sandwiches und Sherry für die Büroangestellten mit ins Büro brachte und abends alleine ins Theater ging. Ich ging, um "The Stranger" zu sehen, eine Art Theaterstück der Anwaltskammer, und war darüber so verstört, dass ich mich kaum in meiner eigenen Spiegelung wiedererkannte, als ich nach Hause kam. Herr Spenlow bemerkte bei dieser Gelegenheit, als wir unser Geschäft abschlossen, dass er sich gefreut hätte, mich in seinem Haus in Norwood zu sehen, um unsere Verbindung zu feiern, aber seine häuslichen Angelegenheiten seien aufgrund der erwarteten Rückkehr seiner Tochter aus Paris, wo sie ihre Ausbildung abschloss, etwas durcheinandergeraten. Er deutete jedoch an, dass er hoffe, mich zu unterhalten, wenn sie nach Hause komme. Ich wusste, dass er Witwer mit einer Tochter war und drückte meinen Dank aus. Herr Spenlow hielt sein Versprechen. Nach einer oder zwei Wochen erwähnte er diese Einladung und sagte, dass er sich freuen würde, wenn ich ihm die Ehre erweisen würde, am nächsten Samstag herunterzukommen und bis Montag zu bleiben. Natürlich sagte ich, dass ich ihm die Ehre erweisen würde, und er sollte mich in seinem Phaeton herunterfahren und mich zurückbringen. Als der Tag kam, wurde meine Reisetasche von den angestellten Schreibern wie ein Heiligtum verehrt, da das Haus in Norwood für sie ein Mysterium war. Einer von ihnen erzählte mir, dass er gehört habe, dass Herr Spenlow ausschließlich von Silber und Porzellan esse; und ein anderer deutete an, dass ständig Champagner gezapft werde, wie es beim Tafelbier üblich sei. Der alte Schreiber mit der Perücke, dessen Name Herr Tiffey war, war im Laufe seiner Karriere mehrmals geschäftlich dort gewesen und war jedes Mal ins Frühstückszimmer vorgedrungen. Er beschrieb es als ein Zimmer von äußerster Pracht und sagte, dass er dort braunen East India Sherry getrunken habe, von einer so kostbaren Qualität, dass ein Mann blinzeln müsste. An diesem Tag hatten wir einen ausgesetzten Fall im Konsistorium, bei dem es darum ging, einen Bäcker, der in einer Kirchenvorstandssitzung Widerspruch gegen eine Pflasterabgabe eingelegt hatte, zu exkommunizieren. Da der Beweis nach meiner Berechnung doppelt so lang war wie Robinson Crusoe, waren wir ziemlich spät dran, als wir fertig waren. Aber wir exkommunizierten ihn für sechs Wochen und verurteilten ihn zu einer endlosen Reihe von Kosten. Danach verließen der Prokurator des Bäckers und der Richter und die Anwälte auf beiden Seiten (die alle miteinander verwandt waren) gemeinsam die Stadt, und Herr Spenlow und ich fuhren im Phaeton davon. Der Phaeton war ein sehr stattliches Gefährt; die Pferde streckten ihre Hälse und hoben die Beine, als wüssten sie, dass sie zu Doctors' Commons gehörten. In den Commons Ich fragte Herrn Spenlow, welche Art von beruflichem Geschäft er für die beste halte. Er antwortete, dass ein guter Fall eines umstrittenen Testaments, bei dem ein ordentliches kleines Anwesen von dreißig oder vierzigtausend Pfund vorhanden ist, vielleicht das Beste von allem sei. In einem solchen Fall gebe es nicht nur sehr schöne Gewinne in Form von Argumenten in jeder Phase des Verfahrens und Berge von Beweisen bei der Befragung und Gegenbefragung (ganz zu schweigen von einem Berufungsverfahren, zunächst vor den Delegierten und dann vor den Lords), sondern auch die Kosten würden letztendlich mit hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit aus dem Anwesen gezahlt werden, daher gingen beide Seiten mit Elan und in lebhafter Weise vor, und Kosten spielten keine Rolle. Dann hielt er eine allgemeine Lobrede auf das Unterhaus. Was man besonders bewundern solle (sagte er) am Unterhaus, sei seine Kompaktheit. Es sei der am besten organisierte Ort der Welt. Es sei die vollkommene Vorstellung von Behaglichkeit. Es stecke in einer Nussschale. Zum Beispiel: Man brachte einen Scheidungsfall oder einen Restitutionsfall vor das Konsistorium. Sehr gut. Man verhandelte ihn vor dem Konsistorium. Man machte daraus ein ruhiges kleines Rundenspiel in einer Gruppe von Verwandten und spielte es in Ruhe aus. Angenommen, man wäre mit dem Konsistorium nicht zufrieden gewesen, was hätte man dann getan? Nun, man wäre vor das Erzbischöfliche Gericht gegangen. Was war das Erzbischöfliche Gericht? Derselbe Gerichtssaal, dasselbe Schrankenstück, dieselben Rechtsanwälte, aber ein anderer Richter, denn der Richter des Konsistoriums konnte an jedem beliebigen Gerichtstag als Anwalt auftreten. Nun, man spielte sein Rundenspiel erneut aus. Aber immer noch war man nicht zufrieden. Sehr gut. Was tat man dann? Nun, man ging zu den Delegierten. Wer waren die Delegierten? Nun, die Geistlichen Delegierten waren die Anwälte ohne Geschäft, die bei dem Rundenspiel zugeschaut hatten, als es in beiden Gerichten gespielt wurde, die die Karten hat mischen, schneiden und spielen sehen und mit allen Spielern darüber gesprochen hatten, und jetzt, frisch als Richter, kamen, um die Angelegenheit zur Zufriedenheit aller zu regeln! Unzufriedene Leute könnten über Korruption im Unterhaus sprechen, über Knausrigkeit im Unterhaus und die Notwendigkeit einer Reform des Unterhauses, schloss Mr. Spenlow feierlich, aber wenn der Preis für Weizen pro Scheffel am höchsten gewesen wäre, wäre das Unterhaus am geschäftigsten gewesen; und ein Mann könnte seine Hand auf sein Herz legen und das der ganzen Welt sagen: „Berühre das Unterhaus und das ganze Land stürzt ein!“ Ich hörte all dem aufmerksam zu, und obwohl ich sagen muss, dass ich meine Zweifel hatte, ob das Land dem Unterhaus wirklich so sehr zu Dank verpflichtet war, wie es Mr. Spenlow darstellte, erklärte ich mich respektvoll mit seiner Meinung einverstanden. Was den Preis für Weizen pro Scheffel anging, fühlte ich bescheiden, dass das zu viel für meine geistigen Kräfte war und die Frage ganz klar beantwortete. Bis heute habe ich es nicht geschafft, gegenüber diesem Scheffel Weizen die Oberhand zu gewinnen. Er ist immer wieder in meinem Leben aufgetaucht, um mich zu vernichten, in Verbindung mit allen möglichen Themen. Ich weiß nicht einmal genau, was er mit mir zu tun hat oder welches Recht er hat, mich auf unzählige Arten zu zermalmen. Aber immer wenn ich meinen alten Freund, den Scheffel Weizen, hereinkommen sehe (wie er es immer tut, habe ich bemerkt), gebe ich ein Thema als verloren auf. Das ist eine Abschweifung. Ich wäre nicht der Typ gewesen, der das Unterhaus angetastet und dadurch das ganze Land gestürzt hätte. Ich drückte meine Zustimmung zu allem, was ich von meinem Wissens- und Erfahrungsvorgesetzten gehört hatte, durch mein Schweigen respektvoll aus, und wir sprachen über den Fremden und das Drama und die Pferdepaare, bis wir zum Tor von Mr. Spenlow kamen. Zu Mr. Spenlows Haus gehörte ein wunderschöner Garten, und obwohl es nicht die beste Jahreszeit war, um einen Garten zu sehen, war er so wunderschön gepflegt, dass ich ganz entzückt war. Es gab einen bezaubernden Rasen, es gab Baumgruppen und Spazierwege, die ich in der Dunkelheit nur schwach erkennen konnte, auf denen im Wachstumszyklus Rankgitter waren, auf denen Sträucher und Blumen wuchsen. "Hier geht Miss Spenlow allein spazieren", dachte ich. "Mein lieber Herr!" Wir betraten das Haus, das freundlich erleuchtet war, und einen Flur, in dem es allerlei Hüte, Mützen, Mäntel, Tartans, Handschuhe, Peitschen und Spazierstöcke gab. "Wo ist Miss Dora?" fragte Mr. Spenlow den Diener. "Dora!", dachte ich. "Was für ein schöner Name!" Wir gingen in einen Raum in der Nähe (Ich glaube, es war das gleiche Frühstückszimmer, das durch den braunen ostindischen Sherry in Erinnerung blieb), und ich hörte eine Stimme sagen: "Mr. Copperfield, meine Tochter Dora und die vertraute Freundin meiner Tochter Dora!" Es war zweifellos Mr. Spenlows Stimme, aber ich kannte sie nicht, und es kümmerte mich auch nicht, wem sie gehörte. Alles war im selben Moment vorbei. Ich hatte meine Bestimmung erfüllt. Ich war ein Gefangener und ein Sklave. Ich war unsterblich in Dora Spenlow verliebt! Sie war mir mehr als menschlich. Sie war eine Fee, ein Sylph, ich weiß nicht, was sie war - alles, was niemand je gesehen hat und alles, was jeder je wollte. Ich war in einem Augenblick in einem Abgrund der Liebe verschlungen. Es gab kein Innehalten am Rand, kein Hinuntersehen oder Rückblicken; Ich war kopfüber gegangen, bevor ich den Verstand hatte, ein Wort zu ihr zu sagen. "Ich", bemerkte eine bekannte Stimme, als ich mich verbeugt und etwas gemurmelt hatte, "habe Mr. Copperfield schon einmal gesehen." Der Sprecher war nicht Dora. Nein, es war die vertraute Freundin, Miss Murdstone! Ich glaube nicht, dass ich sehr erstaunt war. Meines Erachtens war in mir keinerlei Fassungsvermögen mehr für Erstaunen übrig. Es gab nichts Erwähnenswertes in der materiellen Welt außer Dora Spenlow, über das man erstaunt sein konnte. Ich sagte: "Wie geht es Ihnen, Miss Murdstone? Ich hoffe, es geht Ihnen gut." Sie antwortete: "Sehr gut." Ich sagte: "Wie geht es Mr. Murdstone?" Sie antwortete: "Mein Bruder ist robust, Ihnen sei gedankt." Mr. Spenlow, der vermutlich überrascht war, uns einander erkennen zu sehen, mischte sich dann ein. "Ich freue mich", sagte er, "Copperfield, festzustellen, dass Sie und Miss Murdstone sich bereits kennen." "Mr. Copperfield und ich", sagte Miss Murdstone mit strenger Gelassenheit, "sind verwandt. Wir waren einander einmal flüchtig bekannt. Es war in seiner Kindheit. Umstände haben uns seitdem getrennt. Ich hätte ihn nicht wiedererkannt." Ich antwortete, dass ich sie überall erkannt hätte. Und das war wahr Ich erinnere mich nicht mehr, wer dort war, außer Dora. Ich habe keine geringste Ahnung, was wir zum Abendessen hatten, außer Dora. Mein Eindruck ist, dass ich nur von Dora gegessen habe und sechs Teller unberührt zurückgeschickt habe. Ich saß neben ihr. Ich sprach mit ihr. Sie hatte die entzückendste kleine Stimme, das fröhlichste kleine Lachen, die angenehmsten und faszinierendsten kleinen Manieren, die jemals eine verlorene Jugend in hoffnungslose Sklaverei führten. Sie war insgesamt eher klein. Desto wertvoller dachte ich. Als sie mit Miss Murdstone den Raum verließ (keine anderen Damen waren bei der Party), versank ich in Träumerei, nur gestört von der grausamen Befürchtung, dass Miss Murdstone schlecht über mich reden würde. Das liebenswürdige Geschöpf mit dem polierten Kopf erzählte mir eine lange Geschichte, die, glaube ich, vom Gärtnern handelte. Ich glaube, ich habe ihn mehrmals "mein Gärtner" sagen hören. Ich schien ihm die tiefste Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken, aber währenddessen wanderte ich in einem Garten Eden mit Dora umher. Meine Befürchtungen, bezüglich meiner geliebten Zuneigung abgewertet zu werden, wurden bei unserem Eintritt ins Wohnzimmer durch den grimmigen und distanzierten Blick von Miss Murdstone wiederbelebt. Doch sie wurden auf unerwartete Weise zerstreut. "David Copperfield", sagte Miss Murdstone und winkte mich beiseite an ein Fenster. "Ein Wort." Ich stand alleine Miss Murdstone gegenüber. "David Copperfield", sagte Miss Murdstone, "ich werde nicht im Geringsten auf familiäre Umstände eingehen. Sie sind kein verlockendes Thema." "Ganz und gar nicht, Ma'am", erwiderte ich. "Ganz und gar nicht", stimmte Miss Murdstone zu. "Ich möchte die Erinnerung an vergangene Differenzen oder vergangene Beleidigungen nicht wieder aufleben lassen. Ich habe Beleidigungen von einer Person - einer Frau, muss ich leider sagen, zum Leidwesen meines Geschlechts - erhalten, die ohne Verachtung und Ekel nicht erwähnt werden sollte; und daher möchte ich sie lieber nicht erwähnen." Ich fühlte mich sehr aufgebracht wegen meiner Tante, aber ich sagte, es wäre sicherlich besser, wenn Miss Murdstone es nicht erwähnte. Ich könne es nicht ertragen, respektlos über sie sprechen zu hören, fügte ich hinzu, ohne meine Meinung in bestimmtem Tonfall auszudrücken. Miss Murdstone schloss die Augen und neigte verächtlich den Kopf; dann, langsam die Augen öffnend, fuhr sie fort: "David Copperfield, ich werde nicht versuchen, die Tatsache zu verbergen, dass ich in deiner Kindheit einen ungünstigen Eindruck von dir gewonnen habe. Es könnte ein irriger gewesen sein, oder du hast aufgehört, ihn zu rechtfertigen. Das ist zwischen uns jetzt nicht die Frage. Ich gehöre einer bemerkenswerten Familie an, glaube ich, wegen ihrer Standhaftigkeit; und ich bin nicht das Geschöpf von Umständen oder Veränderungen. Ich kann meine Meinung von dir haben. Du kannst deine Meinung von mir haben." Ich nickte ebenso. "Aber es ist nicht notwendig", sagte Miss Murdstone, "dass diese Meinungen hier aufeinandertreffen. Unter den gegebenen Umständen ist es besser, dass sie es nicht tun. Da uns die Unwägbarkeiten des Lebens wieder zusammengebracht haben und uns auf anderen Gelegenheiten wieder zusammenbringen können, würde ich vorschlagen, dass wir uns hier als distanzierte Bekannte treffen. Familienumstände sind ein ausreichender Grund dafür, dass wir uns nur auf dieser Ebene treffen, und es ist völlig unnötig, dass einer von uns über den anderen Bemerkungen macht. Bist du damit einverstanden?" "Miss Murdstone", erwiderte ich, "ich glaube, Sie und Mr. Murdstone haben mich sehr grausam behandelt und meiner Mutter gegenüber große Unfreundlichkeit gezeigt. Das werde ich immer denken, solange ich lebe. Aber ich stimme vollkommen mit Ihnen überein." Miss Murdstone schloss erneut die Augen und neigte den Kopf. Dann berührte sie nur leicht mit den Spitzen ihrer kalten, steifen Finger meinen Handrücken und ging weg, während sie die kleinen Fesseln an ihren Handgelenken und um ihren Hals zurechtlegte; es schien dasselbe Set zu sein, im genau gleichen Zustand, wie ich es zuletzt gesehen hatte. Diese erinnerten mich an die Fesseln an einer Gefängnistür und ließen allen Betrachtern nach außen hin erkennen, was im Inneren zu erwarten war. Alles, was ich vom Rest des Abends weiß, ist, dass ich die Kaiserin meines Herzens verzauberte Balladen in französischer Sprache singen hörte, meistens mit der Wirkung, dass wir immer tanzen sollten, Ta ra la, Ta ra la! während sie sich selbst auf einem glorifizierten Instrument, das einer Gitarre ähnelte, begleitete. Ich war in seligem Delirium verloren. Ich lehnte Erfrischungen ab. Meine Seele wehrte sich insbesondere gegen den Punsch. Als Miss Murdstone sie in Gewahrsam nahm und fortführte, lächelte sie und gab mir ihre köstliche Hand. Als ich einen Blick auf mich selbst in einem Spiegel erhaschte, sah ich aus wie ein völliger Idiot. Ich ging in einem Zustand des übermäßig sentimentalen Geistes zu Bett und erwachte in einem Anfall von schwacher Verblendung. Es war ein schöner Morgen, früh, und ich dachte, ich würde einen Spaziergang auf einem dieser mit Draht überdachten Wege machen und mich in meiner Leidenschaft verlieren, indem ich ihr Bild betrachtete. Auf dem Weg durch die Halle traf ich ihren kleinen Hund, der Jip genannt wurde - eine Abkürzung für Gipsy. Ich näherte mich ihm zärtlich an, denn ich liebte ihn sogar; aber er zeigte mir sein ganzes Gebiss, lief extra unter einen Stuhl, um zu knurren, und wollte nichts von der geringsten Vertrautheit wissen. Der Garten war kühl und einsam. Ich ging umher und fragte mich, wie glücklich ich wohl sein würde, wenn ich jemals mit diesem lieben Wunder verlobt wäre. Was Heirat, Vermögen und all das anging, glaube ich, dass ich damals fast genauso ahnungslos war wie damals, als ich die kleine Em'ly geliebt habe. Sie "Dora" nennen zu dürfen, ihr zu schreiben, sie anzuhimmeln und zu verehren, zu wissen, dass sie, wenn sie bei anderen Menschen war, dennoch an mich dachte, schien mir der Gipfel menschlicher Ambition zu sein - ich bin sicher, es war der Gipfel meiner eigenen. Es besteht kein Zweifel, dass ich ein schwärmerischer, dusseliger junger Mann war; aber in all dem war eine Reinheit des Herzens, die verhindert, dass ich mich vollkommen verächtlich daran erinnere, egal wie sehr ich lache. Ich war noch nicht lange unterwegs, als ich um eine Ecke bog und ihr begegnete. Ich kribbelte wieder vom Kopf bis zu den Füßen, als meine Erinnerung um diese Ecke biegt und mein Stift in meiner Hand zittert. "Sie - sind - früh unterwegs, Miss Spenlow", sagte ich. "Es ist so langweilig zu Hause", antwortete sie, "und Miss Murdstone ist so absurd! Sie redet solchen Unsinn davon, dass es notwendig ist, den Tag vor meiner Abreise auszulüften. Auslüften!" (Sie lachte hier auf die melodischste Weise.) "An einem Sonntagmorgen, wenn ich nicht übe, muss ich etwas tun. Also sagte ich gestern Abend zu Papa, dass ich rausgehen müsse. Außerdem ist es die hellste Zeit des ganzen Tages. Findest du nicht auch?" Ich wagte einen kühnen Versuch und sagte (ohne zu stottern), dass es mir gerade sehr hell erschien, obwohl es mir gerade eine Minute zuvor sehr dunkel gewesen war. "Meinst du ein Kompliment?", fragte Dora, "oder hat sich das Er war tödlich eifersüchtig auf mich und bellte immer wieder auf mich. Sie nahm ihn in ihre Arme - oh mein Gott - und streichelte ihn, aber er bellte immer noch. Er ließ mich nicht an ihn herankommen, als ich es versuchte, und dann schlug sie ihn. Es quälte mich sehr, zu sehen, wie sie ihm Schläge auf die kurze Nase gab, während er mit den Augen zwinkerte, ihre Hand leckte und immer noch wie ein kleines Kontrabass grummelte. Schließlich war er ruhig - na klar, mit ihrem Grübchenkinn auf seinem Kopf! - und wir gingen weg, um uns ein Gewächshaus anzusehen. "Bist du nicht sehr vertraut mit Miss Murdstone?", sagte Dora. - "Mein Liebling." (Die beiden letzten Worte galten dem Hund. Oh, wenn sie nur mir galten!) "Nein", antwortete ich. "Gar nicht." "Sie ist eine nervige Kreatur", sagte Dora trotzig. "Ich verstehe nicht, was Papa sich dabei gedacht hat, als er sich eine so nervige Begleitung aussuchte. Wer braucht einen Beschützer? Ich brauche keinen Beschützer. Jip kann mich viel besser beschützen als Miss Murdstone, oder?", liebes Jip?" Er zwinkerte nur träge, als sie ihm auf den ballförmigen Kopf küsste. "Papa nennt sie meine vertraute Freundin, aber ich bin sicher, dass sie nichts dergleichen ist, oder, Jip? Wir werden uns nicht in solche Menschen vertrauen, Jip und ich. Wir werden unser Vertrauen dorthin setzen, wo wir wollen, und unsere eigenen Freunde finden, anstatt dass sie für uns gefunden werden, oder, Jip?" Jip machte ein bequemes Geräusch, als Antwort, ein wenig wie ein Teekessel, wenn er singt. Für mich war jedes Wort ein neuer Haufen Fesseln, der über die vorherigen genietet wurde. "Es ist sehr hart, dass wir anstelle einer liebevollen Mama so eine mürrische, düstere alte Person wie Miss Murdstone haben, die uns ständig verfolgt, oder?", fragte Dora. "Aber Jip und ich werden uns nicht darum kümmern. Wir werden uns so glücklich machen, wie wir können, trotz ihr, und sie nerven und ihr nicht gefallen, oder, Jip?" Wenn es noch länger gedauert hätte, glaube ich, dass ich auf den Kies knien müsste, mit der Wahrscheinlichkeit, sie zu zerkratzen, und dass ich bald von dem Anwesen gewiesen würde. Aber durch Glück war das Gewächshaus nicht weit entfernt, und diese Worte brachten uns dorthin. Es enthielt eine schöne Auswahl an Geranien. Wir schlenderten vor ihnen entlang, und Dora hielt oft an, um diese oder jene zu bewundern, und ich hielt an, um die gleiche anzuschauen, und Dora, lachend, hielt den Hund kindlich hoch, damit er an den Blumen schnuppern konnte. Wenn wir nicht alle drei im Feenland waren, dann weiß ich nicht. Der Duft eines Geranienblattes bringt mich heute noch zum Staunen, halb komisch, halb ernst, über die Veränderungen, die mit mir in dem Moment geschehen sind. Und dann sehe ich einen Strohhut mit blauen Bändern, eine Menge Locken und einen kleinen schwarzen Hund, der mit zwei schlanken Armen vor einer Bank voller Blüten und heller Blätter hochgehalten wird. Miss Murdstone hatte nach uns gesucht. Sie fand uns hier und präsentierte Dora ihre unsympathische Wange, die kleinen Falten waren mit Haarpuder gefüllt, um von Dora geküsst zu werden. Dann nahm sie Dora bei Arm und marschierte mit uns zum Frühstück, als wäre es ein Soldatenbegräbnis. Ich weiß nicht, wie viele Tassen Tee ich trank, weil Dora ihn zubereitete. Aber ich erinnere mich perfekt daran, dass ich Tee trank, bis mein ganzes Nervensystem, wenn ich damals überhaupt eines gehabt hätte, zusammenbrach. Schließlich gingen wir zur Kirche. Miss Murdstone saß zwischen Dora und mir in der Kirchenbank, aber ich hörte sie singen, und die Gemeinde verschwand. Es wurde eine Predigt gehalten - natürlich über Dora - und ich fürchte, das ist alles, was ich von dem Gottesdienst weiß. Wir hatten einen ruhigen Tag. Keine Gäste, ein Spaziergang, ein Familienessen zu viert und ein Abend, an dem wir Bücher und Bilder durchsahen. Miss Murdstone mit einer Moralpredigt vor sich und ihr Blick auf uns gerichtet. Oh! Mr. Spenlow konnte sich nicht vorstellen, als er nach dem Abendessen an meinem Tisch saß, sein Taschentuch über den Kopf legte, wie innig ich ihn in meiner Phantasie umarmte, als sein Schwiegersohn! Mr. Spenlow konnte nicht ahnen, als ich mich von ihm verabschiedete, dass er gerade seine volle Zustimmung zu meiner Verlobung mit Dora gegeben hatte und dass ich Segen über seinen Kopf heraufbeschwor! Wir fuhren früh am Morgen ab, denn ein Fall von Schiffsbergung stand im Admiralitätsgericht an, der ein ziemlich genaues Wissen über die ganze Wissenschaft der Navigation erforderte. Da wir in den Commons nicht viel Ahnung von solchen Dingen hatten, hatte der Richter zwei alte Trinitätsmeister aus Nächstenliebe gebeten, zu kommen und ihm zu helfen. Dora war jedoch wieder am Frühstückstisch, um den Tee zuzubereiten, und ich hatte das melancholische Vergnügen, ihr meinen Hut im Phaeton zu ziehen, als sie auf der Türschwelle mit Jip in den Armen stand. Was die Admiralität an diesem Tag für mich war, welchen Unsinn ich mir über unseren Fall in meinem Kopf ausmalte, während ich zuhörte, wie kann ich das beschreiben? Wie ich "DORA" auf der Klinge des silbernen Paddels, das sie auf den Tisch legten, als Symbol für diese hohe Zuständigkeit, eingraviert sah, und wie ich mich fühlte, als Mr. Spenlow ohne mich nach Hause ging (ich hatte eine verrückte Hoffnung, er könnte mich zurücknehmen), als wäre ich selbst ein Seemann und das Schiff, zu dem ich gehörte, wäre davongesegelt und hätte mich auf einer einsamen Insel zurückgelassen. Ich werde mich nicht vergeblich darum bemühen, es zu beschreiben. Wenn dieser verschlafene alte Gerichtshof sich aufrüsten und meine Tagträume über Dora in irgendeiner sichtbaren Form präsentieren könnte, würde es meine Wahrheit offenbaren. Ich meine nicht nur die Träume, die ich allein an diesem Tag geträumt habe, sondern Tag für Tag, von Woche zu Woche und von Semester zu Semester. Ich ging dorthin, nicht um auf das zu achten, was vor sich ging, sondern um über Dora nachzudenken. Wenn ich überhaupt ein Gedanke auf die Fälle richtete, während sie langsam an mir vorbeizogen, dann war es nur, um mich zu wundern, in den Ehesachen (in Erinnerung an Dora), wie es möglich war, dass verheiratete Menschen jemals unglücklich sein konnten, und in den Prärogativsachen, zu überlegen, was ich mit dem Geld getan hätte, wenn es an mich übertragen worden wäre. In der ersten Woche meiner Leidenschaft kaufte ich vier prächtige Westen - nicht für mich selbst, ich hatte keinen Stolz darauf; für Dora - und begann, strohgelbe Handschuhe auf der Straße zu tragen und legte damit den Grundstein für all die Hühneraugen, die ich je hatte. Wenn die Stiefel, die ich damals trug, produziert und mit der tatsächlichen Größe meiner Füße verglichen werden könnten, würde deutlich werden, wie mein Herzzustand auf berührende Weise war. Und doch, elendiger Krüppel, wie ich mich auch als Lehrbuch für Dora gemacht habe, bin ich täglich viele Meilen gelaufen, in der Hoffnung, sie zu sehen. Ich war nicht nur auf der Norwood Road so bekannt wie die Briefträger auf dieser Route, sondern ich durchstreifte auch London. Ich lief durch die Straßen, wo die besten Geschäfte für Damen waren, verfolgte den Bazar wie ein unruhiger Geist, spazierte immer wieder durch den Park, auch lange nachdem ich völlig aufgegeben hatte. Manchmal, in langen Abständen und zu seltenen Anlässen, sah ich sie Frau Crupp muss eine Frau von Durchblick gewesen sein; denn als diese Beziehung erst wenige Wochen alt war und ich nicht den Mut hatte, Agnes sogar genauere Details zu schreiben, als dass ich im Haus von Herrn Spenlow gewesen war, "dessen Familie", fügte ich hinzu, "aus einer Tochter besteht"; - sage ich, Frau Crupp muss eine Frau von Durchblick gewesen sein, denn selbst in diesem frühen Stadium fand sie es heraus. An einem Abend, als es mir sehr schlecht ging, kam sie zu mir und fragte (da sie zu dieser Zeit an der von mir erwähnten Krankheit litt), ob ich ihr mit ein wenig Tinktur aus Kardamom gemischt mit Rhabarber und verfeinert mit sieben Tropfen Nelkenessenz behilflich sein könnte, was das beste Heilmittel für ihr Leiden war; - oder, falls ich so etwas nicht hätte, mit ein wenig Brandy, was das nächstbeste war. Es schmeckte ihr zwar nicht so gut, wie sie bemerkte, aber es war das nächstbeste. Da ich noch nie von dem ersten Heilmittel gehört hatte und immer das zweite im Schrank hatte, gab ich Frau Crupp ein Glas von letzterem, das (damit ich keinen Verdacht schöpfen könnte, dass es für unangemessene Zwecke bestimmt war) sie in meiner Anwesenheit zu nehmen begann. "Halt durch, Sir", sagte Frau Crupp. "Ich kann nicht ertragen, Sie so zu sehen, Sir: Ich bin selbst eine Mutter." Ich erkannte nicht ganz den Bezug dieser Tatsache auf mich, aber ich lächelte Frau Crupp so wohlwollend an, wie ich konnte. "Kommen Sie, Sir", sagte Frau Crupp. "Entschuldigen Sie. Ich weiß, was los ist, Sir. Es ist eine Dame im Spiel." "Frau Crupp?" erwiderte ich, errötend. "Oh, Gott segne Sie! Halten Sie durch, Sir!" sagte Frau Crupp und nickte ermutigend. "Sagen Sie niemals nie, Sir! Wenn Sie kein Lächeln von Ihr bekommen, gibt es viele andere, die es tun werden. Sie sind ein junger Herr, der angelächelt werden sollte, Mr. Copperfull, und Sie müssen Ihren Wert kennen, Sir." Frau Crupp nannte mich immer Mr. Copperfull: Erstens, zweifellos, weil das nicht mein Name war; und zweitens, neige ich dazu zu denken, in irgendeiner undeutlichen Assoziation mit einem Waschtag. "Was lässt Sie vermuten, dass sich eine junge Dame in der Geschichte befindet, Frau Crupp?", sagte ich. "Mr. Copperfull", sagte Frau Crupp mit viel Gefühl, "ich bin selbst eine Mutter." Eine Zeit lang konnte Frau Crupp nur ihre Hand auf ihre Nankeen-Brust legen und sich mit Schlücken ihres Medikaments gegen zurückkehrende Schmerzen stärken. Schließlich sprach sie wieder. "Als die aktuelle Gruppe für Sie von Ihrer liebevollen Tante ausgewählt wurde, Mr. Copperfull", sagte Frau Crupp, "war mein Kommentar, dass ich nun jemanden gefunden hatte, um mich zu kümmern. 'Dank dem Himmel!', war der Ausdruck, 'Ich habe nun jemanden gefunden, um mich zu kümmern!' - Sie essen nicht genug, Sir, und trinken auch nicht genug." "Ist das, worauf Sie Ihre Vermutungen stützen, Frau Crupp?", sagte ich. "Herr", sagte Frau Crupp in einem Ton, der der Strenge nahe kam, "ich habe auch schon andere junge Herren gewaschen. Ein junger Herr kann zu sehr auf sich selbst achten oder zu wenig auf sich selbst. Er kann seine Haare zu regelmäßig oder zu unregelmäßig bürsten. Er kann seine Stiefel viel zu groß oder viel zu klein tragen. Das kommt darauf an, wie der junge Herr seinen ursprünglichen Charakter entwickelt hat. Aber egal in welche Extreme er geht, Herr, es gibt in beidem einen jungen Dame." Frau Crupp schüttelte so entschlossen den Kopf, dass mir kein Vorteil mehr blieb. "Es war nur der Herr, der hier vor Ihnen verstorben ist", sagte Frau Crupp, "der sich verliebte - in eine Bardame - und seine Westen sofort enger machen ließ, obwohl sie durch Trinken stark geschwollen waren." "Frau Crupp", sagte ich, "ich bitte Sie, die junge Dame in meinem Fall nicht mit einer Bardame oder ähnlichem zu verbinden, wenn Sie bitte." "Herr Copperfull", erwiderte Frau Crupp, "ich bin selbst eine Mutter und nicht wahrscheinlich. Ich bitte um Verzeihung, Sir, falls ich eindringe. Ich möchte mich nie aufdrängen, wo ich nicht willkommen bin. Aber Sie sind ein junger Herr, Mr. Copperfull, und mein Rat an Sie ist, aufzumuntern, Sir, ein gutes Herz zu haben und Ihren eigenen Wert zu erkennen. Wenn Sie sich einer Sache widmen würden, Sir", sagte Frau Crupp, "wenn Sie sich zum Beispiel dem Kegeln widmen würden, was gesund ist, könnten Sie feststellen, dass es Ihren Geist ablenkt und Ihnen guttut." Mit diesen Worten, indem sie vorgab, sehr vorsichtig mit dem Brandy umzugehen - das war bereits alle -, bedankte sich Frau Crupp mit einer majestätischen Verbeugung bei mir und zog sich zurück. Als ihre Gestalt im Dunkel des Eingangs verschwand, erschien mir dieser Rat zweifellos als eine leichte Anmaßung seitens Frau Crupp; aber gleichzeitig war ich bereit, ihn aus einer anderen Perspektive als einen Rat an den Klugen und eine Warnung für die Zukunft anzunehmen, mein Geheimnis besser zu bewahren. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Ich befinde mich in Gefangenschaft. Mr. Spenlow, Davids Vorgesetzter bei den Doctors' Commons, lädt David für das Wochenende zu sich nach Hause ein. Dort trifft David auf Dora, Mr. Spenlows Tochter, und verliebt sich in sie. David begegnet auch Miss Murdstone, die Mr. Spenlow als Begleiterin für seine Tochter eingestellt hat, seit ihre Mutter gestorben ist. Miss Murdstone zieht David beiseite und schlägt vor, ihre schwierige Vergangenheit miteinander zu vergessen. David stimmt zu. Eines Morgens trifft er Dora im Garten, wo sie mit ihrem kleinen Hund spazieren geht. Sie führen ein Gespräch, das David's romantische Obsession für sie verstärkt. Als David nach Hause zurückkehrt, vermutet Mrs. Crupp sofort, dass er sich verliebt hat. Sie rät ihm, aufzumuntern und sich abzulenken.

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 2. Venice. A street [Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.] LAUNCELOT. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot' or 'good Gobbo' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, honest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the fiend. 'For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son'--or rather 'an honest woman's son';--for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;--well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' say I, (you counsel well.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well.' To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark! is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence! is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run. [Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket] GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him. GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. GOBBO. Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELOT. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. LAUNCELOT. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. GOBBO. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. LAUNCELOT. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,--according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning,--is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray you tell me, is my boy--God rest his soul!--alive or dead? LAUNCELOT. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but in the end truth will out. GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. LAUNCELOT. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELOT. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail. LAUNCELOT. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him. GOBBO. Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now? LAUNCELOT. Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come; give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! Here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. [Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with and other Followers.] BASSANIO. You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging. [Exit a SERVANT] LAUNCELOT. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy-- LAUNCELOT. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir,--as my father shall specify-- GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve-- LAUNCELOT. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify-- GOBBO. His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins-- LAUNCELOT. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me,--as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you-- GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship; and my suit is-- LAUNCELOT. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you? LAUNCELOT. Serve you, sir. GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. LAUNCELOT. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. BASSANIO. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows'; see it done. LAUNCELOT. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to; here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing; a'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. [Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO.] BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this: These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go. LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein. [Enter GRATIANO.] GRATIANO. Where's your master? LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks. [Exit.] GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio!-- BASSANIO. Gratiano! GRATIANO. I have suit to you. BASSANIO. You have obtain'd it. GRATIANO. You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont. BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano; Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice; Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconstrued in the place I go to, And lose my hopes. GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me: If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say 'amen'; Use all the observance of civility, Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing. GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night. BASSANIO. No, that were pity; I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well; I have some business. GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Lancelot Gobbo, Shylocks Diener, steht vor Shylocks Haus und führt ein sehr ernstes und urkomisches Selbstgespräch darüber, dass er seinen Job aufgeben möchte. Er sagt, sein Gewissen sage ihm, dass er Shylock aus Treue treu bleiben solle, aber irgendein Teufel in seinem Kopf sage ihm, er solle weglaufen. Er argumentiert schief: Da sein Gewissen ihm sagt, dass er beim Teufel in Menschengestalt bleiben solle, sei es klar, dass er weglaufen solle, egal wie es mit der Treue aussieht. Gerade jetzt taucht der alte Gobbo auf - Lancelots Vater, der größtenteils blind ist - und sucht nach seinem Sohn. Er erkennt nicht, dass er tatsächlich mit ihm spricht. Lancelot beschließt, ein wenig Spaß mit seinem Vater zu haben, bevor er seine Identität enthüllt. Er neckt den alten Mann damit, dass er von "Master" Lancelot sprechen solle, nicht nur von Lancelot. Der alte Gobbo weist schnell darauf hin, dass der junge Gobbo kein Master Lancelot ist, sondern einfach nur Lancelot, der Sohn eines armen Mannes. Lancelot macht weiterhin Späße mit dem armen alten blinden Mann und erzählt ihm den "lustigen" Witz, dass sein Sohn tot sei. Schließlich enthüllt Lancelot, dass er der Sohn des alten Gobbo ist, und es gibt viel Aufregung darüber, wie sehr er gewachsen ist. Der alte Gobbo hat Shylock ein Geschenk mitgebracht, und Lancelot schlägt vor, dass sein Vater das Geschenk stattdessen Bassanio gibt, da Bassanio Lancelots neuer auserwählter Herr ist. Das Dienen bei Shylock hat ihn in einen solchen Zustand gebracht, dass man jedes seiner Rippen zählen kann. Bassanio tritt in die Szene ein und hört einen verwirrenden Versuch sowohl von Lancelot als auch von seinem Vater, den jüngeren Mann bei Bassanio zu beschäftigen. Bassanio beendet alle Idiotie, indem er verkündet, dass Shylock Lancelots Dienst bereits aufgegeben hat, obwohl Lancelot einen reichen Juden verlassen wird, um einem armen Herrn zu dienen. Lancelot besteht darauf, dass er damit einverstanden ist, und Bassanio schickt den alten Gobbo mit dem jungen Gobbo weg, um sich neue schicke Kleidung zu kaufen. Bassanio bleibt dann übrig, um mit dem gerade angekommenen Graziano zu sprechen. Graziano besteht darauf, dass Bassanio ihn mit nach Belmont nehmen muss, wenn er Portia umwirbt. Bassanio ist zögerlich. Graziano verspricht, dass er sich besten Benehmens zeigen wird und nichts tun wird, um Bassanios Chancen bei Portia zu ruinieren. Dann vereinbaren sie, jegliches gutes Verhalten auf morgen zu verschieben, denn heute Abend ist eine Nacht der Feier.

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 ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the unusual noise and disturbance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal Crescent in manner and form already described, after passing a night of great confusion and anxiety, left the roof beneath which his friends still slumbered, bound he knew not whither. The excellent and considerate feelings which prompted Mr. Winkle to take this step can never be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. 'If,' reasoned Mr. Winkle with himself--'if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt he will) to carry into execution his threat of personal violence against myself, it will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife; that wife is attached to, and dependent on him. Heavens! If I should kill him in the blindness of my wrath, what would be my feelings ever afterwards!' This painful consideration operated so powerfully on the feelings of the humane young man, as to cause his knees to knock together, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifestations of inward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he grasped his carpet-bag, and creeping stealthily downstairs, shut the detestable street door with as little noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards the Royal Hotel, he found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol, and, thinking Bristol as good a place for his purpose as any other he could go to, he mounted the box, and reached his place of destination in such time as the pair of horses, who went the whole stage and back again, twice a day or more, could be reasonably supposed to arrive there. He took up his quarters at the Bush, and designing to postpone any communication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that Mr. Dowler's wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth to view the city, which struck him as being a shade more dirty than any place he had ever seen. Having inspected the docks and shipping, and viewed the cathedral, he inquired his way to Clifton, and being directed thither, took the route which was pointed out to him. But as the pavements of Bristol are not the widest or cleanest upon earth, so its streets are not altogether the straightest or least intricate; and Mr. Winkle, being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and twistings, looked about him for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh for counsel and instruction. His eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently converted into something between a shop and a private house, and which a red lamp, projecting over the fanlight of the street door, would have sufficiently announced as the residence of a medical practitioner, even if the word 'Surgery' had not been inscribed in golden characters on a wainscot ground, above the window of what, in times bygone, had been the front parlour. Thinking this an eligible place wherein to make his inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little shop where the gilt- labelled drawers and bottles were; and finding nobody there, knocked with a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of anybody who might happen to be in the back parlour, which he judged to be the innermost and peculiar sanctum of the establishment, from the repetition of the word surgery on the door--painted in white letters this time, by way of taking off the monotony. At the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons, which had until now been very audible, suddenly ceased; at the second, a studious-looking young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large book in his hand, glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the counter, requested to know the visitor's pleasure. 'I am sorry to trouble you, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle, 'but will you have the goodness to direct me to--' 'Ha! ha! ha!' roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large book up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very moment when it threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the counter. 'Here's a start!' There was, without doubt; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished at the extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he involuntarily retreated towards the door, and looked very much disturbed at his strange reception. 'What, don't you know me?' said the medical gentleman. Mr. Winkle murmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure. 'Why, then,' said the medical gentleman, 'there are hopes for me yet; I may attend half the old women in Bristol, if I've decent luck. Get out, you mouldy old villain, get out!' With this adjuration, which was addressed to the large book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume with remarkable agility to the farther end of the shop, and, pulling off his green spectacles, grinned the identical grin of Robert Sawyer, Esquire, formerly of Guy's Hospital in the Borough, with a private residence in Lant Street. 'You don't mean to say you weren't down upon me?' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, shaking Mr. Winkle's hand with friendly warmth. 'Upon my word I was not,' replied Mr. Winkle, returning his pressure. 'I wonder you didn't see the name,' said Bob Sawyer, calling his friend's attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint, were traced the words 'Sawyer, late Nockemorf.' 'It never caught my eye,' returned Mr. Winkle. 'Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught you in my arms,' said Bob Sawyer; 'but upon my life, I thought you were the King's-taxes.' 'No!' said Mr. Winkle. 'I did, indeed,' responded Bob Sawyer, 'and I was just going to say that I wasn't at home, but if you'd leave a message I'd be sure to give it to myself; for he don't know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I think the Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works does, because I drew a tooth of his when I first came down here. But come in, come in!' Chattering in this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr. Winkle into the back room, where, amusing himself by boring little circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, sat no less a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen. 'Well!' said Mr. Winkle. 'This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. What a very nice place you have here!' 'Pretty well, pretty well,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I _passed_, soon after that precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this business; so I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles, and came here to look as solemn as I could.' 'And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?' said Mr. Winkle knowingly. 'Very,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'So snug, that at the end of a few years you might put all the profits in a wine-glass, and cover 'em over with a gooseberry leaf.' You cannot surely mean that?' said Mr. Winkle. 'The stock itself--' Dummies, my dear boy,' said Bob Sawyer; 'half the drawers have nothing in 'em, and the other half don't open.' 'Nonsense!' said Mr. Winkle. 'Fact--honour!' returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. 'Hardly anything real in the shop but the leeches, and _they _are second-hand.' 'I shouldn't have thought it!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised. 'I hope not,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'else where's the use of appearances, eh? But what will you take? Do as we do? That's right. Ben, my fine fellow, put your hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent digester.' Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at his elbow a black bottle half full of brandy. 'You don't take water, of course?' said Bob Sawyer. 'Thank you,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'It's rather early. I should like to qualify it, if you have no objection.' 'None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,' replied Bob Sawyer, tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great relish. 'Ben, the pipkin!' Mr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass pipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly because it looked so business-like. The water in the professional pipkin having been made to boil, in course of time, by various little shovelfuls of coal, which Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable window-seat, labelled 'Soda Water,' Mr. Winkle adulterated his brandy; and the conversation was becoming general, when it was interrupted by the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober gray livery and a gold- laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm, whom Mr. Bob Sawyer immediately hailed with, 'Tom, you vagabond, come here.' The boy presented himself accordingly. 'You've been stopping to "over" all the posts in Bristol, you idle young scamp!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'No, sir, I haven't,' replied the boy. 'You had better not!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect. 'Who do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see his boy playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the horse-road? Have you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did you leave all the medicine?' Yes, Sir.' 'The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family, and the pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old gentleman's with the gouty leg?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Then shut the door, and mind the shop.' 'Come,' said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, 'things are not quite so bad as you would have me believe, either. There is _some _medicine to be sent out.' Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone-- 'He leaves it all at the wrong houses.' Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed. 'Don't you see?' said Bob. 'He goes up to a house, rings the area bell, pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant's hand, and walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens it, and reads the label: "Draught to be taken at bedtime--pills as before--lotion as usual--the powder. From Sawyer's, late Nockemorf's. Physicians' prescriptions carefully prepared," and all the rest of it. Shows it to his wife--she reads the label; it goes down to the servants- -_they_ read the label. Next day, boy calls: "Very sorry--his mistake-- immense business--great many parcels to deliver--Mr. Sawyer's compliments--late Nockemorf." The name gets known, and that's the thing, my boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it's better than all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle that's been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn't done yet.' 'Dear me, I see,' observed Mr. Winkle; 'what an excellent plan!' 'Oh, Ben and I have hit upon a dozen such,' replied Bob Sawyer, with great glee. 'The lamplighter has eighteenpence a week to pull the night- bell for ten minutes every time he comes round; and my boy always rushes into the church just before the psalms, when the people have got nothing to do but look about 'em, and calls me out, with horror and dismay depicted on his countenance. "Bless my soul," everybody says, "somebody taken suddenly ill! Sawyer, late Nockemorf, sent for. What a business that young man has!"' At the termination of this disclosure of some of the mysteries of medicine, Mr. Bob Sawyer and his friend, Ben Allen, threw themselves back in their respective chairs, and laughed boisterously. When they had enjoyed the joke to their heart's content, the discourse changed to topics in which Mr. Winkle was more immediately interested. We think we have hinted elsewhere, that Mr. Benjamin Allen had a way of becoming sentimental after brandy. The case is not a peculiar one, as we ourself can testify, having, on a few occasions, had to deal with patients who have been afflicted in a similar manner. At this precise period of his existence, Mr. Benjamin Allen had perhaps a greater predisposition to maudlinism than he had ever known before; the cause of which malady was briefly this. He had been staying nearly three weeks with Mr. Bob Sawyer; Mr. Bob Sawyer was not remarkable for temperance, nor was Mr. Benjamin Allen for the ownership of a very strong head; the consequence was that, during the whole space of time just mentioned, Mr. Benjamin Allen had been wavering between intoxication partial, and intoxication complete. 'My dear friend,' said Mr. Ben Allen, taking advantage of Mr. Bob Sawyer's temporary absence behind the counter, whither he had retired to dispense some of the second-hand leeches, previously referred to; 'my dear friend, I am very miserable.' Mr. Winkle professed his heartfelt regret to hear it, and begged to know whether he could do anything to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering student. 'Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,' said Ben. 'You recollect Arabella, Winkle? My sister Arabella--a little girl, Winkle, with black eyes--when we were down at Wardle's? I don't know whether you happened to notice her--a nice little girl, Winkle. Perhaps my features may recall her countenance to your recollection?' Mr. Winkle required nothing to recall the charming Arabella to his mind; and it was rather fortunate he did not, for the features of her brother Benjamin would unquestionably have proved but an indifferent refresher to his memory. He answered, with as much calmness as he could assume, that he perfectly remembered the young lady referred to, and sincerely trusted she was in good health. 'Our friend Bob is a delightful fellow, Winkle,' was the only reply of Mr. Ben Allen. 'Very,' said Mr. Winkle, not much relishing this close connection of the two names. 'I designed 'em for each other; they were made for each other, sent into the world for each other, born for each other, Winkle,' said Mr. Ben Allen, setting down his glass with emphasis. 'There's a special destiny in the matter, my dear sir; there's only five years' difference between 'em, and both their birthdays are in August.' Mr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow to express much wonderment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was; so Mr. Ben Allen, after a tear or two, went on to say that, notwithstanding all his esteem and respect and veneration for his friend, Arabella had unaccountably and undutifully evinced the most determined antipathy to his person. 'And I think,' said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion. 'I think there's a prior attachment.' 'Have you any idea who the object of it might be?' asked Mr. Winkle, with great trepidation. Mr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlike manner above his head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by saying, in a very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess; that was all. 'I'd show him what I thought of him,' said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went the poker again, more fiercely than before. All this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle, who remained silent for a few minutes; but at length mustered up resolution to inquire whether Miss Allen was in Kent. 'No, no,' said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very cunning; 'I didn't think Wardle's exactly the place for a headstrong girl; so, as I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being dead, I have brought her down into this part of the country to spend a few months at an old aunt's, in a nice, dull, close place. I think that will cure her, my boy. If it doesn't, I'll take her abroad for a little while, and see what that'll do.' 'Oh, the aunt's is in Bristol, is it?' faltered Mr. Winkle. 'No, no, not in Bristol,' replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over his right shoulder; 'over that way--down there. But, hush, here's Bob. Not a word, my dear friend, not a word.' Short as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest degree of excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled in his heart. Could he be the object of it? Could it be for him that the fair Arabella had looked scornfully on the sprightly Bob Sawyer, or had he a successful rival? He determined to see her, cost what it might; but here an insurmountable objection presented itself, for whether the explanatory 'over that way,' and 'down there,' of Mr. Ben Allen, meant three miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could in no wise guess. But he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob Sawyer's return was the immediate precursor of the arrival of a meat-pie from the baker's, of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to partake. The cloth was laid by an occasional charwoman, who officiated in the capacity of Mr. Bob Sawyer's housekeeper; and a third knife and fork having been borrowed from the mother of the boy in the gray livery (for Mr. Sawyer's domestic arrangements were as yet conducted on a limited scale), they sat down to dinner; the beer being served up, as Mr. Sawyer remarked, 'in its native pewter.' After dinner, Mr. Bob Sawyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop, and proceeded to brew a reeking jorum of rum-punch therein, stirring up and amalgamating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and apothecary-like manner. Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one tumbler in the house, which was assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment to the visitor, Mr. Ben Allen being accommodated with a funnel with a cork in the narrow end, and Bob Sawyer contented himself with one of those wide-lipped crystal vessels inscribed with a variety of cabalistic characters, in which chemists are wont to measure out their liquid drugs in compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries adjusted, the punch was tasted, and pronounced excellent; and it having been arranged that Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill twice to Mr. Winkle's once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and good-fellowship. There was no singing, because Mr. Bob Sawyer said it wouldn't look professional; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much talking and laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was, at the end of the street. Which conversation materially lightened the hours and improved the mind of Mr. Bob Sawyer's boy, who, instead of devoting the evening to his ordinary occupation of writing his name on the counter, and rubbing it out again, peeped through the glass door, and thus listened and looked on at the same time. The mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious, Mr. Ben Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had well-nigh disappeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in, announced that a young woman had just come over, to say that Sawyer late Nockemorf was wanted directly, a couple of streets off. This broke up the party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, understanding the message, after some twenty repetitions, tied a wet cloth round his head to sober himself, and, having partially succeeded, put on his green spectacles and issued forth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, and finding it quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible conversation on the subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other, Mr. Winkle took his departure, and returned to the Bush. The anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella had awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that effect upon him which it would have had under other circumstances. So, after taking a glass of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into the coffee-room, dispirited rather than elevated by the occurrences of the evening. Sitting in front of the fire, with his back towards him, was a tallish gentleman in a greatcoat: the only other occupant of the room. It was rather a cool evening for the season of the year, and the gentleman drew his chair aside to afford the new-comer a sight of the fire. What were Mr. Winkle's feelings when, in doing so, he disclosed to view the face and figure of the vindictive and sanguinary Dowler! Mr. Winkle's first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest bell-handle, but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind Mr. Dowler's head. He had made one step towards it, before he checked himself. As he did so, Mr. Dowler very hastily drew back. 'Mr. Winkle, Sir. Be calm. Don't strike me. I won't bear it. A blow! Never!' said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winkle had expected in a gentleman of his ferocity. 'A blow, Sir?' stammered Mr. Winkle. 'A blow, Sir,' replied Dowler. 'Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear me.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, 'before I consent to sit down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I must be secured by some further understanding. You used a threat against me last night, Sir, a dreadful threat, Sir.' Here Mr. Winkle turned very pale indeed, and stopped short. 'I did,' said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr. Winkle's. 'Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained. I respect your bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence. There's my hand. Grasp it.' 'Really, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or not, and almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be taken at an advantage, 'really, Sir, I--' 'I know what you mean,' interposed Dowler. 'You feel aggrieved. Very natural. So should I. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. Be friendly. Forgive me.' With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle, and shaking it with the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of extreme spirit, and he had a higher opinion of him than ever. 'Now,' said Dowler, 'sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? When did you follow? Be frank. Tell me.' 'It's quite accidental,' replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the curious and unexpected nature of the interview. 'Quite.' 'Glad of it,' said Dowler. 'I woke this morning. I had forgotten my threat. I laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I said so.' 'To whom?' inquired Mr. Winkle. 'To Mrs. Dowler. "You made a vow," said she. "I did," said I. "It was a rash one," said she. "It was," said I. "I'll apologise. Where is he?"' 'Who?' inquired Mr. Winkle. 'You,' replied Dowler. 'I went downstairs. You were not to be found. Pickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be committed. I saw it all. You felt yourself insulted. You had gone, for a friend perhaps. Possibly for pistols. "High spirit," said I. "I admire him."' Mr. Winkle coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a look of importance. 'I left a note for you,' resumed Dowler. 'I said I was sorry. So I was. Pressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed. You required a verbal explanation. You were right. It's all over now. My business is finished. I go back to-morrow. Join me.' As Dowler progressed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle's countenance grew more and more dignified. The mysterious nature of the commencement of their conversation was explained; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection to duelling as himself; in short, this blustering and awful personage was one of the most egregious cowards in existence, and interpreting Mr. Winkle's absence through the medium of his own fears, had taken the same step as himself, and prudently retired until all excitement of feeling should have subsided. As the real state of the case dawned upon Mr. Winkle's mind, he looked very terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied; but at the same time, said so with an air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to infer that if he had not been, something most horrible and destructive must inevitably have occurred. Mr. Dowler appeared to be impressed with a becoming sense of Mr. Winkle's magnanimity and condescension; and the two belligerents parted for the night, with many protestations of eternal friendship. About half-past twelve o'clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some twenty minutes in the full luxury of his first sleep, he was suddenly awakened by a loud knocking at his chamber door, which, being repeated with increased vehemence, caused him to start up in bed, and inquire who was there, and what the matter was. 'Please, Sir, here's a young man which says he must see you directly,' responded the voice of the chambermaid. 'A young man!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle. 'No mistake about that 'ere, Sir,' replied another voice through the keyhole; 'and if that wery same interestin' young creetur ain't let in vithout delay, it's wery possible as his legs vill enter afore his countenance.' The young man gave a gentle kick at one of the lower panels of the door, after he had given utterance to this hint, as if to add force and point to the remark. 'Is that you, Sam?' inquired Mr. Winkle, springing out of bed. 'Quite unpossible to identify any gen'l'm'n vith any degree o' mental satisfaction, vithout lookin' at him, Sir,' replied the voice dogmatically. Mr. Winkle, not much doubting who the young man was, unlocked the door; which he had no sooner done than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great precipitation, and carefully relocking it on the inside, deliberately put the key in his waistcoat pocket; and, after surveying Mr. Winkle from head to foot, said-- 'You're a wery humorous young gen'l'm'n, you air, Sir!' 'What do you mean by this conduct, Sam?' inquired Mr. Winkle indignantly. 'Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, Sir?' 'What do I mean,' retorted Sam; 'come, Sir, this is rayther too rich, as the young lady said when she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter he'd sold her a pork pie as had got nothin' but fat inside. What do I mean! Well, that ain't a bad 'un, that ain't.' 'Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle. 'I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the wery same moment as you leaves it,' responded Sam, speaking in a forcible manner, and seating himself with perfect gravity. 'If I find it necessary to carry you away, pick-a-back, o' course I shall leave it the least bit o' time possible afore you; but allow me to express a hope as you won't reduce me to extremities; in saying wich, I merely quote wot the nobleman said to the fractious pennywinkle, ven he vouldn't come out of his shell by means of a pin, and he conseqvently began to be afeered that he should be obliged to crack him in the parlour door.' At the end of this address, which was unusually lengthy for him, Mr. Weller planted his hands on his knees, and looked full in Mr. Winkle's face, with an expression of countenance which showed that he had not the remotest intention of being trifled with. 'You're a amiably-disposed young man, Sir, I don't think,' resumed Mr. Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, 'to go inwolving our precious governor in all sorts o' fanteegs, wen he's made up his mind to go through everythink for principle. You're far worse nor Dodson, Sir; and as for Fogg, I consider him a born angel to you!' Mr. Weller having accompanied this last sentiment with an emphatic slap on each knee, folded his arms with a look of great disgust, and threw himself back in his chair, as if awaiting the criminal's defence. 'My good fellow,' said Mr. Winkle, extending his hand--his teeth chattering all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the whole of Mr. Weller's lecture, in his night-gear--'my good fellow, I respect your attachment to my excellent friend, and I am very sorry indeed to have added to his causes for disquiet. There, Sam, there!' 'Well,' said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffered hand a respectful shake at the same time--'well, so you ought to be, and I am very glad to find you air; for, if I can help it, I won't have him put upon by nobody, and that's all about it.' 'Certainly not, Sam,' said Mr. Winkle. 'There! Now go to bed, Sam, and we'll talk further about this in the morning.' 'I'm wery sorry,' said Sam, 'but I can't go to bed.' 'Not go to bed!' repeated Mr. Winkle. 'No,' said Sam, shaking his head. 'Can't be done.' 'You don't mean to say you're going back to-night, Sam?' urged Mr. Winkle, greatly surprised. 'Not unless you particklerly wish it,' replied Sam; 'but I mustn't leave this here room. The governor's orders wos peremptory.' 'Nonsense, Sam,' said Mr. Winkle, 'I must stop here two or three days; and more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, to assist me in gaining an interview with a young lady--Miss Allen, Sam; you remember her--whom I must and will see before I leave Bristol.' But in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great firmness, and energetically replied, 'It can't be done.' After a great deal of argument and representation on the part of Mr. Winkle, however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the interview with Dowler, Sam began to waver; and at length a compromise was effected, of which the following were the main and principal conditions:-- That Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed possession of his apartment, on the condition that he had permission to lock the door on the outside, and carry off the key; provided always, that in the event of an alarm of fire, or other dangerous contingency, the door should be instantly unlocked. That a letter should be written to Mr. Pickwick early next morning, and forwarded per Dowler, requesting his consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle's remaining at Bristol, for the purpose and with the object already assigned, and begging an answer by the next coach--, if favourable, the aforesaid parties to remain accordingly, and if not, to return to Bath immediately on the receipt thereof. And, lastly, that Mr. Winkle should be understood as distinctly pledging himself not to resort to the window, fireplace, or other surreptitious mode of escape in the meanwhile. These stipulations having been concluded, Sam locked the door and departed. He had nearly got downstairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his pocket. 'I quite forgot about the knockin' down,' said Sam, half turning back. 'The governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin' stupid o' me, that 'ere! Never mind,' said Sam, brightening up, 'it's easily done to- morrow, anyvays.' Apparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more deposited the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the stairs without any fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common with the other inmates of the house, buried in profound repose. During the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight, fully determined not to take his eyes off him for one instant, until he should receive express instructions from the fountain-head. However disagreeable Sam's very close watch and great vigilance were to Mr. Winkle, he thought it better to bear with them, than, by any act of violent opposition, to hazard being carried away by force, which Mr. Weller more than once strongly hinted was the line of conduct that a strict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little reason to doubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by bearing Mr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick's prompt attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver, forestalled any such proceeding. In short, at eight o'clock in the evening, Mr. Pickwick himself walked into the coffee-room of the Bush Tavern, and told Sam with a smile, to his very great relief, that he had done quite right, and it was unnecessary for him to mount guard any longer. 'I thought it better to come myself,' said Mr. Pickwick, addressing Mr. Winkle, as Sam disencumbered him of his great-coat and travelling-shawl, 'to ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam's employment in this matter, that you are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this young lady.' 'Serious, from my heart--from my soul!' returned Mr. Winkle, with great energy. 'Remember,' said Mr. Pickwick, with beaming eyes, 'we met her at our excellent and hospitable friend's, Winkle. It would be an ill return to tamper lightly, and without due consideration, with this young lady's affections. I'll not allow that, sir. I'll not allow it.' 'I have no such intention, indeed,' exclaimed Mr. Winkle warmly. 'I have considered the matter well, for a long time, and I feel that my happiness is bound up in her.' 'That's wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,' interposed Mr. Weller, with an agreeable smile. Mr. Winkle looked somewhat stern at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick angrily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best feelings of our nature; to which Sam replied, 'That he wouldn't, if he was aware on it; but there were so many on 'em, that he hardly know'd which was the best ones wen he heerd 'em mentioned.' Mr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben Allen, relative to Arabella; stated that his object was to gain an interview with the young lady, and make a formal disclosure of his passion; and declared his conviction, founded on certain dark hints and mutterings of the aforesaid Ben, that, wherever she was at present immured, it was somewhere near the Downs. And this was his whole stock of knowledge or suspicion on the subject. With this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr. Weller should start next morning on an expedition of discovery; it was also arranged that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident of their powers, should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop in upon Mr. Bob Sawyer in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the young lady's whereabouts. Accordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in no way daunted by the very discouraging prospect before him; and away he walked, up one street and down another--we were going to say, up one hill and down another, only it's all uphill at Clifton--without meeting with anything or anybody that tended to throw the faintest light on the matter in hand. Many were the colloquies into which Sam entered with grooms who were airing horses on roads, and nursemaids who were airing children in lanes; but nothing could Sam elicit from either the first- mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference to the object of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many young ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were shrewdly suspected by the male and female domestics to be deeply attached to somebody, or perfectly ready to become so, if opportunity afforded. But as none among these young ladies was Miss Arabella Allen, the information left Sam at exactly the old point of wisdom at which he had stood before. Sam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering whether it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in that part of the country, and came to a shady by-place, about which were sprinkled several little villas of quiet and secluded appearance. Outside a stable door at the bottom of a long back lane without a thoroughfare, a groom in undress was idling about, apparently persuading himself that he was doing something with a spade and a wheel-barrow. We may remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a groom near a stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less extent, the victim of this singular delusion. Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else, especially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large stone just opposite the wheel-barrow; so he strolled down the lane, and, seating himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and freedom for which he was remarkable. 'Mornin', old friend,' said Sam. 'Arternoon, you mean,' replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam. 'You're wery right, old friend,' said Sam; 'I _do_ mean arternoon. How are you?' 'Why, I don't find myself much the better for seeing of you,' replied the ill-tempered groom. 'That's wery odd--that is,' said Sam, 'for you look so uncommon cheerful, and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun's heart good to see you.' The surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so to produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a countenance of great anxiety, whether his master's name was not Walker. 'No, it ain't,' said the groom. 'Nor Brown, I s'pose?' said Sam. 'No, it ain't.' 'Nor Vilson?' 'No; nor that either,' said the groom. 'Vell,' replied Sam, 'then I'm mistaken, and he hasn't got the honour o' my acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don't wait here out o' compliment to me,' said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and prepared to shut the gate. 'Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I'll excuse you.' 'I'd knock your head off for half-a-crown,' said the surly groom, bolting one half of the gate. 'Couldn't afford to have it done on those terms,' rejoined Sam. 'It 'ud be worth a life's board wages at least, to you, and 'ud be cheap at that. Make my compliments indoors. Tell 'em not to vait dinner for me, and say they needn't mind puttin' any by, for it'll be cold afore I come in.' In reply to this, the groom waxing very wroth, muttered a desire to damage somebody's person; but disappeared without carrying it into execution, slamming the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding Sam's affectionate request, that he would leave him a lock of his hair before he went. Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to be done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors within five miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty or two hundred a day, and endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of a sudden threw in his way what he might have sat there for a twelvemonth and yet not found without it. Into the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden gates, belonging to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were only separated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with trees, the houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the dust-heap outside the next gate to that by which the groom had disappeared, profoundly turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present undertaking, when the gate opened, and a female servant came out into the lane to shake some bedside carpets. Sam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would have taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of gallantry had not been most strongly roused by observing that she had no one to help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. Mr. Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry in his own way, and he no sooner remarked this circumstance than he hastily rose from the large stone, and advanced towards her. 'My dear,' said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, 'you'll spile that wery pretty figure out o' all perportion if you shake them carpets by yourself. Let me help you.' The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentleman was so near, turned round as Sam spoke--no doubt (indeed she said so, afterwards) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger--when instead of speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was scarcely less staggered, for in the countenance of the well-shaped female servant, he beheld the very features of his valentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr. Nupkins's. 'Wy, Mary, my dear!' said Sam. 'Lauk, Mr. Weller,' said Mary, 'how you do frighten one!' Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say what reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, 'Lor, do adun, Mr. Weller!' and that his hat had fallen off a few moments before--from both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one kiss, or more, had passed between the parties. 'Why, how did you come here?' said Mary, when the conversation to which this interruption had been offered, was resumed. 'O' course I came to look arter you, my darlin',' replied Mr. Weller; for once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity. 'And how did you know I was here?' inquired Mary. 'Who could have told you that I took another service at Ipswich, and that they afterwards moved all the way here? Who _could _have told you that, Mr. Weller?' 'Ah, to be sure,' said Sam, with a cunning look, 'that's the pint. Who could ha' told me?' 'It wasn't Mr. Muzzle, was it?' inquired Mary. 'Oh, no.' replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, 'it warn't him.' 'It must have been the cook,' said Mary. 'O' course it must,' said Sam. 'Well, I never heard the like of that!' exclaimed Mary. 'No more did I,' said Sam. 'But Mary, my dear'--here Sam's manner grew extremely affectionate--'Mary, my dear, I've got another affair in hand as is wery pressin'. There's one o' my governor's friends--Mr. Winkle, you remember him?' 'Him in the green coat?' said Mary. 'Oh, yes, I remember him.' 'Well,' said Sam, 'he's in a horrid state o' love; reg'larly comfoozled, and done over vith it.' 'Lor!' interposed Mary. 'Yes,' said Sam; 'but that's nothin' if we could find out the young 'ooman;' and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty of Mary, and the unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw her, gave a faithful account of Mr. Winkle's present predicament. 'Well,' said Mary, 'I never did!' 'O' course not,' said Sam, 'and nobody never did, nor never vill neither; and here am I a-walkin' about like the wandering Jew--a sportin' character you have perhaps heerd on Mary, my dear, as vos alvays doin' a match agin' time, and never vent to sleep--looking arter this here Miss Arabella Allen.' 'Miss who?' said Mary, in great astonishment. 'Miss Arabella Allen,' said Sam. 'Goodness gracious!' said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the sulky groom had locked after him. 'Why, it's that very house; she's been living there these six weeks. Their upper house-maid, which is lady's- maid too, told me all about it over the wash-house palin's before the family was out of bed, one mornin'.' 'Wot, the wery next door to you?' said Sam. 'The very next,' replied Mary. Mr. Weller was so deeply overcome on receiving this intelligence that he found it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for support; and divers little love passages had passed between them, before he was sufficiently collected to return to the subject. 'Vell,' said Sam at length, 'if this don't beat cock-fightin' nothin' never vill, as the lord mayor said, ven the chief secretary o' state proposed his missis's health arter dinner. That wery next house! Wy, I've got a message to her as I've been a-trying all day to deliver.' 'Ah,' said Mary, 'but you can't deliver it now, because she only walks in the garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time; she never goes out, without the old lady.' Sam ruminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan of operations; that he should return just at dusk--the time at which Arabella invariably took her walk--and, being admitted by Mary into the garden of the house to which she belonged, would contrive to scramble up the wall, beneath the overhanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which would effectually screen him from observation; would there deliver his message, and arrange, if possible, an interview on behalf of Mr. Winkle for the ensuing evening at the same hour. Having made this arrangement with great despatch, he assisted Mary in the long-deferred occupation of shaking the carpets. It is not half as innocent a thing as it looks, that shaking little pieces of carpet--at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking, but the folding is a very insidious process. So long as the shaking lasts, and the two parties are kept the carpet's length apart, it is as innocent an amusement as can well be devised; but when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets gradually lessened from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to an eighth, and then to a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be long enough, it becomes dangerous. We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces of carpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that as many pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid. Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until it was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare. Having been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having received from that lady sundry admonitions concerning the safety of his limbs and neck, Sam mounted into the pear-tree, to wait until Arabella should come into sight. He waited so long without this anxiously-expected event occurring, that he began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard light footsteps upon the gravel, and immediately afterwards beheld Arabella walking pensively down the garden. As soon as she came nearly below the tree, Sam began, by way of gently indicating his presence, to make sundry diabolical noises similar to those which would probably be natural to a person of middle age who had been afflicted with a combination of inflammatory sore throat, croup, and whooping-cough, from his earliest infancy. Upon this, the young lady cast a hurried glance towards the spot whence the dreadful sounds proceeded; and her previous alarm being not at all diminished when she saw a man among the branches, she would most certainly have decamped, and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately deprived her of the power of moving, and caused her to sink down on a garden seat, which happened by good luck to be near at hand. 'She's a-goin' off,' soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. 'Wot a thing it is, as these here young creeturs will go a-faintin' avay just ven they oughtn't to. Here, young 'ooman, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don't!' Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle's name, or the coolness of the open air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller's voice, that revived Arabella, matters not. She raised her head and languidly inquired, 'Who's that, and what do you want?' 'Hush,' said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in as small a compass as he could reduce himself to, 'only me, miss, only me.' 'Mr. Pickwick's servant!' said Arabella earnestly. 'The wery same, miss,' replied Sam. 'Here's Mr. Vinkle reg'larly sewed up vith desperation, miss.' 'Ah!' said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall. 'Ah, indeed,' said Sam. 'Ve thought ve should ha' been obliged to strait-veskit him last night; he's been a-ravin' all day; and he says if he can't see you afore to-morrow night's over, he vishes he may be somethin' unpleasanted if he don't drownd hisself.' 'Oh, no, no, Mr. Weller!' said Arabella, clasping her hands. 'That's wot he says, miss,' replied Sam coolly. 'He's a man of his word, and it's my opinion he'll do it, miss. He's heerd all about you from the sawbones in barnacles.' 'From my brother!' said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam's description. 'I don't rightly know which is your brother, miss,' replied Sam. 'Is it the dirtiest vun o' the two?' 'Yes, yes, Mr. Weller,' returned Arabella, 'go on. Make haste, pray.' 'Well, miss,' said Sam, 'he's heerd all about it from him; and it's the gov'nor's opinion that if you don't see him wery quick, the sawbones as we've been a-speakin' on, 'ull get as much extra lead in his head as'll rayther damage the dewelopment o' the orgins if they ever put it in spirits artervards.' 'Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels!' exclaimed Arabella. 'It's the suspicion of a priory 'tachment as is the cause of it all,' replied Sam. 'You'd better see him, miss.' 'But how?--where?' cried Arabella. 'I dare not leave the house alone. My brother is so unkind, so unreasonable! I know how strange my talking thus to you may appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy--' and here poor Arabella wept so bitterly that Sam grew chivalrous. 'It may seem wery strange talkin' to me about these here affairs, miss,' said Sam, with great vehemence; 'but all I can say is, that I'm not only ready but villin' to do anythin' as'll make matters agreeable; and if chuckin' either o' them sawboneses out o' winder 'ull do it, I'm the man.' As Sam Weller said this, he tucked up his wristbands, at the imminent hazard of falling off the wall in so doing, to intimate his readiness to set to work immediately. Flattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella resolutely declined (most unaccountably, as Sam thought) to avail herself of them. For some time she strenuously refused to grant Mr. Winkle the interview Sam had so pathetically requested; but at length, when the conversation threatened to be interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of a third party, she hurriedly gave him to understand, with many professions of gratitude, that it was barely possible she might be in the garden an hour later, next evening. Sam understood this perfectly well; and Arabella, bestowing upon him one of her sweetest smiles, tripped gracefully away, leaving Mr. Weller in a state of very great admiration of her charms, both personal and mental. Having descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a few moments to his own particular business in the same department, Mr. Weller then made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his prolonged absence had occasioned much speculation and some alarm. 'We must be careful,' said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to Sam's tale, 'not for our sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must be very cautious.' '_We_!' said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis. Mr. Pickwick's momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark, subsided into his characteristic expression of benevolence, as he replied-- '_We_, Sir! I shall accompany you.' 'You!' said Mr. Winkle. 'I,' replied Mr. Pickwick mildly. 'In affording you this interview, the young lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very imprudent step. If I am present at the meeting--a mutual friend, who is old enough to be the father of both parties--the voice of calumny can never be raised against her hereafter.' Mr. Pickwick's eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own foresight, as he spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched by this little trait of his delicate respect for the young _protegee _of his friend, and took his hand with a feeling of regard, akin to veneration. 'You _SHALL _ go,' said Mr. Winkle. 'I will,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Sam, have my greatcoat and shawl ready, and order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening, rather earlier than is absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good time.' Mr. Weller touched his hat, as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew to make all needful preparations for the expedition. The coach was punctual to the time appointed; and Mr. Weller, after duly installing Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box by the driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of a mile from the place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await their return, proceeded the remaining distance on foot. It was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many smiles and various other indications of great self-satisfaction, produced from one of his coat pockets a dark lantern, with which he had specially provided himself for the occasion, and the great mechanical beauty of which he proceeded to explain to Mr. Winkle, as they walked along, to the no small surprise of the few stragglers they met. 'I should have been the better for something of this kind, in my last garden expedition, at night; eh, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking good- humouredly round at his follower, who was trudging behind. 'Wery nice things, if they're managed properly, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'but wen you don't want to be seen, I think they're more useful arter the candle's gone out, than wen it's alight.' Mr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam's remarks, for he put the lantern into his pocket again, and they walked on in silence. 'Down here, Sir,' said Sam. 'Let me lead the way. This is the lane, Sir.' Down the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought out the lantern, once or twice, as they groped their way along, and threw a very brilliant little tunnel of light before them, about a foot in diameter. It was very pretty to look at, but seemed to have the effect of rendering surrounding objects rather darker than before. At length they arrived at the large stone. Here Sam recommended his master and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred, and ascertained whether Mary was yet in waiting. After an absence of five or ten minutes, Sam returned to say that the gate was opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here everybody said, 'Hush!' a good many times; and that being done, no one seemed to have any very distinct apprehension of what was to be done next. 'Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Mary?' inquired Mr. Winkle, much agitated. 'I don't know, sir,' replied the pretty housemaid. 'The best thing to be done, sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree, and perhaps Mr. Pickwick will have the goodness to see that nobody comes up the lane, while I watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness gracious, what's that?' 'That 'ere blessed lantern 'ull be the death on us all,' exclaimed Sam peevishly. 'Take care wot you're a-doin' on, sir; you're a-sendin' a blaze o' light, right into the back parlour winder.' 'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, 'I didn't mean to do that.' 'Now, it's in the next house, sir,' remonstrated Sam. 'Bless my heart!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again. 'Now, it's in the stable, and they'll think the place is afire,' said Sam. 'Shut it up, sir, can't you?' 'It's the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with, in all my life!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, greatly bewildered by the effects he had so unintentionally produced. 'I never saw such a powerful reflector.' 'It'll be vun too powerful for us, if you keep blazin' avay in that manner, sir,' replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful efforts, managed to close the slide. 'There's the young lady's footsteps. Now, Mr. Winkle, sir, up vith you.' 'Stop, stop!' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I must speak to her first. Help me up, Sam.' 'Gently, Sir,' said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making a platform of his back. 'Step atop o' that 'ere flower-pot, Sir. Now then, up vith you.' 'I'm afraid I shall hurt you, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Never mind me, Sir,' replied Sam. 'Lend him a hand, Mr. Winkle, sir. Steady, sir, steady! That's the time o' day!' As Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, by exertions almost supernatural in a gentleman of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam's back; and Sam gently raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the top of the wall, while Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they contrived by these means to bring his spectacles just above the level of the coping. 'My dear,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight of Arabella, on the other side, 'don't be frightened, my dear, it's only me.' 'Oh, pray go away, Mr. Pickwick,' said Arabella. 'Tell them all to go away. I am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear Mr. Pickwick, don't stop there. You'll fall down and kill yourself, I know you will.' 'Now, pray don't alarm yourself, my dear,' said Mr. Pickwick soothingly. 'There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking down. 'All right, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Don't be longer than you can conweniently help, sir. You're rayther heavy.' 'Only another moment, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'I merely wished you to know, my dear, that I should not have allowed my young friend to see you in this clandestine way, if the situation in which you are placed had left him any alternative; and, lest the impropriety of this step should cause you any uneasiness, my love, it may be a satisfaction to you, to know that I am present. That's all, my dear.' 'Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness and consideration,' replied Arabella, drying her tears with her handkerchief. She would probably have said much more, had not Mr. Pickwick's head disappeared with great swiftness, in consequence of a false step on Sam's shoulder which brought him suddenly to the ground. He was up again in an instant however; and bidding Mr. Winkle make haste and get the interview over, ran out into the lane to keep watch, with all the courage and ardour of youth. Mr. Winkle himself, inspired by the occasion, was on the wall in a moment, merely pausing to request Sam to be careful of his master. 'I'll take care on him, sir,' replied Sam. 'Leave him to me.' 'Where is he? What's he doing, Sam?' inquired Mr. Winkle. 'Bless his old gaiters,' rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden door. 'He's a-keepin' guard in the lane vith that 'ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy Fawkes! I never see such a fine creetur in my days. Blessed if I don't think his heart must ha' been born five-and-twenty year arter his body, at least!' Mr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had dropped from the wall; thrown himself at Arabella's feet; and by this time was pleading the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy even of Mr. Pickwick himself. While these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman of scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses off, writing a philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his clay and his labours with a glass of claret from a venerable-looking bottle which stood by his side. In the agonies of composition, the elderly gentleman looked sometimes at the carpet, sometimes at the ceiling, and sometimes at the wall; and when neither carpet, ceiling, nor wall afforded the requisite degree of inspiration, he looked out of the window. In one of these pauses of invention, the scientific gentleman was gazing abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much surprised by observing a most brilliant light glide through the air, at a short distance above the ground, and almost instantaneously vanish. After a short time the phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but several times; at last the scientific gentleman, laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural causes these appearances were to be assigned. They were not meteors; they were too low. They were not glow-worms; they were too high. They were not will-o'-the-wisps; they were not fireflies; they were not fireworks. What could they be? Some extraordinary and wonderful phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen before; something which it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he should immortalise his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized his pen again, and committed to paper sundry notes of these unparalleled appearances, with the date, day, hour, minute, and precise second at which they were visible: all of which were to form the data of a voluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, which should astonish all the atmospherical wiseacres that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised globe. He threw himself back in his easy-chair, wrapped in contemplations of his future greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly than before, dancing, to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing from side to side, and moving in an orbit as eccentric as comets themselves. The scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and astonish, so he rang the bell for his servant. 'Pruffle,' said the scientific gentleman, 'there is something very extraordinary in the air to-night? Did you see that?' said the scientific gentleman, pointing out of the window, as the light again became visible. 'Yes, I did, Sir.' 'What do you think of it, Pruffle?' 'Think of it, Sir?' 'Yes. You have been bred up in this country. What should you say was the cause for those lights, now?' The scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle's reply that he could assign no cause for them at all. Pruffle meditated. 'I should say it was thieves, Sir,' said Pruffle at length. 'You're a fool, and may go downstairs,' said the scientific gentleman. 'Thank you, Sir,' said Pruffle. And down he went. But the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the ingenious treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must inevitably be the case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle were not stifled in its birth. He put on his hat and walked quickly down the garden, determined to investigate the matter to the very bottom. Now, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden, Mr. Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a false alarm that somebody was coming that way; occasionally drawing back the slide of the dark lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm was no sooner given, than Mr. Winkle scrambled back over the wall, and Arabella ran into the house; the garden gate was shut, and the three adventurers were making the best of their way down the lane, when they were startled by the scientific gentleman unlocking his garden gate. 'Hold hard,' whispered Sam, who was, of course, the first of the party. 'Show a light for just vun second, Sir.' Mr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam, seeing a man's head peeping out very cautiously within half a yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap with his clenched fist, which knocked it, with a hollow sound, against the gate. Having performed this feat with great suddenness and dexterity, Mr. Weller caught Mr. Pickwick up on his back, and followed Mr. Winkle down the lane at a pace which, considering the burden he carried, was perfectly astonishing. 'Have you got your vind back agin, Sir,' inquired Sam, when they had reached the end. 'Quite. Quite, now,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Then come along, Sir,' said Sam, setting his master on his feet again. 'Come betveen us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you're vinnin' a cup, sir. Now for it.' Thus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs. It may be confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the ground in better style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable occasion. The coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and the driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush before Mr. Pickwick had recovered his breath. 'In with you at once, sir,' said Sam, as he helped his master out. 'Don't stop a second in the street, arter that 'ere exercise. Beg your pardon, sir,' continued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended, 'hope there warn't a priory 'tachment, sir?' Mr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand, and whispered in his ear, 'It's all right, Sam; quite right.' Upon which Mr. Weller struck three distinct blows upon his nose in token of intelligence, smiled, winked, and proceeded to put the steps up, with a countenance expressive of lively satisfaction. As to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated, in a masterly treatise, that these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity; and clearly proved the same by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes when he put his head out of the gate, and how he received a shock which stunned him for a quarter of an hour afterwards; which demonstration delighted all the scientific associations beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light of science ever afterwards. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In Bristol sucht Winkle nach Wegbeschreibungen und geht in einen Arztladen, wo er Bob Sawyer und Ben Allen trifft. Sawyer erzählt Winkle, welche Tricks er verwendet, um Geschäfte zu machen, obwohl er keine Waren und nur wenige Patienten hat. Bei einem Branntwein erzählt Ben Allen Winkle, dass Arabella in der Gegend ist, wo sie vor einem unbekannten Freier versteckt wurde. Ben möchte, dass seine Schwester Bob Sawyer heiratet. Die Nachricht beunruhigt Winkle, der Arabella liebt. Winkle kehrt ins Hotel zurück, wo er auf Dowler trifft, der Angst hat, dass Winkle ihm nach Bristol gefolgt ist, um sich zu rächen. Winkle ist ebenfalls verängstigt, aber als er realisiert, was passiert ist, sammelt er seinen Mut und vergibt Dowler großmütig. In dieser Nacht wird Winkle von Sam Weller geweckt, der ihn wütend beschuldigt, Mr. Pickwicks Sorgen zu verstärken. Winkle ist demütig, bittet aber um Erlaubnis, bis er Arabella sehen kann, bleiben zu dürfen. Am nächsten Morgen schickt Sam eine Nachricht an Mr. Pickwick, um ihm die Situation mitzuteilen, nachdem er Winkle für die Nacht eingesperrt hat. Mr. Pickwick kommt in Bristol an, um herauszufinden, ob Winkles Absichten bezüglich Arabella ehrenhaft sind. Winkle erklärt leidenschaftlich, dass sie das sind, also schickt Mr. Pickwick Sam los, um Arabella zu finden. Nach stundenlanger vergeblicher Suche findet Sam zufällig seine Freundin Mary. Es folgt viel Küssen, und Mary erzählt Sam, dass Arabella nebenan wohnt. Sam sieht Arabella und erzählt ihr von Winkles leidenschaftlicher Liebe zu ihr. Nach einigem Zögern sagt sie Sam, dass Winkle sie am nächsten Abend sehen kann. Mit Mr. Pickwick als Aufpasser und Sam als Führer hat Winkle ein Treffen mit Arabella, bei dem er erfährt, dass sie ihn liebt. Mr. Pickwick trägt eine starke Laterne, deren Licht die Aufmerksamkeit eines Wissenschaftlers auf sich zieht, der eine Arbeit über das "atmosphärische" Phänomen verfasst.

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 II. SCENE I. Rome. BRUTUS'S orchard. [Enter Brutus.] BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho!-- I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.--Lucius, I say!-- I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.-- When, Lucius, when! Awake, I say! What, Lucius! [Enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. Call'd you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. [Exit.] BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and, for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd: How that might change his nature, there's the question: It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; And that craves wary walking. Crown him?--that: And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th' abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But, when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend: so Caesar may; Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will bear no color for the thing he is, Fashion it thus,--that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which hatch'd, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell. [Re-enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint I found This paper thus seal'd up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. [Exit.] BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.-- [Opens the letter and reads.] "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress--! Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!--" Such instigations have been often dropp'd Where I have took them up. "Shall Rome, & c." Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.-- "Speak, strike, redress!"--Am I entreated, then, To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! [Re-enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. [Knocking within.] BRUTUS. 'Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.-- [Exit Lucius.] Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. [Re-enter Lucius]. LUCIUS. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are more with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck'd about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favor. BRUTUS. Let 'em enter.-- [Exit Lucius.] They are the faction.--O conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou pass, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. [Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius. CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honors you; and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome.-- What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? [BRUTUS and CASSIUS whisper apart.] DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth, and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceived. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath: if not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse-- If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests, and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt: but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th' insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him! for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men's voices to commend our deeds: It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not! let us not break with him; For he will never follow any thing That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urged.--I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all: which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar; And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds; And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide 'em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I do fear him; For in th' ingrafted love he bears to Caesar-- BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself,--take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [Clock strikes.] BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. 'Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom'd terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers May hold him from the Capitol to-day. DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray'd with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers: But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humor the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost? CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey: I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon 's. We'll leave you, Brutus;-- And, friends, disperse yourselves, but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy: And so, good morrow to you every one.-- [Exeunt all but Brutus.] Boy! Lucius!--Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. [Enter Portia.] PORTIA. Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk'd about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And, when I ask'd you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks: I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head, And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot: Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not; But, with an angry wafture of your hand, Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did; Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem'd too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And, could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail'd on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick? and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offense within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charge you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men to-night Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation,-- To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honorable wife; As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife: I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father'd and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife! [Knocking within.] Hark, hark, one knocks: Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart: All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. [Exit Portia.] --Lucius, who's that knocks? [Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius.] LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.-- Boy, stand aside.--Caius Ligarius,--how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. Bei allen Göttern, vor denen sich die Römer verneigen, verwerfe ich hiermit meine Krankheit. Seele Roms! Tapferer Sohn, geboren aus ehrenhaften Lenden! Du hast, wie ein Beschwörer, meinen verwesenden Geist heraufbeschworen. Sage mir nun, ich soll rennen, und ich werde mich mit unmöglichen Dingen anstrengen; Ja, ich werde sie besiegen. Was ist zu tun? BRUTUS. Eine Aufgabe, die kranke Menschen heil machen wird. LIGARIUS. Aber müssen nicht auch einige geheilt werden, die gesund sind? BRUTUS. Das müssen wir auch. Was es ist, mein Caius, werde ich dir auf dem Weg enthüllen, an wen es getan werden muss. LIGARIUS. Setze deinen Fuß auf; Und mit einem neugefeuerten Herzen folge ich dir, um etwas zu tun, von dem ich nicht weiß, was es ist: aber es genügt, dass Brutus mich führt. BRUTUS. Folge mir dann. [Abgang.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Brutus sinniert spät in der Nacht über die Verschwörung in seinem Garten nach. Er ist zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass Julius Caesar sterben muss. Brutus kann Caesars Tod nicht durch persönliche Taten Caesars rechtfertigen; Caesar muss gehen, zum Wohle der Öffentlichkeit. Brutus argumentiert, dass Caesar zwar jetzt nicht böse ist, sich aber durch eine Krone sein Charakter ändern würde. Brutus gibt zu, dass er keinerlei Beweise dafür hat, dass Ehrgeiz Caesar verändern würde, aber er glaubt, dass es nicht wert ist, das Risiko einzugehen. Brutus entscheidet daher, dass sofort gehandelt werden muss, denn Caesar ist wie ein Schlangenei - gefährlich, sobald es schlüpft. Während Brutus all dies bedenkt, schickt er seinen Diener Lucius, um eine Kerze in seinem Zimmer anzuzünden. Lucius kommt mit einem Brief zurück, den er gefunden hat. Der Brief besagt, dass Brutus seine eigene edle Natur erkennen und etwas tun sollte, bevor Rom der Tyrannei eines Monarchen verfällt. Brutus ist beeindruckt und verspricht, dass er, um Roms willen, nicht versagen wird. Lucius bestätigt dann, dass morgen tatsächlich die Iden des März sind. Nach dieser kleinen Vorahnung für das Publikum gibt Brutus zu, dass er seit Cassius die Angst vor Tyrannei in seinen Kopf gepflanzt hat, jede Nacht wach gehalten wurde. Die Gruppe der Verschwörer erscheint dann vor Brutus' Tür, um ihn für ihre Sache zu gewinnen. Sie sind alle verkleidet und sehen verdächtig aus. Cassius stellt alle Verschwörer vor, und Brutus sagt, dass sie in seinem Haus willkommen sind. Während Cassius mit Brutus beiseite tritt, um zu plaudern, diskutieren die anderen genau, wo die Sonne am Horizont aufgehen wird. Brutus tritt vor und bittet darum, dass jeder die Hände für die römische Version von Kumbaya über ihren Mordplan reicht. Cassius denkt, dass er will, dass alle einen Schwur für ihre Sache ablegen, aber Brutus lehnt diese Idee vehement ab. Sie sind Römer, und Römer schwören nicht - sie halten einfach ihr Wort, selbst wenn dieses Wort Mord ist. Dann haben sie alle eine kleine Debatte darüber, ob sie auch Cicero töten sollen, aber es wird entschieden, dass er niemals ein Follower sein würde und nicht eingeladen werden sollte, dem Team Secret Conspiracy beizutreten. Es ist wichtig anzumerken, dass die Minderheit der Verschwörer leicht in die eine oder andere Richtung beeinflusst werden kann, ob Cicero gefragt werden sollte, sich anzuschließen - zunächst denken sie, er würde großartig sein, dann behaupten sie, er sei völlig ungeeignet. Sie lassen sich leicht überzeugen. Cassius schlägt dann vor, dass sie auch Antony töten sollten. Brutus ist anderer Meinung und denkt, dass das übertrieben wäre. Er spricht darüber, wie sie Caesar edel ermorden sollten, ihn wie ein Gericht für die Götter aufschneiden sollten, nicht wie eine "Kadaver, der für Hunde geeignet ist". Die Verschwörer sollten den Mord als einen Akt des Opfers für den Staat betrachten und nicht als Blutbad. Brutus ist auch der Meinung, dass Antony, weil er wie Caesars Arm ist, nachdem sie Caesar getötet haben, machtlos sein wird. Ein Arm ohne Kopf kann nichts tun, und Brutus ist sich sicher, dass sie von Caesars Freund nichts zu befürchten haben. Trebonius, ein weiterer Handlanger der Verschwörung, schlägt vor, dass Antony traurig über den Mord sein wird, aber schließlich über die ganze Sache lachen wird...was uns ein wenig über Trebonius' emotionale Intelligenz nachdenken lässt. Die Uhr schlägt 3, und sie beschließen, sich zu trennen. Bevor sie es tun, weist Cassius darauf hin, dass Caesar in letzter Zeit vorsichtig war aufgrund der vielen schlechten Vorzeichen. Cassius macht sich weiter Sorgen, dass Caesars Propheten ihn überzeugen könnten, einen Krankheitstag vom Kapitol einzulegen. Decius beruhigt alle und sagt, dass er morgen bei Caesar auftauchen wird, um sicherzustellen, dass Caesar ins Kapitol geht. Er kann Caesar leicht mit märchenhaften Interpretationen dessen, was Caesar beunruhigt, beeinflussen. Tatsächlich werden alle bei Caesar zusammenkommen, um sicherzustellen, dass er für den Mord ins Kapitol kommt. Es ist eine Teamarbeit. Cassius fordert sie auf, "gute Römer" zu sein und ihr Wort zu halten. Brutus sagt ihnen, dass sie nicht wie verdächtige Mörder aussehen sollen. Genial! Nachdem alle Brutus verlassen haben, erscheint seine Frau Portia, die er im Bett gelassen hat, um ein wenig mit ihrem Ehemann zu plaudern. Neulich hat Brutus ihr böse angesehen und sie abgewiesen, als sie über das gesprochen hat, was ihn bekümmert. Portia bittet ihn, ihr zu sagen, was ihn so unglücklich macht. Brutus behauptet, er sei nur ein wenig krank, und Portia sagt, dass nächtliches Umhergehen sicherlich nicht die beste Heilung ist. Sie weist darauf hin, dass es eine Krankheit des Geistes sein muss, die ihn quält. Genial! Sie sagt, sie habe ein Recht zu wissen, wer die vermummten Männer waren, die gerade mitten in der Nacht in ihrem Haus waren. Portia behauptet, dass sie mehr tut, als nur Brutus zu dienen, und sie bittet ihn, sich ihr als geliebte Ehefrau anzuvertrauen, anstatt sie wie eine gehaltene Frau zu ignorieren. Obwohl sie weiß, dass sie eine Frau ist, ist sie seine Frau und die Tochter des edlen Cato, und sie kann ein Geheimnis bewahren, egal was es ist. Brutus bittet dann die Götter, ihn einer solch edlen Frau würdig zu machen. Gerade dann klopft es an der Tür. Brutus schickt Portia zurück ins Bett und verspricht, ihr später alles zu erzählen. Caius Ligarius, ein Typ, den einer der Verschwörer auf das Team holen wollte, ist gekommen. Obwohl er krank ist, sagt er, dass er nach der Mordplanung voller Geist ist. Die beiden gehen spazieren und unterhalten sich über den Mord, der im Gange 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: ACT I (SCENE.--_A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not extravagantly. At the back, a door to the right leads to the entrance-hall, another to the left leads to Helmer's study. Between the doors stands a piano. In the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and beyond it a window. Near the window are a round table, armchairs and a small sofa. In the right-hand wall, at the farther end, another door; and on the same side, nearer the footlights, a stove, two easy chairs and a rocking-chair; between the stove and the door, a small table. Engravings on the wall; a cabinet with china and other small objects; a small book-case with well-bound books. The floors are carpeted, and a fire burns in the stove. It is winter._ _A bell rings in the hall; shortly afterwards the door is heard to open. Enter_ NORA, _humming a tune and in high spirits. She is in out-door dress and carries a number of parcels; these she lays on the table to the right. She leaves the outer door open after her, and through it is seen a_ PORTER _who is carrying a Christmas Tree and a basket, which he gives to the_ MAID _who has opened the door_.) _Nora_. Hide the Christmas Tree carefully, Helen. Be sure the children do not see it till this evening, when it is dressed. (_To the_ PORTER, _taking out her purse_.) How much? _Porter_. Sixpence. _Nora_. There is a shilling. No, keep the change. (_The_ PORTER _thanks her, and goes out_. NORA _shuts the door. She is laughing to herself, as she takes off her hat and coat. She takes a packet of macaroons from her pocket and eats one or two; then goes cautiously to her husband's door and listens_.) Yes, he is in. (_Still humming, she goes to the table on the right_.) _Helmer_ (_calls out from his room_). Is that my little lark twittering out there? _Nora_ (_busy opening some of the parcels_). Yes, it is! _Helmer_. Is it my little squirrel bustling about? _Nora_. Yes! _Helmer_. When did my squirrel come home? _Nora_. Just now. (_Puts the bag of macaroons into her pocket and wipes her mouth_.) Come in here, Torvald, and see what I have bought. _Helmer_. Don't disturb me. (_A little later, he opens the door and looks into the room, pen in hand_.) Bought, did you say? All these things? Has my little spendthrift been wasting money again? _Nora_. Yes, but, Torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go a little. This is the first Christmas that we have not needed to economize. _Helmer_. Still, you know, we can't spend money recklessly. _Nora_. Yes, Torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now, mayn't we? Just a tiny wee bit! You are going to have a big salary and earn lots and lots of money. _Helmer_. Yes, after the New Year; but then it will be a whole quarter before the salary is due. _Nora_. Pooh! we can borrow till then. _Helmer_. Nora! (_Goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear_.) The same little featherhead! Suppose, now, that I borrowed fifty pounds today, and you spent it all in the Christmas week, and then on New Year's Eve a slate fell on my head and killed me, and-- _Nora_ (_putting her hands over his mouth_). Oh! don't say such horrid things. _Helmer_. Still, suppose that happened,--what then? _Nora_. If that were to happen, I don't suppose I should care whether I owed money or not. _Helmer_. Yes, but what about the people who had lent it? _Nora_. They? Who would bother about them? I should not know who they were. _Helmer_. That is like a woman! But seriously, Nora, you know what I think about that. No debt, no borrowing. There can be no freedom or beauty about a home life that depends on borrowing and debt. We two have kept bravely on the straight road so far, and we will go on the same way for the short time longer that there need be any struggle. _Nora_ (_moving towards the stove_). As you please, Torvald. _Helmer_ (_following her_). Come, come, my little skylark must not droop her wings. What is this! Is my little squirrel out of temper? (_Taking out his purse_.) Nora, what do you think I have got here? _Nora_ (_turning round quickly_). Money! _Helmer_. There you are. (_Gives her some money_.) Do you think I don't know what a lot is wanted for housekeeping at Christmas-time? _Nora_ (_counting_). Ten shillings--a pound--two pounds! Thank you, thank you, Torvald; that will keep me going for a long time. _Helmer_. Indeed it must. _Nora_. Yes, yes, it will. But come here and let me show you what I have bought. And ah so cheap! Look, here is a new suit for Ivar, and a sword; and a horse and a trumpet for Bob; and a doll and dolly's bedstead for Emmy.--they are very plain, but anyway she will soon break them in pieces. And here are dress-lengths and handkerchiefs for the maids; old Anne ought really to have something better. _Helmer_. And what is in this parcel? _Nora_ (_crying out_). No, no! you mustn't see that till this evening. _Helmer_. Very well. But now tell me, you extravagant little person, what would you like for yourself? _Nora_. For myself? Oh, I am sure I don't want anything. _Helmer_. Yes, but you must. Tell me something reasonable that you would particularly like to have. _Nora_. No, I really can't think of anything--unless, Torvald-- _Helmer_. Well? _Nora_ (_playing with his coat buttons, and without raising her eyes to his_). If you really want to give me something, you might--you might-- _Helmer_. Well, out with it! _Nora_ (_speaking quickly_). You might give me money, Torvald. Only just as much as you can afford; and then one of these days I will buy something with it. _Helmer_. But, Nora-- _Nora_. Oh, do! dear Torvald; please, please do! Then I will wrap it up in beautiful gilt paper and hang it on the Christmas Tree. Wouldn't that be fun? _Helmer_. What are little people called that are always wasting money? _Nora_. Spendthrifts--I know. Let us do as you suggest, Torvald, and then I shall have time to think what I am most in want of. That is a very sensible plan, isn't it? _Helmer_ (_smiling_). Indeed it is--that is to say, if you were really to save out of the money I give you, and then really buy something for yourself. But if you spend it all on the housekeeping and any number of unnecessary things, then I merely have to pay up again. _Nora_. Oh but, Torvald-- _Helmer_. You can't deny it, my dear, little Nora. (_Puts his arm round her waist_.) It's a sweet little spendthrift, but she uses up a deal of money. One would hardly believe how expensive such little persons are! _Nora_. It's a shame to say that. I do really save all I can. _Helmer_ (_laughing_). That's very true,--all you can. But you can't save anything! _Nora_ (_smiling quietly and happily_). You haven't any idea how many expenses we skylarks and squirrels have, Torvald. _Helmer_. You are an odd little soul. Very like your father. You always find some new way of wheedling money out of me, and, as soon as you have got it, it seems to melt in your hands. You never know where it has gone. Still, one must take you as you are. It is in the blood; for indeed it is true that you can inherit these things, Nora. _Nora_. Ah, I wish I had inherited many of papa's qualities. _Helmer_. And I would not wish you to be anything but just what you are, my sweet little skylark. But, do you know, it strikes me that you are looking rather--what shall I say--rather uneasy today? _Nora_. Do I? _Helmer_. You do, really. Look straight at me. _Nora_ (_looks at him_). Well? _Helmer_ (_wagging his finger at her_). Hasn't Miss Sweet-Tooth been breaking rules in town today? _Nora_. No; what makes you think that? _Helmer_. Hasn't she paid a visit to the confectioner's? _Nora_. No, I assure you, Torvald-- _Helmer_. Not been nibbling sweets? _Nora_. No, certainly not. _Helmer_. Not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two? _Nora_. No, Torvald, I assure you really-- _Helmer_. There, there, of course I was only joking. _Nora_ (_going to the table on the right_). I should not think of going against your wishes. _Helmer_. No, I am sure of that; besides, you gave me your word--(_Going up to her_.) Keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself, my darling. They will all be revealed tonight when the Christmas Tree is lit, no doubt. _Nora_. Did you remember to invite Doctor Rank? _Helmer_. No. But there is no need; as a matter of course he will come to dinner with us. However, I will ask him when he comes in this morning. I have ordered some good wine. Nora, you can't think how I am looking forward to this evening. _Nora_. So am I! And how the children will enjoy themselves, Torvald! _Helmer_. It is splendid to feel that one has a perfectly safe appointment, and a big enough income. It's delightful to think of, isn't it? _Nora_. It's wonderful! _Helmer_. Do you remember last Christmas? For a full three weeks beforehand you shut yourself up every evening till long after midnight, making ornaments for the Christmas Tree and all the other fine things that were to be a surprise to us. It was the dullest three weeks I ever spent! _Nora_. I didn't find it dull. _Helmer_ (_smiling_). But there was precious little result, Nora. _Nora_. Oh, you shouldn't tease me about that again. How could I help the cat's going in and tearing everything to pieces? _Helmer_. Of course you couldn't, poor little girl. You had the best of intentions to please us all, and that's the main thing. But it is a good thing that our hard times are over. _Nora_. Yes, it is really wonderful. _Helmer_. This time I needn't sit here and be dull all alone, and you needn't ruin your dear eyes and your pretty little hands-- _Nora_ (_clapping her hands_). No, Torvald, I needn't any longer, need I! It's wonderfully lovely to hear you say so! (_Taking his arm_.) Now I will tell you how I have been thinking we ought to arrange things, Torvald. As soon as Christmas is over--(_A bell rings in the hall_.) There's the bell. (_She tidies the room a little_.) There's someone at the door. What a nuisance! _Helmer_. If it is a caller, remember I am not at home. _Maid_ (_in the doorway_). A lady to see you, ma'am,--a stranger. _Nora_. Ask her to come in. _Maid_ (_to_ HELMER). The doctor came at the same time, sir. _Helmer_. Did he go straight into my room? _Maid_. Yes, sir. (HELMER _goes into his room. The_ MAID _ushers in_ MRS. LINDE, _who is in traveling dress, and shuts the door_.) _Mrs Linde_ (_in a dejected and timid voice_). How do you do, Nora? _Nora_ (_doubtfully_). How do you do-- _Mrs. Linde_. You don't recognize me, I suppose. _Nora_ No, I don't know--yes, to be sure, I seem to--(_Suddenly_.) Yes! Christine! Is it really you? _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, it is I. _Nora_. Christine! To think of my not recognising you! And yet how could I--(_In a gentle voice_.) How you have altered, Christine! _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, I have indeed. In nine, ten long years-- _Nora_. Is it so long since we met? I suppose it is. The last eight years have been a happy time for me, I can tell you. And so now you have come into the town, and have taken this long journey in winter--that was plucky of you. _Mrs. Linde_. I arrived by steamer this morning. _Nora_. To have some fun at Christmas-time, of course. How delightful! We will have such fun together! But take off your things. You are not cold, I hope. (_Helps her_.) Now we will sit down by the stove, and be cosy. No, take this arm-chair; I will sit here in the rocking-chair. (_Takes her hands_.) Now you look like your old self again; it was only the first moment--You are a little paler, Christine, and perhaps a little thinner. _Mrs. Linde_. And much, much older, Nora. _Nora_. Perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much. (_Stops suddenly and speaks seriously_.) What a thoughtless creature I am, chattering away like this. My poor, dear Christine, do forgive me. _Mrs. Linde_. What do you mean, Nora? _Nora_ (_gently_). Poor Christine, you are a widow. _Mrs. Linde_. Yes; it is three years ago now. _Nora_. Yes, I knew; I saw it in the papers. I assure you, Christine, I meant ever so often to write to you at the time, but I always put it off and something always prevented me. _Mrs. Linde_. I quite understand, dear. _Nora_. It was very bad of me, Christine. Poor thing, how you must have suffered. And he left you nothing? _Mrs. Linde_. No. _Nora_. And no children? _Mrs. Linde_. No. _Nora_. Nothing at all, then? _Mrs. Linde_. Not even any sorrow or grief to live upon. _Nora_ (_looking incredulously at her_). But, Christine, is that possible? _Mrs. Linde_ (_smiles sadly and strokes her hair_). It sometimes happens, Nora. _Nora_. So you are quite alone. How dreadfully sad that must be. I have three lovely children. You can't see them just now, for they are out with their nurse. But now you must tell me all about it. _Mrs. Linde_. No, no; I want to hear about you. _Nora_. No, you must begin. I mustn't be selfish today; today I must only think of your affairs. But there is one thing I must tell you. Do you know we have just had a great piece of good luck? _Mrs. Linde_. No, what is it? _Nora_. Just fancy, my husband has been made manager of the Bank! _Mrs. Linde_. Your husband? What good luck! _Nora_. Yes tremendous! A barrister's profession is such an uncertain thing, especially if he won't undertake unsavoury cases; and naturally Torvald has never been willing to do that, and I quite agree with him. You may imagine how pleased we are! He is to take up his work in the Bank at the New Year, and then he will have a big salary and lots of commissions. For the future we can live quite differently--we can do just as we like. I feel so relieved and so happy, Christine! It will be splendid to have heaps of money and not need to have any anxiety, won't it? _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, anyhow I think it would be delightful to have what one needs. _Nora_. No, not only what one needs, but heaps and heaps of money. _Mrs. Linde_ (_smiling_). Nora, Nora, haven't you learnt sense yet? In our schooldays you were a great spendthrift. _Nora_ (_laughing_). Yes, that is what Torvald says now. (_Wags her finger at her_.) But "Nora, Nora" is not so silly as you think. We have not been in a position for me to waste money. We have both had to work. _Mrs. Linde_. You too? _Nora_. I got it by borrowing, just as if I were a man. You know my father died and left me nothing but debts. So I went to work secretly and borrowed the money without Torvald's knowledge. I did all sorts of odd jobs, needlework, crochet-work, embroidery, everything I could to earn the money. And I also saved a little bit every month from Torvald's salary. It took me three years, but I managed to pay off the debt. Torvald has no idea about any of this. I did it all for him, to save his life and protect his honor. _Nora_ (_humming and smiling with an air of mystery_). Hm, hu! Aha! _Mrs. Linde_. Because you couldn't have borrowed it. _Nora_. Couldn't I? Why not? _Mrs. Linde_. No, a wife cannot borrow without her husband's consent. _Nora_ (_tossing her head_). Oh, if it is a wife who has any head for business--a wife who has the wit to be a little bit clever-- _Mrs. Linde_. I don't understand it at all, Nora. _Nora_. There is no need you should. I never said I had borrowed the money. I may have got it some other way. (_Lies back on the sofa._) Perhaps I got it from some other admirer. When anyone is as attractive as I am-- _Mrs. Linde_. You are a mad creature. _Nora_. Now, you know you're full of curiosity, Christine. _Mrs. Linde_. Listen to me, Nora dear. Haven't you been a little bit imprudent? _Nora_ (_sits up straight_). Is it imprudent to save your husband's life? _Mrs. Linde_. It seems to me imprudent, without his knowledge, to-- _Nora_. But it was absolutely necessary that he should not know! My goodness, can't you understand that? It was necessary he should have no idea what a dangerous condition he was in. It was to me that the doctors came and said that his life was in danger, and that the only thing to save him was to live in the south. Do you suppose I didn't try, first of all, to get what I wanted as if it were for myself? I told him how much I should love to travel abroad like other young wives; I tried tears and entreaties with him; I told him that he ought to remember the condition I was in, and that he ought to be kind and indulgent to me; I even hinted that he might raise a loan. That nearly made him angry, Christine. He said I was thoughtless, and that it was his duty as my husband not to indulge me in my whims and caprices--as I believe he called them. Very well, I thought, you must be saved--and that was how I came to devise a way out of the difficulty-- _Mrs. Linde_. And did your husband never get to know from your father that the money had not come from him? _Nora_. No, never. Papa died just at that time. I had meant to let him into the secret and beg him never to reveal it. But he was so ill then--alas, there never was any need to tell him. _Mrs. Linde_. And since then have you never told your secret to your husband? _Nora_. Good Heavens, no! How could you think so? A man who has such strong opinions about these things! And besides, how painful and humiliating it would be for Torvald, with his manly independence, to know that he owed me anything! It would upset our mutual relations altogether; our beautiful happy home would no longer be what it is now. _Mrs. Linde_. Do you mean never to tell him about it? _Nora_ (_meditatively, and with a half smile._) Yes--some day, perhaps, after many years, when I am no longer as nice-looking as I am now. Don't laugh at me! I mean, of course, when Torvald is no longer as devoted to me as he is now; when my dancing and dressing-up and reciting have palled on him; then it may be a good thing to have something in reserve--(_Breaking off,_) What nonsense! That time will never come. Now, what do you think of my great secret, Christine? Do you still think I am of no use? I can tell you, too, that this affair has caused me a lot of worry. It has been by no means easy for me to meet my engagements punctually. I may tell you that there is something that is called, in business, quarterly interest, and another thing called payment in instalments, and it is always so dreadfully difficult to manage them. I have had to save a little here and there, where I could, you understand. I have not been able to put aside much from my housekeeping money, for Torvald must have a good table. I couldn't let my children be shabbily dressed; I have felt obliged to use up all he gave me for them, the sweet little darlings! _Mrs. Linde_. So it has all had to come out of your own necessaries of life, poor Nora? _Nora_. Of course. Besides, I was the one responsible for it. Whenever Torvald has given me money for new dresses and such things, I have never spent more than half of it; I have always bought the simplest and cheapest things. Thank Heaven, any clothes look well on me, and so Torvald has never noticed it. But it was often very hard on me, Christine--because it is delightful to be really well dressed, isn't it? _Mrs. Linde_. Quite so. _Nora_. Well, then I have found other ways of earning money. Last winter I was lucky enough to get a lot of copying to do; so I locked myself up and sat writing every evening until quite late at night. Many a time I was desperately tired; but all the same it was a tremendous pleasure to sit there working and earning money. It was like being a man. _Mrs. Linde_. How much have you been able to pay off in that way? _Nora_. I can't tell you exactly. You see, it is very difficult to keep an account of a business matter of that kind. I only know that I have paid every penny that I could scrape together. Many a time I was at my wits' end. (_Smiles._) Then I used to sit here and imagine that a rich old gentleman had fallen in love with me-- _Mrs. Linde_. What! Who was it? _Nora_. Be quiet!--that he had died; and that when his will was opened it contained, written in big letters, the instruction: "The lovely Mrs. Nora Helmer is to have all I possess paid over to her at once in cash." _Mrs. Linde_. But, my dear Nora--who could the man be? _Nora_. Good gracious, can't you understand? There was no old gentleman at all; it was only something that I used to sit here and imagine, when I couldn't think of any way of procuring money. But it's all the same now; the tiresome old person can stay where he is, as far as I am concerned; I don't care about him or his will either, for I am free from care now. (_Jumps up_.) My goodness, it's delightful to think of, Christine! Free from care! To be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to be able to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the house beautifully and have everything just as Torvald likes it! And, think of it, soon the spring will come and the big blue sky! Perhaps we shall be able to take a little trip--perhaps I shall see the sea again! Oh, it's a wonderful thing to be alive and be happy. (_A bell is heard in the hall_.) _Mrs. Linde_ (_rising_). There is the bell; perhaps I had better go. _Nora_. No, don't go; no one will come in here; it is sure to be for Torvald. _Servant_ (_at the hall door_). Excuse me, ma'am--there is a gentleman to see the master, and as the doctor is with him-- _Nora_. Who is it? _Krogstad_ (_at the door_). It is I, Mrs. Helmer. (_Mrs._ LINDE _starts, trembles, and turns to the window_.) _Nora_ (_takes a step towards him, and speaks in a strained low voice_). You? What is it? What do you want to see my husband about? _Krogstad_. Bank business--in a way. I have a small post in the Bank, and I hear your husband is to be our chief now-- _Nora_. Then it is-- _Krogstad_. Nothing but dry business matters, Mrs. Helmers; absolutely nothing else. _Nora_. Be so good as to go into the study then. (_She bows indifferently to him and shuts the door into the hall; then comes back and makes up the fire in the stove_.) _Mrs. Linde_. Nora--who was that man? _Nora_. A lawyer, of the name of Krogstad. _Mrs. Linde_. Then it really was he. _Nora_. Do you know the man? _Mrs. Linde_. I used to--many years ago. At one time he was a solicitor's clerk in our town. _Nora_. Yes, he was. _Mrs. Linde_. He is greatly altered. _Nora_. He made a very unhappy marriage. _Mrs. Linde_. He is a widower now, isn't he? _Nora_. With several children. There now, it is burning up. (_Shuts the door of the stove and moves the rocking-chair aside_.) _Mrs. Linde_. They say he carries on various kinds of business. _Nora_. Really! Perhaps he does; I don't know anything about it. But don't let us think of business; it is so tiresome. _Doctor Rank_ (_comes out of_ HELMER'S _study. Before he shuts the door he calls to him_). No, my dear fellow, I won't disturb you; I would rather go in to your wife for a little while. (_Shuts the door and sees_ Mrs. LINDE.) I beg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you too. _Nora_. No, not at all. (_Introducing him_.) Doctor Rank, Mrs. Linde. _Rank_. I have often heard Mrs. Linde's name mentioned here. I think I passed you on the stairs when I arrived, Mrs. Linde? _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, I go up very slowly; I can't manage stairs well. _Rank_. Ah! some slight internal weakness? _Mrs. Linde_. No, the fact is I have been overworking myself. _Rank_. Nothing more than that? Then I suppose you have come to town to amuse yourself with our entertainments? _Mrs. Linde_. I have come to look for work. _Rank_. Is that a good cure for overwork? _Mrs. Linde_. One must live, Doctor Rank. _Rank_. Yes, the general opinion seems to be that it is necessary. _Nora_. Look here, Doctor Rank--you know you want to live. _Rank_. Certainly. However wretched I may feel, I want to prolong the agony as long as possible. All my patients are like that. And so are those who are morally diseased; one of them, and a bad case, too, is at this very moment with Helmer-- _Mrs. Linde_ (_sadly_). Ah! _Nora_. Whom do you mean? _Rank_. A lawyer of the name of Krogstad, a fellow you don't know at all. He suffers from a diseased moral character, Mrs. Helmer; but even he began talking of its being highly important that he should live. _Nora_. Did he? What did he want to speak to Torvald about? _Rank_. I have no idea; I only heard that it was something about the Bank. _Nora_. I didn't know this--what's his name--Krogstad had anything to do with the Bank. _Rank_. Yes, he has some sort of appointment there. (_To_ Mrs. LINDE.) I don't know whether you find also in your part of the world that there are certain people who go zealously snuffing about to smell out moral corruption, and, as soon as they have found some, put the person concerned into some lucrative position where they can keep their eye on him. Healthy natures are left out in the cold. _Mrs. Linde_. Still I think the sick are those who most need taking care of. _Rank_ (_shrugging his shoulders_). Yes, there you are. That is the sentiment that is turning Society into a sick-house. (NORA, _who has been absorbed in her thoughts, breaks out into smothered laughter and claps her hands_.) _Rank_. Why do you laugh at that? Have you any notion what Society really is? _Nora_. What do I care about tiresome Society? I am laughing at something quite different, something extremely amusing. Tell me, Doctor Rank, are all the people who are employed in the Bank dependent on Torvald now? _Rank_. Is that what you find so extremely amusing? _Nora_ (_smiling and humming_). That's my affair! (_Walking about the room_.) It's perfectly glorious to think that we have--that Torvald has so much power over so many people. (_Takes the packet from her pocket_.) Doctor Rank, what do you say to a macaroon? _Rank_. What, macaroons? I thought they were forbidden here. _Nora_. Yes, but these are some Christine gave me. _Mrs. Linde_. What! I?-- _Nora_. Oh, well, don't be alarmed! You couldn't know that Torvald had forbidden them. I must tell you that he is afraid they will spoil my teeth. But, bah!--once in a way--That's so, isn't it, Doctor Rank? By your leave! (_Puts a macaroon into his mouth.)_ You must have one too, Christine. And I shall have one, just a little one--or at most two. (_Walking about_.) I am tremendously happy. There is just one thing in the world now that I should dearly love to do. _Rank_. Well, what is that? _Nora_. It's something I should dearly love to say, if Torvald could hear me. _Rank_. Well, why can't you say it? _Nora_, No, I daren't; it's so shocking. _Mrs. Linde_. Shocking? _Rank_. Well, I should not advise you to say it. Still, with us you might. What is it you would so much like to say if Torvald could hear you? _Nora_. I should just love to say--Well, I'm damned! _Rank_. Are you mad? _Mrs. Linde_. Nora, dear--! _Rank_. Say it, here he is! _Nora_ (_hiding the packet_). Hush! Hush! Hush! (HELMER _comes out of his room, with his coat over his arm and his hat in his hand_.) _Nora_. Well, Torvald dear, have you got rid of him? _Helmer_. Yes, he has just gone. _Nora_. Let me introduce you--this is Christine, who has come to town. _Helmer_. Christine--? Excuse me, but I don't know-- _Nora_. Mrs. Linde, dear; Christine Linde. _Helmer_. Of course. A school friend of my wife's, I presume? _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, we have known each other since then. _Nora_. And just think, she has taken a long journey in order to see you. _Helmer_. What do you mean? _Mrs. Linde_. No, really, I-- _Nora_. Christine is tremendously clever at book-keeping, and she is frightfully anxious to work under some clever man, so as to perfect herself-- _Helmer_. Very sensible, Mrs. Linde. _Nora_. And when she heard you had been appointed manager of the Bank--the news was telegraphed, you know--she traveled here as quick as she could, Torvald, I am sure you will be able to do something for Christine, for my sake, won't you? _Helmer_. Well, it is not altogether impossible. I presume you are a widow, Mrs. Linde? _Mrs. Linde_. Yes. _Helmer_. And have had some experience of bookkeeping? _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, a fair amount. _Helmer_. Ah! well it's very likely I may be able to find something for you-- _Nora_ (_clapping her hands_). What did I tell you? What did I tell you? _Helmer_. You have just come at a fortunate moment, Mrs. Linde. _Mrs. Linde_. How am I to thank you? _Helmer_. There is no need. (_Puts on his coat_.) But today you must excuse me-- _Rank_. Wait a minute; I will come with you. (_Brings his fur coat from the hall and warms it at the fire_.) _Nora_. Don't be long away, Torvald dear. _Helmer_. About an hour, not more. _Nora_. Are you going too, Christine? _Mrs. Linde_ (_putting on her cloak_). Yes, I must go and look for a room. _Helmer_. Oh, well then, we can walk down the street together. _Nora_ (_helping her_). What a pity it is we are so short of space here; I am afraid it is impossible for us-- _Mrs. Linde_. Please don't think of it! Good-bye, Nora dear, and many thanks. _Nora_. Good-bye for the present. Of course you will come back this evening. And you too, Dr. Rank. What do you say? If you are well enough? Oh, you must be! Wrap yourself up well. (_They go to the door all talking together. Children's voices are heard on the staircase._) _Nora_. There they are. There they are! (_She runs to open the door. The_ NURSE _comes in with the children._) Come in! Come in! (_Stoops and kisses them._) Oh, you sweet blessings! Look at them, Christine! Aren't they darlings? _Rank_. Don't let us stand here in the draught. _Helmer_. Come along, Mrs. Linde; the place will only be bearable for a mother now! (RANK, HELMER, _and_ MRS. LINDE _go downstairs. The_ NURSE _comes forward with the children;_ NORA _shuts the hall door._) _Nora_. How fresh and well you look! Such red cheeks!--like apples and roses. (_The children all talk at once while she speaks to them._) Have you had great fun? That's splendid! What, you pulled both Emmy and Bob along on the sledge?--both at once?--that _was_ good. You are a clever boy, Ivar. Let me take her for a little, Anne. My sweet little baby doll! (_Takes the baby from the_ MAID _and dances it up and down._) Yes, yes, mother will dance with Bob too. What! Have you been snow-balling? I wish I had been there too! No, no, I will take their things off, Anne; please let me do it, it is such fun. Go in now, you look half frozen. There is some hot coffee for you on the stove. (_The_ NURSE _goes into the room on the left. Nora takes off the children's things and throws them about, while they all talk to her at once_.) _Nora._ Really! Did a big dog run after you? But it didn't bite you? No, dogs don't bite nice little dolly children. You mustn't look at the parcels, Ivar. What are they? Ah, I daresay you would like to know. No, no--it's something nasty! Come, let us have a game. What shall we play at? Hide and Seek? Yes, we'll play Hide and Seek. Bob shall hide first. Must I hide? Very well, I'll hide first. (_She and the children laugh and shout, and romp in and out of the room; at last Nora hides under the table the children rush in and look for her, but do not see her; they hear her smothered laughter run to the table, lift up the cloth and find her. Shouts of laughter. She crawls forward and pretends to frighten them. Fresh laughter. Meanwhile there has been a knock at the hall door, but none of them has noticed it. The door is half opened, and KROGSTAD appears. He waits a little; the game goes on._) _Krogstad_. Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer. _Nora_ (_with a stifled cry, turns round and gets up on to her knees_). Ah! what do you want? _Krogstad_. Excuse me, the outer door was ajar; I suppose someone forgot to shut it. _Nora_ (_rising_). My husband is out, Mr. Krogstad. _Krogstad_. I know that. _Nora_. What do you want here, then? _Krogstad_. A word with you. _Nora_. With me?--(_To the children, gently_.) Go in to nurse. What? No, the strange man won't do mother any harm. When he has gone we will have another game. (_She takes the children into the room on the left, and shuts the door after them._) You want to speak to me? _Krogstad_. Yes, I do. _Nora_. Today? It is not the first of the month yet. _Krogstad_. No, it is Christmas Eve, and it will depend on yourself what sort of a Christmas you will spend. _Nora_. What do you want? Today it is absolutely impossible for me-- _Krogstad_. We won't talk about that till later on. This is something different. I presume you can give me a moment? _Nora_. Yes--yes, I can--although-- _Krogstad_. Good. I was in Olsen's Restaurant and saw your husband going down the street-- _Nora_. Yes? _Krogstad_. With a lady. _Nora_. What then? _Krogstad_. May I make so bold as to ask if it was a Mrs. Linde? _Nora_. It was. _Krogstad_. Just arrived in town? _Nora_. Yes, today. _Krogstad_. She is a great friend of yours, isn't she? _Nora_: She is. But I don't see-- _Krogstad_. I knew her too, once upon a time. _Nora_. I am aware of that. _Krogstad_. Are you? So you know all about it; I thought as much. Then I can ask you, without beating about the bush--is Mrs. Linde to have an appointment in the Bank? _Nora_. What right have you to question me, Mr. Krogstad?--You, one of my husband's subordinates! But since you ask, you shall know. Yes, Mrs. Linde _is_ to have an appointment. And it was I who pleaded her cause, Mr. Krogstad, let me tell you that. _Krogstad_. I was right in what I thought, then. _Nora_ (_walking up and down the stage_). Sometimes one has a tiny little bit of influence, I should hope. Because one is a woman, it does not necessarily follow that--. When anyone is in a subordinate position, Mr. Krogstad, they should really be careful to avoid offending anyone who--who-- _Krogstad_. Who has influence? _Nora_. Exactly. _Krogstad_ (_changing his tone_). Mrs. Helmer, you will be so good as to use your influence on my behalf. _Nora_. What? What do you mean? _Krogstad_. You will be so kind as to see that I am allowed to keep my subordinate position in the Bank. _Nora_. What do you mean by that? Who proposes to take your post away from you? _Krogstad_. Oh, there is no necessity to keep up the pretence of ignorance. I can quite understand that your friend is not very anxious to expose herself to the chance of rubbing shoulders with me; and I quite understand, too, whom I have to thank for being turned off. _Nora_. But I assure you-- _Krogstad_. Very likely; but, to come to the point, the time has come when I should advise you to use your influence to prevent that. _Nora_. But, Mr. Krogstad, I _have_ no influence. _Krogstad_. Haven't you? I thought you said yourself just now-- _Nora_. Naturally I did not mean you to put that construction on it. I! What should make you think I have any influence of that kind with my husband? _Krogstad_. Oh, I have known your husband from our student days. I don't suppose he is any more unassailable than other husbands. _Nora_. If you speak slightly of my husband, I shall turn you out of the house. _Krogstad_. You are bold, Mrs. Helmer. _Nora_. I am not afraid of you any longer, As soon as the New Year comes, I shall in a very short time be free of the whole thing. _Krogstad_ (_controlling himself_). Listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. If necessary, I am prepared to fight for my small post in the Bank as if I were fighting for my life. _Nora_. So it seems. _Krogstad_. It is not only for the sake of the money; indeed, that weighs least with me in the matter. There is another reason--well, I may as well tell you. My position is this. I daresay you know, like everybody else, that once, many years ago, I was guilty of an indiscretion. _Nora_. I think I have heard something of the kind. _Krogstad_. The matter never came into court; but every way seemed to be closed to me after that. So I took to the business that you know of. I had to do something; and, honestly, don't think I've been one of the worst. But now I must cut myself free from all that. My sons are growing up; for their sake I must try and win back as much respect as I can in the town. This post in the Bank was like the first step up for me--and now your husband is going to kick me downstairs again into the mud. _Nora_. But you must believe me, Mr. Krogstad; it is not in my power to help you at all. _Krogstad_. Then it is because you haven't the will; but I have means to compel you. _Nora_. You don't mean that you will tell my husband that I owe you money? _Krogstad_. Hm!--suppose I were to tell him? _Nora_. It would be perfectly infamous of you. (_Sobbing_.) To think of his learning my secret, which has been my joy and pride, in such an ugly, clumsy way--that he should learn it from you! And it would put me in a horribly disagreeable position-- _Krogstad_. Only disagreeable? _Nora_ (_impetuously_). Well, do it, then!--and it will be the worse for you. My husband will see for himself what a blackguard you are, and you certainly won't keep your post then. _Krogstad_. I asked you if it was only a disagreeable scene at home that you were afraid of? _Nora_. If my husband does get to know of it, of course he will at once pay you what is still owing, and we shall have nothing more to do with you. _Krogstad_ (_coming a step nearer_). Listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. Either you have a very bad memory or you know very little of business. I shall be obliged to remind you of a few details. _Nora_. What do you mean? _Krogstad_. When your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow two hundred and fifty pounds. _Nora_. I didn't know any one else to go to. _Krogstad_. I promised to get you that amount-- _Nora_. Yes, and you did so. _Krogstad_. I promised to get you that amount, on certain conditions. Your mind was so taken up with your husband's illness, and you were so anxious to get the money for your journey, that you seem to have paid no attention to the conditions of our bargain. Therefore it will not be amiss if I remind you of them. Now, I promised to get the money on the security of a bond which I drew up. _Nora_. Yes, and which I signed. _Krogstad_. Good. But below your signature there were a few lines constituting your father a surety for the money; those lines your father should have signed. _Nora_. Should? He did sign them. _Krogstad_. I had left the date blank; that is to say your father should himself have inserted the date on which he signed the paper. Do you remember that? _Nora_. Yes, I think I remember-- _Krogstad_. Then I gave you the bond to send by post to your father. Is that not so? _Nora_. Yes. _Krogstad_. And you naturally did so at once, because five or six days afterwards you brought me the bond with your father's signature. And then I gave you the money. _Nora_. Well, haven't I been paying it off regularly? _Krogstad_. Fairly so, yes. But--to come back to the matter in hand--that must have been a very trying time for you, Mrs. Helmer? _Nora_. It was, indeed. _Krogstad_. Your father was very ill, wasn't he? _Nora_. He was very near his end. _Krogstad_. And died soon afterwards? _Nora_. Yes. _Krogstad_. Tell me, Mrs. Helmer, can you by any chance remember what day your father died?--on what day of the month, I mean. _Nora_. Papa died on the 29th of September. _Krogstad_. That is correct; I have ascertained it for myself. And, as that is so, there is a discrepancy (_taking a paper from his pocket_) which I cannot account for. _Nora_. What discrepancy? I don't know-- _Krogstad_. The discrepancy consists, Mrs. Helmer, in the fact that your father signed this bond three days after his death. _Nora_. What do you mean? I don't understand-- _Krogstad_. Your father died on the 29th of September. But, look here; your father dated his signature the 2nd of October. It is a discrepancy, isn't it? (NORA _is silent_.) Can you explain it to me? (NORA _is still silent_.) It is a remarkable thing, too, that the words "2nd of October," as well as the year, are not written in your father's handwriting but in one that I think I know. Well, of course it can be explained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature, and someone else may have dated it haphazard before they knew of his death. There is no harm in that. It all depends on the signature of the name; and _that_ is genuine, I suppose, Mrs. Helmer? It was your father himself who signed his name here? _Nora_ (_after a short pause, throws her head up and looks defiantly at him_). No, it was not. It was I that wrote papa's name. _Krogstad_. Are you aware that is a dangerous confession? _Nora_. In what way? You shall have your money soon. _Krogstad_. Let me ask you a question; why did you not send the paper to your father? _Nora_. It was impossible; papa was so ill. If I had asked him for his signature, I should have had to tell him what the money was to be used for; and when he was so ill himself I couldn't tell him that my husband's life was in danger--it was impossible. _Krogstad_. It would have been better for you if you had given up your trip abroad. _Nora_. No, that was impossible. That trip was to save my husband's life; I couldn't give that up. _Krogstad_. But did it never occur to you that you were committing a fraud on me? _Nora_. I couldn't take that into account; I didn't trouble myself about you at all. I couldn't bear you, because you put so many heartless difficulties in my way, although you knew what a dangerous condition my husband was in. _Krogstad_. Mrs. Helmer, you evidently do not realise clearly what it is that you have been guilty of. But I can assure you that my one false step, which lost me all my reputation, was nothing more or nothing worse than what you have done. _Nora_. You? Do you ask me to believe that you were brave enough to run a risk to save your wife's life. _Krogstad_. The law cares nothing about motives. _Nora_. Then it must be a very foolish law. _Krogstad_. Foolish or not, it is the law by which you will be judged, if I produce this paper in court. _Nora_. I don't believe it. Is a daughter not to be allowed to spare her dying father anxiety and care? Is a wife not to be allowed to save her husband's life? I don't know much about law; but I am certain that there must be laws permitting such things as that. Have you no knowledge of such laws--you who are a lawyer? You must be a very poor lawyer, Mr. Krogstad. _Krogstad_. Maybe. But matters of business--such business as you and I have had together--do you think I don't understand that? Very well. Do as you please. But let me tell you this--if I lose my position a second time, you shall lose yours with me. (_He bows, and goes out through the hall_.) _Nora_ (_appears buried in thought for a short time, then tosses her head)_. Nonsense! Trying to frighten me like that!--I am not so silly as he thinks. (_Begins to busy herself putting the children's things in order_.) And yet--? No, it's impossible! I did it for love's sake. _The Children_ (_in the doorway on the left.)_ Mother, the stranger man has gone out through the gate. _Nora_. Yes, dears, I know. But, don't tell anyone about the stranger man. Do you hear? Not even papa. _Children_. No, mother; but will you come and play again? _Nora_. No no,--not now. _ Children_. But, mother, you promised us. _Nora_. Yes, but I can't now. Run away in; I have such a lot to do. Run away in, sweet little darlings. (_She gets them into the room by degrees and shuts the door on them; then sits down on the sofa, takes up a piece of needlework and sews a few stitches, but soon stops_.) No! (_Throws down the work, gets up, goes to the hall door and calls out_.) Helen, bring the Tree in. (_Goes to the table on the left, opens a drawer, and stops again_.) No, no! it is quite impossible! _Maid_ (_coming in with the Tree_). Where shall I put it, ma'am? _Nora_. Here, in the middle of the floor. _Maid_. Shall I get you anything else? _Nora_. No, thank you. I have all I want. [_Exit_ MAID _Nora_ (_begins dressing the tree_). A candle here--and flowers here--. The horrible man! It's all nonsense--there's nothing wrong. The Tree shall be splendid! I will do everything I can think of to please you, Torvald!--I will sing for you, dance for you--(HELMER _comes in with some papers under his arm_.) Oh! are you back already? _Helmer_. Yes. Has anyone been here? _Nora_. Here? No. _Helmer_. That is strange. I saw Krogstad going out of the gate. _Nora_. Did you? Oh yes, I forgot Krogstad was here for a moment. _Helmer_. Nora, I can see from your manner that he has been here begging you to say a good word for him. _Nora_. Yes. _Helmer_. And you were to appear to do it of your own accord; you were to conceal from me the fact of his having been here; didn't he beg that of you too? _Nora_. Yes, Torvald, but-- _Helmer_. Nora, Nora, and you would be a party to that sort of thing? To have any talk with a man like that, and give him any sort of promise? And to tell me a lie into the bargain? _Nora_. A lie--? _Helmer_. Didn't you tell me no one had been here? (_Shakes his finger at her_.) My little song-bird must never do that again. A song-bird must have a clean beak to chirp with--no false notes! (_Puts his arm round her waist._) That is so, isn't it? Yes, I am sure it is. (_Lets her go_.) We will say no more about it. (_Sits down by the stove_.) How warm and snug it is here! (_Turns over his papers_.) _Nora_ (_after a short pause, during which she busies herself with the Christmas Tree_). Torvald! _Helmer_. Yes. _Nora_: I am looking forward tremendously to the fancy dress ball at the Stensborgs' the day after tomorrow. _Helmer_. And I am tremendously curious to see what you are going to surprise me with. _Nora_. It was very silly of me to want to do that. _Helmer_. What do you mean? _Nora_. I can't hit upon anything that will do; everything I think of seems so silly and insignificant. _Helmer_. Does my little Nora acknowledge that at last? _Nora_ (_standing behind his chair with her arms on the back of it_). Are you very busy, Torvald? _Helmer_. Well-- _Nora_. What are all those papers? _Helmer_. Bank business. _Nora_. Already? _Helmer_. I have got authority from the retiring manager to undertake the necessary changes in the staff and in the rearrangement of the work; and I must make use of the Christmas week for that, so as to have everything in order for the new year. _Nora_. Then that was why this poor Krogstad-- _Helmer_. Hm! _Nora_ (_leans against the back of his chair and strokes his hair_). If you hadn't been so busy I should have asked you a tremendously big favour, Torvald. _Helmer_. What is that? Tell me. _Nora_. There is no one has such good taste as you. And I do so want to look nice at the fancy-dress ball. Torvald, couldn't you take me in hand and decide what I shall go as, and what sort of a dress I shall wear? _Helmer_. Aha! so my obstinate little woman is obliged to get someone to come to her rescue? _Nora_. Yes, Torvald, I can't get along a bit without your help. _Helmer_ Very well, I will think it over, we shall manage to hit upon something. _Nora_. That _is_ nice of you. (_Goes to the Christmas Tree. A short pause.)_ How pretty the red flowers look--. But, tell me, was it really something very bad that this Krogstad was guilty of? _Helmer_. He forged someone's name. Have you any idea what that means? _Nora_. Isn't it possible that he was driven to do it by necessity? _Helmer_. Yes; or, as in so many cases, by imprudence. I am not so heartless as to condemn a man altogether because of a single false step of that kind. _Nora_. No you wouldn't, would you, Torvald? _Helmer_. Many a man has been able to retrieve his character, if he has openly confessed his fault and taken his punishment. _Nora_. Punishment--? _Helmer_. But Krogstad did nothing of that sort; he got himself out of it by a cunning trick, and that is why he has gone under altogether. _Nora_. But do you think it would--? _Helmer_. Just think how a guilty man like that has to lie and play the hypocrite with everyone, how he has to wear a mask in the presence of those near and dear to him, even before his own wife and children. And about the children--that is the most terrible part of it all, Nora. _Nora_. How? _Helmer_. Because such an atmosphere of lies infects and poisons the whole life of a home. Each breath the children take in such a house is full of the germs of evil. _Nora_ (_coming nearer him_). Are you sure of that? _Helmer_. My dear, I have often seen it in the course of my life as a lawyer. Almost everyone who has gone to the bad early in life has had a deceitful mother. _Nora_. Why do you only say--mother? _Helmer_. It seems most commonly to be the mother's influence, though naturally a bad father's would have the same result. Every lawyer is familiar with the fact. This Krogstad, now, has been persistently poisoning his own children with lies and dissimulation; that is why I say he has lost all moral character. (_Holds out his hands to her.)_ That is why my sweet little Nora must promise me not to plead his cause. Give me your hand on it. Come, come, what is this? Give me your hand. There now, that's settled. I assure you it would be quite impossible for me to work with him; I literally feel physically ill when I am in the company of such people. _Nora_ (_takes her hand out of his and goes to the opposite side of the Christmas Tree_). How hot it is in here; and I have such a lot to do. _Helmer_ (_getting up and putting his papers in order_). Yes, and I must try and read through some of these before dinner; and I must think about your costume, too. And it is just possible I may have something ready in gold paper to hang up on the Tree. (_Puts his hand on her head.)_ My precious little singing-bird! (_He goes into his room and shuts the door after him.)_ _Nora_ (_after a pause, whispers_). No, no--it isn't true. It's impossible; it must be impossible. (_The_ NURSE _opens the door on the left._) _Nurse_. The little ones are begging so hard to be allowed to come in to mamma. _Nora_. No, no, no! Don't let them come in to me! You stay with them, Anne. _Nurse_. Very well, ma'am. (_Shuts the door._) _Nora_ (_pale with terror_). Deprave my little children? Poison my home? (_A short pause. Then she tosses her head._) It's not true. It can't possibly be true. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die Regieanweisungen sagen uns, dass wir uns in einem Wohnzimmer der Mittelschicht befinden. Die Möbel sind schön, aber nicht extravangant teuer. Der Raum hat auch ein Klavier. In einem Porzellanofen brennt ein Feuer. Es ist ein Wintertag. Nora Helmer kommt in Outdoor-Kleidung herein und trägt viele Pakete. Ein Portier und eine Magd folgen ihr. Der Portier trägt einen Weihnachtsbaum; er gibt ihn der Magd. Nora sagt der Magd, den Baum zu verstecken, weil die Kinder ihn nicht sehen können, bevor er geschmückt ist. Nora bezahlt den Portier und gibt ihm ein großzügiges Trinkgeld. Er bedankt sich und geht. Nora zieht ihre Outdoor-Kleidung aus. Sie scheint sehr glücklich zu sein, denn sie lacht und summt die ganze Zeit vor sich hin. Nora nimmt ein paar Makronen aus ihrer Tasche und nascht davon. Heimlich schleicht sie über den Raum zur Tür zum Arbeitszimmer ihres Mannes. Sie hört an der Tür und bestätigt, dass er zuhause ist. Ihr Mann Torvald Helmer ruft von drinnen. Er nennt sie seine Lerche und sein kleines Eichhörnchen. Nora bittet ihn zu kommen und anzuschauen, was sie alles gekauft hat. Helmer steckt seinen Kopf aus der Tür und tadeln sie dafür, dass sie zu viel Geld ausgegeben hat. Nora wischt seine Sparsamkeit beiseite und sagt, dass er jetzt ein großes Gehalt hat und sie es sich leisten können. Er erinnert sie daran, dass sein neuer Job erst nach Neujahr beginnt. Was ist, wenn ihm eine Ziegelstein an den Kopf fliegt? Wie würden sie das bezahlen? Wir könnten Geld leihen, sagt Nora. Helmer sagt ihr, dass sie eine typische Frau ist: Sie hat keine Vorstellung von den Schrecken der Verschuldung. Nora stimmt ihrem Mann unterwürfig zu, aber geht zum Ofen, um ein bisschen zu schmollen. Torvald fühlt sich ein wenig schlecht und gibt ihr etwas Geld. Sie zählt es und macht ihren Freudentanz. Nora zeigt ihm die Geschenke, die sie für alle gekauft hat: ihre Kinder, die Magd usw. Torvald fragt sie, was sie für sich selbst gekauft hat. Sie sagt, sie braucht nichts, aber wenn er ihr wirklich etwas schenken will, hätte sie gerne etwas Geld. Er denkt, das sei keine gute Idee, weil sie eine "Verschwenderin" ist und das ganze Geld für Unsinn ausgibt. Nora bestreitet dies und sagt, dass sie sehr sparsam ist. Torvald sagt ihr, dass sie die ganze Zeit zu viel Geld ausgibt, genau wie ihr Vater. Es muss in der Familie liegen. Seine Frau sagt, sie wünschte, sie hätte noch mehr von den Eigenschaften ihres Vaters geerbt. Ich liebe dich so, wie du bist, sagt Torvald, fängt aber dann an, sie zu befragen, ob sie heute Kekse gekauft hat. Nora leugnet entschieden, jemals etwas Schreckliches wie das Essen eines Makronen oder zweier Kekse zu tun. Torvald sagt, er habe nur Spaß gemacht. Er weiß, dass sie niemals ihr Versprechen brechen würde, keine Kekse zu essen. Nora fragt ihren Mann, ob er daran gedacht hat, Dr. Rank zu Weihnachten einzuladen. Es sei nicht notwendig, sagt Torvald; es wird einfach erwartet, dass er da sein wird. Torvald sagt, dass er sich wirklich auf ihre Feier freut. Er sagt, wie schön es ist, endlich einen guten Job und ein gutes Einkommen zu haben, und Nora stimmt dem zu. Ihr Mann erinnert sich daran, wie Nora sich letztes Weihnachten in ihrem Zimmer eingeschlossen hat, um Papierblumen für den Baum zu basteln. Offensichtlich hat Noras ganze Arbeit nichts gebracht, denn die Katze hat alle Blumen zerrissen. Die Türklingel läutet. Die Magd tritt ein und sagt, dass eine fremde Dame Nora sehen möchte. Außerdem ist Dr. Rank zur gleichen Zeit gekommen und wartet im Arbeitszimmer von Torvald. Helmer geht, um mit Dr. Rank zu sprechen. Die Magd zeigt Frau Christine Linde herein, die in Reisekleidung gekleidet ist. Zuerst erkennt Nora sie nicht, aber dann bricht sie vor Freude aus. Es ist Christine, ihre Jugendfreundin. Sie haben sich neun oder zehn Jahre lang nicht gesehen. Nora sagt Christine, dass sie blasser aussieht als damals, als sie sie kannte. Du meinst "älter", sagt Christine. Oh, nur ein klitzekleines bisschen älter, sagt Nora und lügt ungeschickt. Nora entschuldigt sich dafür, dass sie Christine nicht geschrieben hat, als ihr Mann starb. Christine versichert ihr, dass sie es versteht. Nora erzählt ihrem alten Freund, wie glücklich sie mit Torvald und den Kindern ist. Sie sagt, dass Torvald zum Bankmanager ernannt wurde. Sie ruft ihrer verwitweten Freundin entzückt zu, wie wunderbar es ist, eine Familie zu haben und viel Geld zu haben. Christine macht darauf aufmerksam, dass Nora immer noch eine Verschwenderin ist, so wie damals in der Schule. Nora sagt, dass Torvald das auch denkt, aber dass sie die wahre Situation nicht kennen. Auch sie musste arbeiten: nähen und sticken, solche Sachen. Sie fügt hinzu, dass Torvald im ersten Jahr ihrer Ehe viel zu hart gearbeitet hat, um genug Geld für die Familie zu verdienen. Er wurde krank und sie mussten ein Jahr lang in Italien bleiben, damit er sich erholen konnte. Das war unglaublich teuer. Nora erzählt ihrer Freundin, dass sie dafür Geld von ihrem Vater leihen mussten. Christine fragt, ob das zu der Zeit war, als Noras Vater starb. Ja, sagt Nora. Es war schrecklich, denn sie konnte ihn nicht besuchen gehen. Sie war schwanger und konnte jeden Moment gebären. Christine fragt, ob es Torvald jetzt gut gehe, da ein Arzt mit ihr gekommen ist. Nora versichert ihr, dass es Torvald jetzt gut gehe. Der Arzt ist nur ein Familienfreund, Dr. Rank. Nora fragt, was bei Christine los ist. Christine, auch Frau Linde genannt, sagt, dass sie ihren Mann nie geliebt hat. Sie hat Mr. Linde nur geheiratet, weil sie eine kranke Mutter und zwei jüngere Brüder zu unterstützen hatte. Als er starb, ging sein Geschäft den Bach runter und Christine stand ohne nichts da. Christine arbeitet seitdem bis zur Erschöpfung. Vor kurzem starb jedoch ihre Mutter und ihre Brüder sind jetzt alt genug, um sich selbst zu versorgen. Deshalb fragt sich Christine, ob Noras Mann ihr einen Job in der Bank verschaffen kann, die er leiten wird. Was für eine grandiose Idee, sagt Nora ihr. Sicher wird er es tun. Christine sagt, es sei nett von Nora, sich so für ihre Probleme zu interessieren, da sie nie wirklich mit eigenen Problemen konfrontiert worden sei. Nora wird beleidigt und sagt ihrer Freundin, dass sie ein großes Problem hat, von dem sie niemandem erzählt hat. Sie hat das Geld für das Jahr in Italien tatsächlich nicht von ihrem Vater geliehen. Stattdessen hat sie einen Kredit von einer unbekannten Person aufgenommen. Torvald wusste nichts davon. Tatsächlich wusste er nicht einmal, wie krank er war und dass eine Reise in den Süden notwendig war, um sein Überleben zu sichern. Die Ärzte erzählten Nora, wie ernst seine Krankheit sei, aber sie erzählten es ihm nie. Sie gab vor, dass sie eine Reise ins Ausland wollte und lieh heimlich das Geld, um seinen Stolz zu retten. Christine fragt, ob Torvald es schon weiß. Nora sagt, dass er es nicht weiß, aber dass sie es ihm sagen könnte, wenn sie alt ist und er nicht mehr von ihr angezogen ist. Dann ändert sie ihre Meinung und behauptet, er darf es niemals erfahren. Nora hat den Kredit zurückgezahlt, indem sie heimlich viele Gelegenheitsjobs gemacht hat und auf den Kauf neuer Kleidung für sich selbst verzichtet hat. Sie sagt, sie hat Glück, dass selbst billige Kleidung gut aussieht auf ihr, so dass Torvald es nicht bemerkt. Sie fügt hinzu, dass sie letzten Winter einen Job hatte, bei dem sie Briefe abschreiben musste, und arbeitete jede Nacht spät. Nora sagt, dass sie manchmal geträumt hat, dass ein reicher alter Mann vorbeikommt und ihr all das Geld gibt, das sie braucht. Jetzt muss sie nicht mehr träumen. Mit Torvalds neuem Job wird sie genug Geld sparen können, um den Kredit vollständig zurückzuzahlen. Die Türklingel läutet. Ein Mann namens Krogstad tritt ein. Nora scheint ihn zu kennen und ist nicht sehr glücklich, dass er hier ist. Er sagt ihr, dass er ihren Mann wegen einer Bankangelegenheit sehen möchte. Krogstad arbeitet dort und will ein kleines Gespräch mit seinem neuen Chef führen. Nora bringt ihn in Torvalds Büro. Christine sagt, dass sie Krogstad früher kannte. Er war anscheinend eine Weile lang Anwalt in ihrer Gegend. Sie bemerkt, dass er sich ziemlich verändert hat. Nora informiert sie darüber, dass Krogstad eine sehr unglückliche Ehe hatte und jetzt mehrere Kinder hat. Er hat sich auch in unangenehme geschäftliche Schwierigkeiten gebracht. Dr. Rank verlässt das Büro von Torvald und sagt, dass er stört, wenn er dort herumhängt. Nora stellt ihn Frau Christine Linde vor. Rank sagt, dass er ihren Namen hier oft hört. Er erzählt ihnen, dass Krogstad ein großartiger Erpresser ist und moralisch bis ins Mark verdorben ist. Christine sagt, dass man den Kranken helfen sollte. Nora fragt Rank, ob er eine Macaron möchte. Rank bemerkt, dass sie in diesem Haus tabu sind. Nora lügt und sagt, dass Christine sie ihr gegeben hat. Torvald betritt den Raum. Die illegalen Kekse werden schnell versteckt. Nora fragt, ob Krogstad weg ist. Das ist er. Sie stellt Torvald Christine vor und fragt ihren Mann, ob er Christine einen Job geben kann. Es besteht eine gute Chance, sagt Torvald. Christine ist zur richtigen Zeit gekommen. Nora und Christine sind glücklich. Nora sagt Rank und Christine, dass sie sicherstellen sollen, dass sie für das Anzünden des Weihnachtsbaums heute Abend vorbeikommen. Christine, Rank und Torvald verlassen alle zusammen den Raum. Die Magd bringt die Kinder herein. Sie rennen und toben herum. Nora unterhält sich fröhlich mit ihnen und spielt mit ihnen. Sie fangen an, Verstecken zu spielen. Nora versteckt sich unter dem Tisch. Krogstad tritt ein. Nora schickt die Kinder weg und fragt Krogstad, was er will. Er bemerkt, dass er Christine gerade mit Torvald gesehen hat. Er fragt, ob Torvald Christine einen Job in der Bank gibt. Nora bestätigt, dass er das tut und dass sie ihre Einfluss genutzt hat, um ihn zu überzeugen. Toll, sagt Krogstad. Wie wäre es, wenn sie ihren Einfluss auch für ihn nutzen würde? Er möchte, dass Nora Torvald davon überzeugt, ihn nicht zu entlassen. Nora sagt, dass sie nicht so viel Einfluss hat. Krogstad sagt ihr, dass er Torvald schon kennt, seit sie zusammen in der Schule waren. Er bemerkt, dass Torvald nicht mehr Willenskraft hat als die meisten verheirateten Männer, wenn es um die Wünsche ihrer Frauen geht. Nora sagt ihm, dass er verschwinden soll; sie hat keine Angst mehr vor ihm. Nach Neujahr wird sie nicht mehr in seiner Gewalt sein. Krogstad spricht darüber, wie hart sein Leben seit der Anschuldigung einer Unachtsamkeit damals war. Deshalb musste er ein Kredithai werden. Alles, was er will, ist die Achtung der Gemeinschaft wiederzuerlangen, um seiner Söhne willen. Der Job bei der Bank war der erste Schritt dorthin, aber jetzt will Torvald ihn feuern. Nora betont, dass sie ihm nicht helfen kann. Krogstad droht, Torvald zu erzählen, dass sie das Geld geliehen hat. Nora ist kurz vor dem Weinen und sagt, das würde Torvald nur beweisen, was für ein böser Mensch Krogstad ist. Sie beschwert sich, dass es hier dann sehr unangenehm würde. Krogstad sagt ihr, dass es viel schlimmer wäre, als sie es sich vorstellt. Nora hat die Unterschrift ihres Vaters gefälscht, um das Geld zu bekommen. Krogstad kann dies beweisen, weil die Unterschrift von Nora stammt. Außerdem hat sie das Dokument nach dem Tod ihres Vaters datiert. Sie sagt, dass sie ihrem Vater nicht von dem Geld erzählen konnte, das sie brauchte. Er war krank und sie wollte ihn nicht beunruhigen. Pech gehabt, sagt Krogstad ihr. Sie hat trotzdem das Gesetz gebrochen. Nora sagt, sie hatte keine Zeit, über das Gesetz nachzudenken; ihr Mann war im Sterben. Krogstad zeigt kein Verständnis. Er sagt ihr, dass er sie mit in den Abgrund zieht, wenn er gefeuert wird. Er geht ab. Die Kinder kommen wieder herein und bitten Nora, mit ihnen zu spielen. Sie sagt ihnen, dass sie zu beschäftigt ist und schickt sie mit der Magd davon. Allein im Raum macht sich Nora Gedanken darüber, dass sie die Kinder allein durch ihre bloße Anwesenheit korrumpieren könnte.

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 many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady's arm through one of his; and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them, with much ceremony and stateliness, upstairs. 'Now,' said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of a bedroom-door, 'let us hear what you think of him. He has not been shaved very recently, but he don't look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though! Let me first see that he is in visiting order.' Stepping before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, he closed the door when they had entered; and gently drew back the curtains of the bed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to behold, there lay a mere child: worn with pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep sleep. His wounded arm, bound and splintered up, was crossed upon his breast; his head reclined upon the other arm, which was half hidden by his long hair, as it streamed over the pillow. The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the younger lady glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the bedside, gathered Oliver's hair from his face. As she stooped over him, her tears fell upon his forehead. The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity and compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he had never known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, in this life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall. 'What can this mean?' exclaimed the elder lady. 'This poor child can never have been the pupil of robbers!' 'Vice,' said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, 'takes up her abode in many temples; and who can say that a fair outside shell not enshrine her?' 'But at so early an age!' urged Rose. 'My dear young lady,' rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head; 'crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. The youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims.' 'But, can you--oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has been the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?' said Rose. The surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared it was very possible; and observing that they might disturb the patient, led the way into an adjoining apartment. 'But even if he has been wicked,' pursued Rose, 'think how young he is; think that he may never have known a mother's love, or the comfort of a home; that ill-usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to herd with men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy's sake, think of this, before you let them drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must be the grave of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that I have never felt the want of parents in your goodness and affection, but that I might have done so, and might have been equally helpless and unprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him before it is too late!' 'My dear love,' said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to her bosom, 'do you think I would harm a hair of his head?' 'Oh, no!' replied Rose, eagerly. 'No, surely,' said the old lady; 'my days are drawing to their close: and may mercy be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to save him, sir?' 'Let me think, ma'am,' said the doctor; 'let me think.' Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns up and down the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his toes, and frowning frightfully. After various exclamations of 'I've got it now' and 'no, I haven't,' and as many renewals of the walking and frowning, he at length made a dead halt, and spoke as follows: 'I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles, and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful fellow and an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, and reward him for being such a good shot besides. You don't object to that?' 'Unless there is some other way of preserving the child,' replied Mrs. Maylie. 'There is no other,' said the doctor. 'No other, take my word for it.' 'Then my aunt invests you with full power,' said Rose, smiling through her tears; 'but pray don't be harder upon the poor fellows than is indispensably necessary.' 'You seem to think,' retorted the doctor, 'that everybody is disposed to be hard-hearted to-day, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the sake of the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow who appeals to your compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that I might avail myself, on the spot, of such a favourable opportunity for doing so, as the present.' 'You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,' returned Rose, blushing. 'Well,' said the doctor, laughing heartily, 'that is no very difficult matter. But to return to this boy. The great point of our agreement is yet to come. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have told that thick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that he musn't be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may converse with him without danger. Now I make this stipulation--that I shall examine him in your presence, and that, if, from what he says, we judge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall be left to his fate, without any farther interference on my part, at all events.' 'Oh no, aunt!' entreated Rose. 'Oh yes, aunt!' said the doctor. 'Is is a bargain?' 'He cannot be hardened in vice,' said Rose; 'It is impossible.' 'Very good,' retorted the doctor; 'then so much the more reason for acceding to my proposition.' Finally the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down to wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake. The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kind-hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at length sufficiently restored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose something, that he deemed it better to give him the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next morning: which he should otherwise have done. The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history, and was often compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn thing, to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought upon him. Oh! if when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences of human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pour their after-vengeance on our heads; if we heard but one instant, in imagination, the deep testimony of dead men's voices, which no power can stifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the injury and injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day's life brings with it! Oliver's pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have died without a murmur. The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to rest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them for being weak all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr. Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that he could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the kitchen; so into the kitchen he went. There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had received a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, in consideration of his services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and large half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a proportionate allowance of ale--as indeed he had. The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything, before his superior said it. 'Sit still!' said the doctor, waving his hand. 'Thank you, sir, said Mr. Giles. 'Misses wished some ale to be given out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and was disposed for company, I am taking mine among 'em here.' Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally were understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles's condescension. Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to say that so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them. 'How is the patient to-night, sir?' asked Giles. 'So-so'; returned the doctor. 'I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles.' 'I hope you don't mean to say, sir,' said Mr. Giles, trembling, 'that he's going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't cut a boy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.' 'That's not the point,' said the doctor, mysteriously. 'Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?' 'Yes, sir, I hope so,' faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale. 'And what are _you_, boy?' said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles. 'Lord bless me, sir!' replied Brittles, starting violently; 'I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir.' 'Then tell me this,' said the doctor, 'both of you, both of you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared for you!' The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction. 'Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?' said the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. 'Something may come of this before long.' The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner. 'It's a simple question of identity, you will observe,' said the doctor. 'That's what it is, sir,' replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way. 'Here's the house broken into,' said the doctor, 'and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him--by doing which, they place his life in great danger--and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?' The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. 'I ask you again,' thundered the doctor, 'are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?' Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. 'It's the runners!' cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. 'The what?' exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. 'The Bow Street officers, sir,' replied Brittles, taking up a candle; 'me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning.' 'What?' cried the doctor. 'Yes,' replied Brittles; 'I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir.' 'You did, did you? Then confound your--slow coaches down here; that's all,' said the doctor, walking away. 'Who's that?' inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand. 'Open the door,' replied a man outside; 'it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day.' Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. 'Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?' said the officer; 'he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?' Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were. The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose. 'Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?' said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. 'Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?' This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door. 'This is the lady of the house,' said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie. Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it--one of the two--seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment. 'Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,' said Blathers. 'What are the circumstances?' Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod. 'I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,' said Blathers; 'but my opinion at once is,--I don't mind committing myself to that extent,--that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?' 'Certainly not,' replied Duff. 'And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?' said Mr. Losberne, with a smile. 'That's it, master,' replied Blathers. 'This is all about the robbery, is it?' 'All,' replied the doctor. 'Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?' said Blathers. 'Nothing at all,' replied the doctor. 'One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity.' 'Wery easy disposed of, if it is,' remarked Duff. 'What he says is quite correct,' observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. 'Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn't drop out of the clouds, did he, master?' 'Of course not,' replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. 'I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?' 'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Blathers. 'We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing business.' Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's play. Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces. 'Upon my word,' he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, 'I hardly know what to do.' 'Surely,' said Rose, 'the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.' 'I doubt it, my dear young lady,' said the doctor, shaking his head. 'I don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one.' 'You believe it, surely?' interrupted Rose. '_I_ believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so,' rejoined the doctor; 'but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.' 'Why not?' demanded Rose. 'Because, my pretty cross-examiner,' replied the doctor: 'because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they _will_ have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?' 'I see it, of course,' replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; 'but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.' 'No,' replied the doctor; 'of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.' Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. 'The more I think of it,' said the doctor, 'the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.' 'Oh! what is to be done?' cried Rose. 'Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?' 'Why, indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. 'I would not have had them here, for the world.' 'All I know is,' said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, 'that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that's one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!' 'Well, master,' said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. 'This warn't a put-up thing.' 'And what the devil's a put-up thing?' demanded the doctor, impatiently. 'We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,' said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's, 'when the servants is in it.' 'Nobody suspected them, in this case,' said Mrs. Maylie. 'Wery likely not, ma'am,' replied Blathers; 'but they might have been in it, for all that.' 'More likely on that wery account,' said Duff. 'We find it was a town hand,' said Blathers, continuing his report; 'for the style of work is first-rate.' 'Wery pretty indeed it is,' remarked Duff, in an undertone. 'There was two of 'em in it,' continued Blathers; 'and they had a boy with 'em; that's plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at present. We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you please.' 'Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?' said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. 'Oh! to be sure!' exclaimed Rose, eagerly. 'You shall have it immediately, if you will.' 'Why, thank you, miss!' said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; 'it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts.' 'What shall it be?' asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard. 'A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same,' replied Blathers. 'It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings.' This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room. 'Ah!' said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; 'I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies.' 'That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,' said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. 'That was something in this way, warn't it?' rejoined Mr. Blathers; 'that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was.' 'You always gave that to him' replied Duff. 'It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had.' 'Get out!' retorted Mr. Blathers; 'I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!' 'What was that?' inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. 'It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon,' said Blathers. 'This here Conkey Chickweed--' 'Conkey means Nosey, ma'am,' interposed Duff. 'Of course the lady knows that, don't she?' demanded Mr. Blathers. 'Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. "I see him, Spyers," said Chickweed, "pass my house yesterday morning," "Why didn't you up, and collar him!" says Spyers. "I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick," says the poor man; "but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again." Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, "Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!" Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out, "Thieves!" and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; "Which is the man?" "D--me!" says Chickweed, "I've lost him again!" It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out, "Here he is!" Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.' 'What did Jem Spyers say?' inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. 'Jem Spyers,' resumed the officer, 'for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says "Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery." "Have you?" said Chickweed. "Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!" "Come!" said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, "none of that gammon! You did it yourself." So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!' said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. 'Very curious, indeed,' observed the doctor. 'Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs.' 'If _you_ please, sir,' returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward--in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. 'This,' said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, 'this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.' Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. 'You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?' said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again. 'It was all done for the--for the best, sir,' answered Giles. 'I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.' 'Thought it was what boy?' inquired the senior officer. 'The housebreaker's boy, sir!' replied Giles. 'They--they certainly had a boy.' 'Well? Do you think so now?' inquired Blathers. 'Think what, now?' replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. 'Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?' rejoined Blathers, impatiently. 'I don't know; I really don't know,' said Giles, with a rueful countenance. 'I couldn't swear to him.' 'What do you think?' asked Mr. Blathers. 'I don't know what to think,' replied poor Giles. 'I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be.' 'Has this man been a-drinking, sir?' inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. 'What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!' said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them. Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty. Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning. With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King's subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went. In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver's appearance if he should ever be called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and the former being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed. Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven--and if they be not, what prayers are!--the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them, sunk into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness. Oliver's ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on fever and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well again, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which would let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul. 'Poor fellow!' said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; 'you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.' 'The trouble!' cried Oliver. 'Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I give to do it!' 'You shall give nothing at all,' said Miss Maylie, smiling; 'for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.' 'Happy, ma'am!' cried Oliver; 'how kind of you to say so!' 'You will make me happier than I can tell you,' replied the young lady. 'To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?' she inquired, watching Oliver's thoughtful face. 'Oh yes, ma'am, yes!' replied Oliver eagerly; 'but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.' 'To whom?' inquired the young lady. 'To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me before,' rejoined Oliver. 'If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.' 'I am sure they would,' rejoined Oliver's benefactress; 'and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.' 'Has he, ma'am?' cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. 'I don't know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!' In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation. 'What's the matter with the boy?' cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. 'Do you see anything--hear anything--feel anything--eh?' 'That, sir,' cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. 'That house!' 'Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,' cried the doctor. 'What of the house, my man; eh?' 'The thieves--the house they took me to!' whispered Oliver. 'The devil it is!' cried the doctor. 'Hallo, there! let me out!' But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman. 'Halloa?' said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. 'What's the matter here?' 'Matter!' exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment's reflection. 'A good deal. Robbery is the matter.' 'There'll be Murder the matter, too,' replied the hump-backed man, coolly, 'if you don't take your hands off. Do you hear me?' 'I hear you,' said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake. 'Where's--confound the fellow, what's his rascally name--Sikes; that's it. Where's Sikes, you thief?' The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor's grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley. He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver's description! 'Now!' said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, 'what do you mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder me? Which is it?' 'Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?' said the irritable doctor. 'What do you want, then?' demanded the hunchback. 'Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!' 'As soon as I think proper,' said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver's account of it. 'I shall find you out, some day, my friend.' 'Will you?' sneered the ill-favoured cripple. 'If you ever want me, I'm here. I haven't lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.' And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage. 'Stupid enough, this,' muttered the doctor to himself; 'the boy must have made a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again.' With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage. The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. 'I am an ass!' said the doctor, after a long silence. 'Did you know that before, Oliver?' 'No, sir.' 'Then don't forget it another time.' 'An ass,' said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. 'Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good.' Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. 'Now, my boy, which house is it?' inquired Mr. Losberne. 'That! That!' replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. 'The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so.' 'Come, come!' said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. 'You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well.' 'Oh! I hope so!' cried Oliver. 'They were so good to me; so very, very good to me.' The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. 'To Let.' 'Knock at the next door,' cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. 'What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?' The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. 'Has his housekeeper gone too?' inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. 'Yes, sir'; replied the servant. 'The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together.' 'Then turn towards home again,' said Mr. Losberne to the driver; 'and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!' 'The book-stall keeper, sir?' said Oliver. 'I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!' 'My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,' said the doctor. 'Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!' And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber--a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day--was almost more than he could bear. The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey, for some months. Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to the banker's; and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them. Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it. It was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver, whose days had been spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter on a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls; the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees; and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with delicious odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard; not crowded with tall unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss: beneath which, the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliver often wandered here; and, thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but, when he raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in the ground, and would weep for her, sadly, but without pain. It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought with them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the little church: who taught him to read better, and to write: and who spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near them, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read: which he could have done, until it grew too dark to see the letters. Then, he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this, he would work hard, in a little room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them: listening with such pleasure to all they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch: that he could never be quick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, the young lady would sit down to the piano, and play some pleasant air, or sing, in a low and gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a perfect rapture. And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way in which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily too; like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows: the birds singing without: and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there together; and though the singing might be rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at least) than any he had ever heard in church before. Then, there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and pleased, than if he had been the clergyman himself. In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock, roaming the fields, and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would return laden, home; and which it took great care and consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie's birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the cages, in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had studied this science also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done. So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, and which, in Oliver's were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side; and the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude on the other; it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart, was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself. Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing. Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings of a great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those who tended him. One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping. 'Rose, my dear!' said the elder lady. Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts. 'Rose, my love!' cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. 'What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?' 'Nothing, aunt; nothing,' replied the young lady. 'I don't know what it is; I can't describe it; but I feel--' 'Not ill, my love?' interposed Mrs. Maylie. 'No, no! Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; 'I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!' Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress. 'My child!' said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, 'I never saw you so before.' 'I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' rejoined Rose; 'but indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.' She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly pale. Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning, quite well. 'I hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, 'that nothing is the matter? She don't look well to-night, but--' The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in a trembling voice: 'I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years: too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not this.' 'What?' inquired Oliver. 'The heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losing the dear girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness.' 'Oh! God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily. 'Amen to that, my child!' said the old lady, wringing her hands. 'Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?' said Oliver. 'Two hours ago, she was quite well.' 'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!' She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm. 'And consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure--certain--quite certain--that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young.' 'Hush!' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. 'You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!' Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom know themselves? An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie's predictions were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever. 'We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; 'this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.' Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once. 'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.' 'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter. 'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out. 'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently. 'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. 'I will wait until to-morrow.' With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster. Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town. Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of 'The George.' To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye. He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick. This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes. As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door. 'Hah!' cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. 'What the devil's this?' 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn't see you were coming.' 'Death!' muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. 'Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!' 'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. 'I hope I have not hurt you!' 'Rot you!' murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; 'if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?' The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.' How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. 'It is hard,' said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; 'so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.' Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother--a mother once--among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done--of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time. When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die. They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered. 'What of Rose?' cried the old lady. 'Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!' 'You must compose yourself,' said the doctor supporting her. 'Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray.' 'Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!' 'No!' cried the doctor, passionately. 'As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.' The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name. 'Here!' cried the voice. 'Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!' 'Is it you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. 'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?' 'Better--much better!' replied Oliver, hastily. 'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman. 'You are sure?' 'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver. 'The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.' The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. 'You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?' demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. 'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.' 'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver. 'Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.' The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay. All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him. 'I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles,' said he. 'I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.' 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they did.' 'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.' Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure. As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother. Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides. 'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why did you not write before?' 'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.' 'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had--I cannot utter that word now--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!' 'If that _had_ been the case, Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.' 'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young man; 'or why should I say, _if_?--It is--it is--you know it, mother--you must know it!' 'I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,' said Mrs. Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.' 'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry. 'Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?' 'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder, 'that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so.' 'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.' 'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother. 'And ever will!' said the young man. 'The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.' 'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.' 'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry. 'You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?' 'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I would have you consider--' 'I _have_ considered!' was the impatient reply; 'Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.' 'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie. 'There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,' said the young man. 'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.' 'How then?' urged the young man. 'She has formed no other attachment?' 'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,' resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, 'is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.' 'What do you mean?' 'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. Maylie. 'I must go back to her. God bless you!' 'I shall see you again to-night?' said the young man, eagerly. 'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.' 'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry. 'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie. 'And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?' 'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.' And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. 'Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. 'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. 'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?' said the doctor. 'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. 'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?' 'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; 'and sends his respectful duty, sir.' 'That's well,' said the doctor. 'Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?' Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No, no'; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning's walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering. Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence. The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive. One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep. There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent presence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness. Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him. 'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure enough. Come away.' 'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?' The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Arzt führt die Damen zu Oliver. Sie sind schockiert, wie jung und sanftmütig er aussieht. Rose kann nicht glauben, dass er freiwillig mit Räubern zusammenarbeitet, unabhängig von den Versicherungen des Arztes, dass ein angenehmes Äußeres nicht zwangsläufig ein angenehmes Inneres bedeutet, und sagt, dass selbst wenn er es war, dies aufgrund einer schwierigen Kindheit gewesen sein muss. Daher bittet sie ihre Tante, ihn nicht ins Gefängnis zu bringen, wozu ihre Tante leicht zustimmt. Der Arzt sagt, dass er ihnen helfen wird, ihm zu helfen, es sei denn, sie stellen fest, dass er bei der Befragung verhärtet ist. Oliver wacht endlich auf und sie können seine Geschichte hören. Alle drei sind zutiefst bewegt und so beschließt der Arzt, dass sie einen Weg finden müssen, ihm zu helfen. Er geht hinunter, um Giles und Brittles vor dem Polizisten zu befragen und versucht, sie einzuschüchtern, damit sie sagen, dass sie nicht mit Sicherheit schwören können, dass Oliver der Junge ist, den sie in der Nacht zuvor gesehen haben. Bevor sie antworten können, treffen die Beamten von der Bow Street ein, die am Morgen gerufen worden waren. Mr. Blathers und Mr. Duff, die Beamten, kommen herein und bitten um ein Gespräch mit Mrs. Maylie. Mr. Losberne erzählt ihnen die Geschichte des Raubüberfalls. Die Beamten glauben, dass der Raub das Werk von Männern aus der Stadt war. Mr. Blathers und Mr. Duff untersuchen den Tatort und befragen dann die Angestellten. Mr. Losberne und die Damen warten angstvoll und hoffen, dass sie Oliver nicht mitnehmen. Rose denkt, dass sie den Beamten die Wahrheit sagen sollten, aber Mr. Losberne hält das für keine gute Idee. Die einzig beweisbaren Dinge in Olivers Geschichte, stellt er fest, sind die Punkte, in denen der Junge nicht gut aussieht. Seine guten Absichten und seine Unwilligkeit, an Verbrechen teilzunehmen, sind unmöglich zu beweisen. Als die Beamten hereinkommen, ist Oliver sehr krank und Mr. Losberne erfindet eine Ausrede, um seine Wunde zu erklären. Giles sagt unter Druck, dass er nicht schwören kann, dass es derselbe Junge ist, und Brittles sagt, dass er ihn sowieso nicht erkannt hätte, sondern nur Giles' Wort dafür genommen hat. Statt sich zu schämen, ist Giles erleichtert zu denken, dass er wahrscheinlich keinen Jungen verletzt hat. Die Beamten sind überzeugt und lassen Oliver unter der Obhut von Mrs. Maylie, Mr. Losberne und Rose, wo er allmählich wieder zu Kräften kommt. Oliver, sehr krank, braucht einige Wochen, um sich zu erholen, und als er wieder zu Kräften kommt, ist er verzweifelt, seine Dankbarkeit gegenüber Mrs. Maylie und Miss Rose zu zeigen, kann aber immer noch nichts tun, weil er zu schwach ist. Rose teilt ihm mit, dass sie planen, ihn bald in ihr Landhaus zu bringen, wo er mehr Zeit zur Erholung haben wird. Er zeigt Interesse daran, Mr. Brownlow und Mrs. Bedwin wiederzusehen, um sich für ihre frühere Hilfe zu bedanken, und Rose sagt, dass er das tun wird, sobald er gesund ist. Als dieser Tag kommt, machen sich Oliver und Mr. Losberne auf den Weg, aber auf dem Weg kommen sie an dem Haus an der Chertsey Bridge vorbei und erkennen es. Mr. Losberne geht hinein, findet jedoch nur einen wütenden und verrückten Buckligen, der behauptet, er lebe seit fünfundzwanzig Jahren dort. Mr. Losberne nimmt an, dass Oliver sich geirrt hat. Als sie schließlich bei Mr. Brownlowas Haus ankommen, finden sie es leer mit einem "Zu vermieten"-Schild, und die Nachbarzofen erzählen ihnen, dass Mr. Brownlow vor sechs Wochen in die Westindischen Inseln gereist ist. Oliver ist zutiefst enttäuscht, dass er seine Dankbarkeit nicht ausdrücken oder seinen Namen bei Mr. Brownlow und Mrs. Bedwin reinwaschen kann. Kurz darauf verlassen Mrs. Maylie und Rose mit Oliver das Haus, um in ihre Hütte auf dem Land zu ziehen. Oliver genießt die Zeit auf dem Land sehr, spaziert mit Mrs. Maylie und Rose, bekommt Unterricht von einem alten Mann im Dorf, betreibt Gartenarbeit und geht sonntags in die Kirche. Im Sommer ist Oliver endlich gesund, aber Gesundheit mindert seine Dankbarkeit oder Sanftmut nicht. Eines Tages, während Rose Klavier spielt, fängt sie an zu weinen. Sie kann nicht aufhören, und es kommt heraus, dass sie sehr krank ist, aber ihre Krankheit geheim gehalten hat, um niemanden zu beunruhigen. Mrs. Maylie schickt sie ins Bett und versucht, sie zu trösten, aber sie macht Oliver deutlich, dass sie sich große Sorgen um sie macht. Am nächsten Morgen ist Rose ziemlich krank. Mrs. Maylie schickt Oliver mit einem Brief los, um Mr. Losberne zu holen. Oliver geht so schnell er kann und, nachdem er es geschickt hat, als er geht, läuft er einem großen Mann über den Weg, den er für verrückt hält, und der einen Anfall hat. Oliver holt Hilfe und rennt dann zurück zu Mrs. Maylie. Während Oliver weg war, hat sich Roses Zustand deutlich verschlechtert. Mr. Losberne kommt und glaubt, dass es sehr wenig Hoffnung gibt. Rose fällt in ein Koma, aber überraschenderweise erwacht sie, und Mr. Losberne ist überzeugt, dass sie sich vollständig erholen wird. Nach dieser Nachricht fällt Mrs. Maylie vor Freude und Erschöpfung in Ohnmacht. Oliver geht hinaus, um Blumen für Rose zu holen. Auf dem Heimweg sieht er einen Postkutschenwagen schnell vorbeifahren, mit einem Mann drin, der Oliver bekannt vorkommt. Es ist Mr. Giles, der Oliver sieht und ihn nach Neuigkeiten von Rose fragt. Mr. Giles weint vor Freude, als er die guten Nachrichten hört. Ein anderer Mann, Mr. Harry Maylie, der Sohn von Mrs. Maylie, ist ebenfalls im Wagen. Als sie das Haus erreichen, ist Harry wütend, dass Mrs. Maylie ihn nicht früher über Roses Krankheit informiert hat, denn er ist tief in sie verliebt. Mrs. Maylie steht dem nicht vollständig positiv gegenüber, weil sie befürchtet, dass im Laufe der Zeit Roses zweifelhafte Herkunft und die Gerüchte darüber bei Harry zu Groll führen werden, aber sie sagt, dass sie Harry nicht im Weg stehen wird. Mrs. Maylie geht zu Rose, die zu schwach ist, um jemand anderen zu sehen, und Mr. Losberne, Harry und Oliver verbringen den Abend zusammen. Harry beginnt, Oliver morgens auf seinen Blumensammeltouren zu begleiten. Eines Abends fällt Oliver in eine Art Halbschlaf beim Lernen. In diesem Zustand meint Oliver, Fagin und einen anderen Mann zu hören, und wird durch ihre Stimmen geweckt. Es beunruhigt ihn, sie direkt auf der anderen Seite des Fensters stehen zu sehen, und als er den Kopf hebt, haben sie Blickkontakt. Es ist offensichtlich, dass sie ihn erkennen. Oliver erkennt sie auch: Fagin und der Verrückte von draußen vor dem Postamt. Er springt in den Garten und ruft um Hilfe.

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 VII DIE LIEBE DES AUTORS ZU SEINEM LAND. ER MACHT EINEN VORSCHLAG VON GROSSEM VORTEIL FÜR DEN KÖNIG, DER ABGELEHNT WIRD. DIE GROSSE UNWISSENHEIT DES KÖNIGS IN POLITIK. DAS LERNEN DES LANDES SEHR UNVOLLSTÄNDIG UND BEGRENZT. DIE GESETZE UND MILITÄRANGELGENHEITEN UND PARTEIEN IM STAAT. Nichts als eine extreme Liebe zur Wahrheit konnte mich davon abhalten, diesen Teil meiner Geschichte zu verschweigen. Meine Empörungen waren vergeblich, sie wurden immer ins Lächerliche gezogen, und ich musste geduldig ausharren, während mein edles und geliebtes Land so ungerecht behandelt wurde. Es tut mir aufrichtig leid – genauso wie meinen Lesern – dass sich eine solche Gelegenheit bot. Aber dieser Prinz war so neugierig und wissbegierig in jeder Hinsicht, dass es weder mit Dankbarkeit noch guten Manieren vereinbar gewesen wäre, ihm die gewünschte Aufklärung zu verweigern. Dennoch darf ich, zur eigenen Verteidigung, sagen, dass ich viele seiner Fragen gekonnt umgangen und jedem Punkt eine weitaus positivere Wendung gegeben habe, als es die Strenge der Wahrheit erlaubt hätte. Denn ich hege stets diese lobenswerte Vorliebe für mein eigenes Land, die Dionysius Halicarnassensis mit so viel Recht einem Geschichtsschreiber empfiehlt: Ich würde die Schwächen und Missbildungen meiner politischen Mutter verbergen und ihre Tugenden und Schönheiten ins beste Licht rücken. Dies war mein aufrichtiger Versuch in den vielen Unterredungen, die ich mit dem Monarchen führte, auch wenn er bedauerlicherweise keinen Erfolg hatte. Aber einem König, der völlig von der übrigen Welt abgeschirmt lebt und daher keine Kenntnis von den Sitten und Bräuchen hat, die in anderen Nationen vorherrschen, sollten große Zugeständnisse gemacht werden. Das Fehlen dieses Wissens führt immer zu vielen Vorurteilen und zu einer gewissen Engstirnigkeit, von der wir und die gebildeteren Länder Europas gänzlich befreit sind. Und es wäre in der Tat ungerecht, wenn die Vorstellungen eines so abgelegenen Prinzen von Tugend und Laster als Maßstab für die gesamte Menschheit betrachtet würden. Um das, was ich jetzt gesagt habe, zu bestätigen und die miserablen Auswirkungen einer begrenzten Bildung zu zeigen, werde ich hier eine Passage einfügen, die kaum glaubhaft sein wird. In der Hoffnung, mich noch mehr in die Gunst seiner Majestät einzuschmeicheln, erzählte ich ihm von einer Erfindung, die vor dreihundert oder vierhundert Jahren gemacht wurde und die es ermöglicht, ein bestimmtes Pulver zu einem Haufen zusammenzustellen, auf den der kleinste Funke Feuer fallen würde und der sich in einem Moment entzünden würde, selbst wenn er so groß wie ein Berg wäre, und ihn mit einem Getöse und einer Unruhe, die größer als Donner sind, in die Luft zu jagen. Dass eine angemessene Menge dieses Pulvers in ein hohles Rohr aus Messing oder Eisen gestopft werden könnte, je nach seiner Größe, und eine Kugel aus Eisen oder Blei mit solcher Gewalt und Geschwindigkeit fortgerissen würde, dass nichts ihrer Kraft standhalten könnte. Dass die größten abgefeuerten Kugeln nicht nur ganze Reihen einer Armee auf einmal vernichten würden, sondern auch die stärksten Mauern in den Grund schlagen, mit Tausenden von Männern behaftete Schiffe auf den Grund des Meeres sinken und, wenn sie an einer Kette befestigt sind, Masten und Takelage durchschneiden, Hunderte von Körpern in der Mitte teilen und alles verwüsten würden. Dass wir dieses Pulver oft in große hohle Eisenkugeln tun und sie mit einer Maschine in eine Stadt schleudern, die wir belagern, was die Straßen aufreißt, die Häuser in Stücke reißt, zerbricht und von jeder Seite Splitter herausschleudert und allen, die sich in der Nähe aufhalten, die Gehirne zertrümmert. Dass ich die Inhaltsstoffe sehr gut kannte, die billig und allgemein verfügbar waren. Ich kannte die Art und Weise, wie sie zusammengesetzt werden, und konnte seinen Arbeitern sagen, wie sie diese Rohre in einer Größe herstellen könnten, die allen anderen Dingen im Königreich seiner Majestät entspricht, und das größte Rohr müsste nicht länger als hundert Fuß sein. Zwanzig oder dreißig solcher Röhren, mit der richtigen Menge Pulver und Kugeln aufgeladen, würden die Mauern der stärksten Stadt in seinem Herrschaftsgebiet in wenigen Stunden niederreißen oder die ganze Metropole zerstören, wenn sie jemals seine absoluten Befehle in Frage stellen sollte. Das biete ich seiner Majestät demütig als kleinen Tribut der Anerkennung für so viele Zeichen seiner königlichen Gunst und Beschützung an. Der König war entsetzt über die Beschreibung, die ich ihm von diesen furchterregenden Maschinen und dem von mir gemachten Vorschlag gegeben hatte. Er war erstaunt, wie ein so impotentes und erbärmliches Insekt wie ich (das waren seine Worte) solch unmenschliche Ideen in so vertrauter Weise haben konnte, dass es bei all den Szenen des Blutvergießens und der Verwüstung, die ich als die üblichen Folgen dieser zerstörerischen Maschinen geschildert hatte, völlig unberührt blieb. Von einem so bösen Genius, einem Feind der Menschheit, müsse der erste Erfinder gewesen sein. Was ihn selbst betraf, erklärte er, dass ihn zwar nur wenige Dinge so sehr erfreuten wie neue Entdeckungen in Kunst oder Natur, er aber lieber die Hälfte seines Königreichs verlieren würde, als in den Besitz eines solchen Geheimnisses zu kommen, von dem er mich, sofern ich mein Leben schätze, aufforderte, nie wieder zu sprechen. Ein seltsamer Effekt enger Grundsätze und kurzsichtiger Ansichten! Dass ein Prinz, der mit allen Eigenschaften ausgestattet ist, die Ehrfurcht, Liebe und Achtung erwerben; mit starkem Verstand, großer Weisheit und tiefer Bildung begabt; mit bewundernswerten Talenten für Regierungsführung und nahezu von seinen Untertanen angebetet, aufgrund eines unnötigen Gewissenskonflikts, von dem wir in Europa uns keine Vorstellung machen können, die Gelegenheit entgleiten lässt, die ihm in die Hände gelegt wurde, um absoluter Herr über das Leben, die Freiheit und das Vermögen seines Volkes zu werden. Ich sage dies nicht, um die vielen Tugenden dieses ausgezeichneten Königs herabzusetzen, dessen Charakter in den Augen eines englischen Lesers aufgrund dieses Mangels sehr beeinträchtigt sein wird; aber ich führe diese Schwäche unter ihnen auf ihre Unwissenheit zurück, da sie bisher die Politik noch nicht zur Wissenschaft erhoben haben, wie es die schärferen Köpfe Europas getan haben. Denn ich erinnere mich sehr gut an ein Gespräch mit dem König an einem Tag, als ich zufällig sagte, dass bei uns Tausende von Büchern über die Kunst der Regierung geschrieben wurden, es ihm (direkt entgegen meiner Absicht) einen sehr geringen Eindruck von unserem Verständnis vermittelte. Er bekannte, sowohl Geheimnisse als auch Verfeinerung und Intrige in einem Fürsten oder Minister zu verabscheuen und zu verachten. Er konnte nicht verstehen, was ich mit Staatsgeheimnissen meinte, wenn es nicht um einen Feind oder eine andere rivalisierende Nation ging. Das Wissen über Regierungsführung beschränkte er auf sehr enge Grenzen: auf gesunden Menschenverstand und Vernunft, auf Gerechtigkeit und Milde, auf die schnelle Entscheidung zivil- und strafrechtlicher Angelegenheiten und einige andere offensichtliche Themen, die es nicht wert sind, erwähnt zu werden. Und er gab seine Meinung ab, dass jeder, der zwei Körner Getreide oder zwei Grashalme auf einem Fleck Land wachsen lassen könne, wo zuvor nur einer gewachsen war, mehr Anerkennung und einen größeren Dienst für die Menschheit leisten würde als die gesamte Truppe der Politiker zusammen. Das Wissen dieses Volkes ist sehr mangelhaft und beschränkt sich lediglich auf Moral, Geschichte, Poesie und Mathematik, in denen sie Sie haben die Kunst des Druckens genau wie die Chinesen schon seit ewiger Zeit beherrscht, aber ihre Bibliotheken sind nicht sehr groß. Die des Königs, die als die größte gilt, umfasst nur etwa tausend Bände, die in einer Galerie von zwölfhundert Fuß Länge aufgestellt sind, von der ich die Freiheit hatte, mir Bücher auszuleihen, wenn ich wollte. Der Schreiner der Königin hatte in einem der Räume von Glumdalclitch eine Art hölzerne Maschine errichtet, die fünfundzwanzig Fuß hoch war und wie eine stehende Leiter geformt war. Die Stufen waren jeweils fünfzig Fuß lang. Es war tatsächlich eine bewegliche Treppe, von denen das untere Ende zehn Fuß von der Wand der Kammer entfernt war. Das Buch, das ich lesen wollte, war gegen die Wand gelehnt. Ich stieg zuerst auf die oberste Stufe der Leiter und wandte mein Gesicht dem Buch zu. Ich begann oben auf der Seite zu lesen und ging dann etwa acht bis zehn Schritte nach rechts und links, abhängig von der Länge der Zeilen, bis ich ein wenig unter die Augenhöhe gelangt war. Dann ging ich langsam abwärts, bis ich unten angekommen war. Danach stieg ich erneut auf und begann die andere Seite auf die gleiche Weise und blätterte dann um, was ich leicht mit beiden Händen tun konnte, da es so dick und steif wie ein starker Karton war und die größten Folianten höchstens achtzehn oder zwanzig Fuß lang waren. Ihr Stil ist klar, männlich und flüssig, aber nicht blumig. Sie vermeiden nichts mehr als das Vermehren unnötiger Wörter oder die Verwendung verschiedener Ausdrücke. Ich habe viele ihrer Bücher durchgesehen, besonders solche über Geschichte und Moral. Unter den anderen habe ich mich sehr mit einem kleinen alten Traktat amüsiert, das immer in Glumdalclitchs Schlafzimmer lag und ihrer Gouvernante gehörte, einer ernsthaften älteren Dame, die sich mit Schriften über Moral und Frömmigkeit beschäftigte. Das Buch behandelt die Schwäche der menschlichen Natur und hat außer bei den Frauen und dem Pöbel wenig Ansehen. Dennoch war ich neugierig, was ein Autor dieses Landes zu einem solchen Thema sagen konnte. Dieser Autor behandelt alle üblichen Themen der europäischen Moralisten und zeigt, wie winzig, verachtenswert und hilflos der Mensch von Natur aus ist. Er ist unfähig, sich gegen die Unbilden der Luft oder die Wut wilder Tiere zu verteidigen. Er wird von einer Kreatur an Kraft, von einer anderen an Geschwindigkeit, von einer dritten an Voraussicht und von einer vierten an Fleiß übertroffen. Er behauptet, dass die Natur in diesen späteren, verfallenden Zeitaltern der Welt entartet sei und nun nur noch kleine Geburten hervorbringen könne im Vergleich zu denen in der Antike. Er sagte, es sei sehr vernünftig anzunehmen, dass die Menschen ursprünglich viel größer waren und dass es in früheren Zeiten Riesen gegeben haben musste. Dies wird sowohl durch Geschichtsschreibung als auch durch Tradition behauptet und durch riesige Knochen und Schädel bestätigt, die zufällig an verschiedenen Orten des Königreichs gefunden wurden und die gewöhnliche, schrumpfende Rasse des Menschen in unserer Zeit bei Weitem übertreffen. Er argumentierte, dass die Gesetze der Natur unbedingt erforderten, dass wir von Anfang an in einer größeren und robusteren Größe geschaffen worden wären, die nicht so leicht durch jeden kleinen Unfall zerstört werden könnte, sei es ein Ziegelfall vom Dach, ein von einem Jungen geworfener Stein oder das Ertrinken in einem kleinen Bach. Aus dieser Art des Denkens zog der Autor mehrere moralische Anwendungen, die im Leben nützlich sind, aber hier nicht wiederholt werden müssen. Ich konnte nicht umhin, darüber nachzudenken, wie universell dieses Talent verbreitet ist, Vorlesungen über Moral zu halten oder eher über Unzufriedenheit und Unmut, die wir über unsere Verabredungen mit der Natur haben. Und ich glaube, bei genauerer Betrachtung könnten sich herausstellen, dass diese Konflikte unter uns genauso unbegründet sind wie bei diesem Volk. Was ihre militärischen Angelegenheiten betrifft, so rühmen sie sich damit, dass das Heer des Königs aus hundertsechsundsiebzigtausend Fußsoldaten und zweiunddreißigtausend Reitern besteht. Wenn man das, was sich als Armee bezeichnen lässt, so nennen kann, wenn es sich aus Handwerkern in den verschiedenen Städten und Bauern im Land zusammensetzt, deren Kommandeure nur der Adel und das Bürgertum sind, ohne Bezahlung oder Belohnung. Sie sind tatsächlich perfekt in ihren Übungen und unter sehr guter Disziplin, aber darin sah ich keine große Leistung, denn wie sollte es anders sein, wenn jeder Bauer dem Befehl seines eigenen Landlords untersteht und jeder Bürger dem der führenden Männer in seiner eigenen Stadt, gewählt nach der Art von Venedig, per Los? Ich habe oft die Miliz von Lorbrulgrud auf einem großen Feld in der Nähe der Stadt, von zwanzig Meilen mal zwanzig Meilen, zu Übungen antreten sehen. Insgesamt waren sie nicht mehr als fünfundzwanzigtausend Fußsoldaten und sechstausend Reiter. Aber es war unmöglich für mich, ihre Anzahl zu berechnen, angesichts des Platzes, den sie in Anspruch nahmen. Ein Kavallerist, der auf einem großen Pferd saß, könnte etwa neunzig Fuß hoch sein. Ich habe dieses gesamte Pferdeheer auf ein Signal hin gesehen, ihre Schwerter gleichzeitig zu ziehen und sie in die Luft zu schwingen. Man kann sich nichts so Großes, Überraschendes und Erstaunliches vorstellen! Es sah aus, als würden zehntausend Blitze zur gleichen Zeit aus allen Himmelsrichtungen schießen. Ich war neugierig zu erfahren, wie dieser Prinz, dessen Herrschaftsgebiet von keinem anderen Land aus zugänglich ist, daran dachte, Armeen zu gründen oder sein Volk in militärischer Disziplin zu unterrichten. Aber ich wurde bald sowohl durch Gespräche als auch durch das Lesen ihrer Geschichte informiert: Denn im Laufe vieler Jahrhunderte wurden sie mit derselben Krankheit geplagt, der die ganze Menschheit unterliegt; der Adel kämpft oft um Macht, das Volk um Freiheit und der König um absolute Herrschaft. All dies wurde jedoch glücklicherweise von den Gesetzen dieses Königreichs in einer Weise gemildert, die manchmal von jeder der drei Parteien verletzt wurden und mehr als einmal Bürgerkriege verursacht haben, die zuletzt von dem Großvater dieses Prinzen in einer allgemeinen Vereinbarung beendet wurden. Und die Miliz, die damals mit allgemeiner Zustimmung gegründet wurde, wurde seitdem in strengster Disziplin gehalten. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Gulliver sitzt da und hört sich die intensive Kritik des Königs an England an. Er schweigt, weil es undankbar von ihm wäre, dem König, seinem Wohltäter, zu widersprechen. Er versichert uns auch, dass wir dem brobdingnagischen König seine Kritik an England verzeihen sollten - wie könnte der König es besser wissen, wenn sein eigenes Land so abgelegen von allen anderen Ländern der Welt ist? Um zu beweisen, wie unwissend und albern der König ist, erzählt uns Gulliver, den Lesern, dass er dem König angeboten hat, ihm zu zeigen, wie man Schießpulver herstellen kann, um seine Feinde zu unterwerfen. Der brobdingnagische König hört sich Gullivers Beschreibung von Waffen an und ist völlig entsetzt. Er lässt sich von Gulliver versprechen, nie wieder auch nur das Wort an diese Waffen zu verlieren. Gulliver ruft dem Leser zu, wie töricht der brobdingnagische König ist, der diese großartige Gelegenheit zur Macht einfach verstreichen lässt. Gulliver kritisiert auch die brobdingnagische Bildung, die sich auf praktische Anwendungen von Wissen konzentriert und nicht auf abstrakte Geheimnisse. In Brobdingnag darf kein Gesetz länger als 20 Wörter sein. Es gibt auch nicht viele Bücher. Er kommentiert die Klarheit ihres Schreibstils: Sie verwenden nie zu viele Wörter, und alles erscheint in einfacher Sprache. Die Armee des Königs ist gut diszipliniert, weil alle Soldaten Bauern und Handwerker sind, die unter ihren eigenen Landbesitzern und führenden Bürgern dienen. Gulliver fragt sich, warum der König überhaupt Armeen hat, wenn es keine anderen Länder in der Nähe gibt. Es stellt sich heraus, dass es in Brobdingnag mehrere Bürgerkriege zwischen Adligen, die nach Macht streben, dem Volk, das nach Freiheit strebt, und dem König, der nach uneingeschränkter Macht strebt, gegeben hat. Infolge dieser Bürgerkriege sind alle drei - die Adligen, das Volk und der König - übereingekommen, dass sie eine Miliz zur Aufrechterhaltung des Friedens 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: On our way to town Ernest broached his plans for spending the next year or two. I wanted him to try and get more into society again, but he brushed this aside at once as the very last thing he had a fancy for. For society indeed of all sorts, except of course that of a few intimate friends, he had an unconquerable aversion. "I always did hate those people," he said, "and they always have hated and always will hate me. I am an Ishmael by instinct as much as by accident of circumstances, but if I keep out of society I shall be less vulnerable than Ishmaels generally are. The moment a man goes into society, he becomes vulnerable all round." I was very sorry to hear him talk in this way; for whatever strength a man may have he should surely be able to make more of it if he act in concert than alone. I said this. "I don't care," he answered, "whether I make the most of my strength or not; I don't know whether I have any strength, but if I have I dare say it will find some way of exerting itself. I will live as I like living, not as other people would like me to live; thanks to my aunt and you I can afford the luxury of a quiet unobtrusive life of self-indulgence," said he laughing, "and I mean to have it. You know I like writing," he added after a pause of some minutes, "I have been a scribbler for years. If I am to come to the fore at all it must be by writing." I had already long since come to that conclusion myself. "Well," he continued, "there are a lot of things that want saying which no one dares to say, a lot of shams which want attacking, and yet no one attacks them. It seems to me that I can say things which not another man in England except myself will venture to say, and yet which are crying to be said." I said: "But who will listen? If you say things which nobody else would dare to say is not this much the same as saying what everyone except yourself knows to be better left unsaid just now?" "Perhaps," said he, "but I don't know it; I am bursting with these things, and it is my fate to say them." I knew there would be no stopping him, so I gave in and asked what question he felt a special desire to burn his fingers with in the first instance. "Marriage," he rejoined promptly, "and the power of disposing of his property after a man is dead. The question of Christianity is virtually settled, or if not settled there is no lack of those engaged in settling it. The question of the day now is marriage and the family system." "That," said I drily, "is a hornet's nest indeed." "Yes," said he no less drily, "but hornet's nests are exactly what I happen to like. Before, however, I begin to stir up this particular one I propose to travel for a few years, with the especial object of finding out what nations now existing are the best, comeliest and most lovable, and also what nations have been so in times past. I want to find out how these people live, and have lived, and what their customs are. "I have very vague notions upon the subject as yet, but the general impression I have formed is that, putting ourselves on one side, the most vigorous and amiable of known nations are the modern Italians, the old Greeks and Romans, and the South Sea Islanders. I believe that these nice peoples have not as a general rule been purists, but I want to see those of them who can yet be seen; they are the practical authorities on the question--What is best for man? and I should like to see them and find out what they do. Let us settle the fact first and fight about the moral tendencies afterwards." "In fact," said I laughingly, "you mean to have high old times." "Neither higher nor lower," was the answer, "than those people whom I can find to have been the best in all ages. But let us change the subject." He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a letter. "My father," he said, "gave me this letter this morning with the seal already broken." He passed it over to me, and I found it to be the one which Christina had written before the birth of her last child, and which I have given in an earlier chapter. "And you do not find this letter," said I, "affect the conclusion which you have just told me you have come to concerning your present plans?" He smiled, and answered: "No. But if you do what you have sometimes talked about and turn the adventures of my unworthy self into a novel, mind you print this letter." "Why so?" said I, feeling as though such a letter as this should have been held sacred from the public gaze. "Because my mother would have wished it published; if she had known you were writing about me and had this letter in your possession, she would above all things have desired that you should publish it. Therefore publish it if you write at all." This is why I have done so. Within a month Ernest carried his intention into effect, and having made all the arrangements necessary for his children's welfare left England before Christmas. I heard from him now and again and learnt that he was visiting almost all parts of the world, but only staying in those places where he found the inhabitants unusually good-looking and agreeable. He said he had filled an immense quantity of note-books, and I have no doubt he had. At last in the spring of 1867 he returned, his luggage stained with the variation of each hotel advertisement 'twixt here and Japan. He looked very brown and strong, and so well favoured that it almost seemed as if he must have caught some good looks from the people among whom he had been living. He came back to his old rooms in the Temple, and settled down as easily as if he had never been away a day. One of the first things we did was to go and see the children; we took the train to Gravesend, and walked thence for a few miles along the riverside till we came to the solitary house where the good people lived with whom Ernest had placed them. It was a lovely April morning, but with a fresh air blowing from off the sea; the tide was high, and the river was alive with shipping coming up with wind and tide. Sea-gulls wheeled around us overhead, sea-weed clung everywhere to the banks which the advancing tide had not yet covered, everything was of the sea sea-ey, and the fine bracing air which blew over the water made me feel more hungry than I had done for many a day; I did not see how children could live in a better physical atmosphere than this, and applauded the selection which Ernest had made on behalf of his youngsters. While we were still a quarter of a mile off we heard shouts and children's laughter, and could see a lot of boys and girls romping together and running after one another. We could not distinguish our own two, but when we got near they were soon made out, for the other children were blue-eyed, flaxen-pated little folks, whereas ours were dark and straight-haired. We had written to say that we were coming, but had desired that nothing should be said to the children, so these paid no more attention to us than they would have done to any other stranger, who happened to visit a spot so unfrequented except by sea-faring folk, which we plainly were not. The interest, however, in us was much quickened when it was discovered that we had got our pockets full of oranges and sweeties, to an extent greater than it had entered into their small imaginations to conceive as possible. At first we had great difficulty in making them come near us. They were like a lot of wild young colts, very inquisitive, but very coy and not to be cajoled easily. The children were nine in all--five boys and two girls belonging to Mr and Mrs Rollings, and two to Ernest. I never saw a finer lot of children than the young Rollings, the boys were hardy, robust, fearless little fellows with eyes as clear as hawks; the elder girl was exquisitely pretty, but the younger one was a mere baby. I felt as I looked at them, that if I had had children of my own I could have wished no better home for them, nor better companions. Georgie and Alice, Ernest's two children, were evidently quite as one family with the others, and called Mr and Mrs Rollings uncle and aunt. They had been so young when they were first brought to the house that they had been looked upon in the light of new babies who had been born into the family. They knew nothing about Mr and Mrs Rollings being paid so much a week to look after them. Ernest asked them all what they wanted to be. They had only one idea; one and all, Georgie among the rest, wanted to be bargemen. Young ducks could hardly have a more evident hankering after the water. "And what do you want, Alice?" said Ernest. "Oh," she said, "I'm going to marry Jack here, and be a bargeman's wife." Jack was the eldest boy, now nearly twelve, a sturdy little fellow, the image of what Mr Rollings must have been at his age. As we looked at him, so straight and well grown and well done all round, I could see it was in Ernest's mind as much as in mine that she could hardly do much better. "Come here, Jack, my boy," said Ernest, "here's a shilling for you." The boy blushed and could hardly be got to come in spite of our previous blandishments; he had had pennies given him before, but shillings never. His father caught him good-naturedly by the ear and lugged him to us. "He's a good boy, Jack is," said Ernest to Mr Rollings, "I'm sure of that." "Yes," said Mr Rollings, "he's a werry good boy, only that I can't get him to learn his reading and writing. He don't like going to school, that's the only complaint I have against him. I don't know what's the matter with all my children, and yours, Mr Pontifex, is just as bad, but they none of 'em likes book learning, though they learn anything else fast enough. Why, as for Jack here, he's almost as good a bargeman as I am." And he looked fondly and patronisingly towards his offspring. "I think," said Ernest to Mr Rollings, "if he wants to marry Alice when he gets older he had better do so, and he shall have as many barges as he likes. In the meantime, Mr Rollings, say in what way money can be of use to you, and whatever you can make useful is at your disposal." I need hardly say that Ernest made matters easy for this good couple; one stipulation, however, he insisted on, namely, there was to be no more smuggling, and that the young people were to be kept out of this; for a little bird had told Ernest that smuggling in a quiet way was one of the resources of the Rollings family. Mr Rollings was not sorry to assent to this, and I believe it is now many years since the coastguard people have suspected any of the Rollings family as offenders against the revenue law. "Why should I take them from where they are," said Ernest to me in the train as we went home, "to send them to schools where they will not be one half so happy, and where their illegitimacy will very likely be a worry to them? Georgie wants to be a bargeman, let him begin as one, the sooner the better; he may as well begin with this as with anything else; then if he shows developments I can be on the look-out to encourage them and make things easy for him; while if he shows no desire to go ahead, what on earth is the good of trying to shove him forward?" Ernest, I believe, went on with a homily upon education generally, and upon the way in which young people should go through the embryonic stages with their money as much as with their limbs, beginning life in a much lower social position than that in which their parents were, and a lot more, which he has since published; but I was getting on in years, and the walk and the bracing air had made me sleepy, so ere we had got past Greenhithe Station on our return journey I had sunk into a refreshing sleep. Ernest being about two and thirty years old and having had his fling for the last three or four years, now settled down in London, and began to write steadily. Up to this time he had given abundant promise, but had produced nothing, nor indeed did he come before the public for another three or four years yet. He lived as I have said very quietly, seeing hardly anyone but myself, and the three or four old friends with whom I had been intimate for years. Ernest and we formed our little set, and outside of this my godson was hardly known at all. His main expense was travelling, which he indulged in at frequent intervals, but for short times only. Do what he would he could not get through more than about fifteen hundred a year; the rest of his income he gave away if he happened to find a case where he thought money would be well bestowed, or put by until some opportunity arose of getting rid of it with advantage. I knew he was writing, but we had had so many little differences of opinion upon this head that by a tacit understanding the subject was seldom referred to between us, and I did not know that he was actually publishing till one day he brought me a book and told me flat it was his own. I opened it and found it to be a series of semi-theological, semi- social essays, purporting to have been written by six or seven different people, and viewing the same class of subjects from different standpoints. People had not yet forgotten the famous "Essays and Reviews," and Ernest had wickedly given a few touches to at least two of the essays which suggested vaguely that they had been written by a bishop. The essays were all of them in support of the Church of England, and appeared both by internal suggestion, and their prima facie purport to be the work of some half-dozen men of experience and high position who had determined to face the difficult questions of the day no less boldly from within the bosom of the Church than the Church's enemies had faced them from without her pale. There was an essay on the external evidences of the Resurrection; another on the marriage laws of the most eminent nations of the world in times past and present; another was devoted to a consideration of the many questions which must be reopened and reconsidered on their merits if the teaching of the Church of England were to cease to carry moral authority with it; another dealt with the more purely social subject of middle class destitution; another with the authenticity or rather the unauthenticity of the fourth gospel--another was headed "Irrational Rationalism," and there were two or three more. They were all written vigorously and fearlessly as though by people used to authority; all granted that the Church professed to enjoin belief in much which no one could accept who had been accustomed to weigh evidence; but it was contended that so much valuable truth had got so closely mixed up with these mistakes, that the mistakes had better not be meddled with. To lay great stress on these was like cavilling at the Queen's right to reign, on the ground that William the Conqueror was illegitimate. One article maintained that though it would be inconvenient to change the words of our prayer book and articles, it would not be inconvenient to change in a quiet way the meanings which we put upon those words. This, it was argued, was what was actually done in the case of law; this had been the law's mode of growth and adaptation, and had in all ages been found a righteous and convenient method of effecting change. It was suggested that the Church should adopt it. In another essay it was boldly denied that the Church rested upon reason. It was proved incontestably that its ultimate foundation was and ought to be faith, there being indeed no other ultimate foundation than this for any of man's beliefs. If so, the writer claimed that the Church could not be upset by reason. It was founded, like everything else, on initial assumptions, that is to say on faith, and if it was to be upset it was to be upset by faith, by the faith of those who in their lives appeared more graceful, more lovable, better bred, in fact, and better able to overcome difficulties. Any sect which showed its superiority in these respects might carry all before it, but none other would make much headway for long together. Christianity was true in so far as it had fostered beauty, and it had fostered much beauty. It was false in so far as it fostered ugliness, and it had fostered much ugliness. It was therefore not a little true and not a little false; on the whole one might go farther and fare worse; the wisest course would be to live with it, and make the best and not the worst of it. The writer urged that we become persecutors as a matter of course as soon as we begin to feel very strongly upon any subject; we ought not therefore to do this; we ought not to feel very strongly--even upon that institution which was dearer to the writer than any other--the Church of England. We should be churchmen, but somewhat lukewarm churchmen, inasmuch as those who care very much about either religion or irreligion are seldom observed to be very well bred or agreeable people. The Church herself should approach as nearly to that of Laodicea as was compatible with her continuing to be a Church at all, and each individual member should only be hot in striving to be as lukewarm as possible. The book rang with the courage alike of conviction and of an entire absence of conviction; it appeared to be the work of men who had a rule- of-thumb way of steering between iconoclasm on the one hand and credulity on the other; who cut Gordian knots as a matter of course when it suited their convenience; who shrank from no conclusion in theory, nor from any want of logic in practice so long as they were illogical of malice prepense, and for what they held to be sufficient reason. The conclusions were conservative, quietistic, comforting. The arguments by which they were reached were taken from the most advanced writers of the day. All that these people contended for was granted them, but the fruits of victory were for the most part handed over to those already in possession. Perhaps the passage which attracted most attention in the book was one from the essay on the various marriage systems of the world. It ran:-- "If people require us to construct," exclaimed the writer, "we set good breeding as the corner-stone of our edifice. We would have it ever present consciously or unconsciously in the minds of all as the central faith in which they should live and move and have their being, as the touchstone of all things whereby they may be known as good or evil according as they make for good breeding or against it." "That a man should have been bred well and breed others well; that his figure, head, hands, feet, voice, manner and clothes should carry conviction upon this point, so that no one can look at him without seeing that he has come of good stock and is likely to throw good stock himself, this is the _desiderandum_. And the same with a woman. The greatest number of these well-bred men and women, and the greatest happiness of these well-bred men and women, this is the highest good; towards this all government, all social conventions, all art, literature and science should directly or indirectly tend. Holy men and holy women are those who keep this unconsciously in view at all times whether of work or pastime." If Ernest had published this work in his own name I should think it would have fallen stillborn from the press, but the form he had chosen was calculated at that time to arouse curiosity, and as I have said he had wickedly dropped a few hints which the reviewers did not think anyone would have been impudent enough to do if he were not a bishop, or at any rate some one in authority. A well-known judge was spoken of as being another of the writers, and the idea spread ere long that six or seven of the leading bishops and judges had laid their heads together to produce a volume, which should at once outbid "Essays and Reviews" and counteract the influence of that then still famous work. Reviewers are men of like passions with ourselves, and with them as with everyone else _omne ignotum pro magnifico_. The book was really an able one and abounded with humour, just satire, and good sense. It struck a new note and the speculation which for some time was rife concerning its authorship made many turn to it who would never have looked at it otherwise. One of the most gushing weeklies had a fit over it, and declared it to be the finest thing that had been done since the "Provincial Letters" of Pascal. Once a month or so that weekly always found some picture which was the finest that had been done since the old masters, or some satire that was the finest that had appeared since Swift or some something which was incomparably the finest that had appeared since something else. If Ernest had put his name to the book, and the writer had known that it was by a nobody, he would doubtless have written in a very different strain. Reviewers like to think that for aught they know they are patting a Duke or even a Prince of the blood upon the back, and lay it on thick till they find they have been only praising Brown, Jones or Robinson. Then they are disappointed, and as a general rule will pay Brown, Jones or Robinson out. Ernest was not so much up to the ropes of the literary world as I was, and I am afraid his head was a little turned when he woke up one morning to find himself famous. He was Christina's son, and perhaps would not have been able to do what he had done if he was not capable of occasional undue elation. Ere long, however, he found out all about it, and settled quietly down to write a series of books, in which he insisted on saying things which no one else would say even if they could, or could even if they would. He has got himself a bad literary character. I said to him laughingly one day that he was like the man in the last century of whom it was said that nothing but such a character could keep down such parts. He laughed and said he would rather be like that than like a modern writer or two whom he could name, whose parts were so poor that they could be kept up by nothing but by such a character. I remember soon after one of these books was published I happened to meet Mrs Jupp to whom, by the way, Ernest made a small weekly allowance. It was at Ernest's chambers, and for some reason we were left alone for a few minutes. I said to her: "Mr Pontifex has written another book, Mrs Jupp." "Lor' now," said she, "has he really? Dear gentleman! Is it about love?" And the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep's eye glance at me from under her aged eyelids. I forget what there was in my reply which provoked it--probably nothing--but she went rattling on at full speed to the effect that Bell had given her a ticket for the opera, "So, of course," she said, "I went. I didn't understand one word of it, for it was all French, but I saw their legs. Oh dear, oh dear! I'm afraid I shan't be here much longer, and when dear Mr Pontifex sees me in my coffin he'll say, 'Poor old Jupp, she'll never talk broad any more'; but bless you I'm not so old as all that, and I'm taking lessons in dancing." At this moment Ernest came in and the conversation was changed. Mrs Jupp asked if he was still going on writing more books now that this one was done. "Of course I am," he answered, "I'm always writing books; here is the manuscript of my next;" and he showed her a heap of paper. "Well now," she exclaimed, "dear, dear me, and is that manuscript? I've often heard talk about manuscripts, but I never thought I should live to see some myself. Well! well! So that is really manuscript?" There were a few geraniums in the window and they did not look well. Ernest asked Mrs Jupp if she understood flowers. "I understand the language of flowers," she said, with one of her most bewitching leers, and on this we sent her off till she should choose to honour us with another visit, which she knows she is privileged from time to time to do, for Ernest likes her. And now I must bring my story to a close. The preceding chapter was written soon after the events it records--that is to say in the spring of 1867. By that time my story had been written up to this point; but it has been altered here and there from time to time occasionally. It is now the autumn of 1882, and if I am to say more I should do so quickly, for I am eighty years old and though well in health cannot conceal from myself that I am no longer young. Ernest himself is forty-seven, though he hardly looks it. He is richer than ever, for he has never married and his London and North- Western shares have nearly doubled themselves. Through sheer inability to spend his income he has been obliged to hoard in self-defence. He still lives in the Temple in the same rooms I took for him when he gave up his shop, for no one has been able to induce him to take a house. His house, he says, is wherever there is a good hotel. When he is in town he likes to work and to be quiet. When out of town he feels that he has left little behind him that can go wrong, and he would not like to be tied to a single locality. "I know no exception," he says, "to the rule that it is cheaper to buy milk than to keep a cow." As I have mentioned Mrs Jupp, I may as well say here the little that remains to be said about her. She is a very old woman now, but no one now living, as she says triumphantly, can say how old, for the woman in the Old Kent Road is dead, and presumably has carried her secret to the grave. Old, however, though she is, she lives in the same house, and finds it hard work to make the two ends meet, but I do not know that she minds this very much, and it has prevented her from getting more to drink than would be good for her. It is no use trying to do anything for her beyond paying her allowance weekly, and absolutely refusing to let her anticipate it. She pawns her flat iron every Saturday for 4d., and takes it out every Monday morning for 4.5d. when she gets her allowance, and has done this for the last ten years as regularly as the week comes round. As long as she does not let the flat iron actually go we know that she can still worry out her financial problems in her own hugger- mugger way and had better be left to do so. If the flat iron were to go beyond redemption, we should know that it was time to interfere. I do not know why, but there is something about her which always reminds me of a woman who was as unlike her as one person can be to another--I mean Ernest's mother. The last time I had a long gossip with her was about two years ago when she came to me instead of to Ernest. She said she had seen a cab drive up just as she was going to enter the staircase, and had seen Mr Pontifex's pa put his Beelzebub old head out of the window, so she had come on to me, for she hadn't greased her sides for no curtsey, not for the likes of him. She professed to be very much down on her luck. Her lodgers did use her so dreadful, going away without paying and leaving not so much as a stick behind, but to-day she was as pleased as a penny carrot. She had had such a lovely dinner--a cushion of ham and green peas. She had had a good cry over it, but then she was so silly, she was. "And there's that Bell," she continued, though I could not detect any appearance of connection, "it's enough to give anyone the hump to see him now that he's taken to chapel-going, and his mother's prepared to meet Jesus and all that to me, and now she ain't a-going to die, and drinks half a bottle of champagne a day, and then Grigg, him as preaches, you know, asked Bell if I really was too gay, not but what when I was young I'd snap my fingers at any 'fly by night' in Holborn, and if I was togged out and had my teeth I'd do it now. I lost my poor dear Watkins, but of course that couldn't be helped, and then I lost my dear Rose. Silly faggot to go and ride on a cart and catch the bronchitics. I never thought when I kissed my dear Rose in Pullen's Passage and she gave me the chop, that I should never see her again, and her gentleman friend was fond of her too, though he was a married man. I daresay she's gone to bits by now. If she could rise and see me with my bad finger, she would cry, and I should say, 'Never mind, ducky, I'm all right.' Oh! dear, it's coming on to rain. I do hate a wet Saturday night--poor women with their nice white stockings and their living to get," etc., etc. And yet age does not wither this godless old sinner, as people would say it ought to do. Whatever life she has led, it has agreed with her very sufficiently. At times she gives us to understand that she is still much solicited; at others she takes quite a different tone. She has not allowed even Joe King so much as to put his lips to hers this ten years. She would rather have a mutton chop any day. "But ah! you should have seen me when I was sweet seventeen. I was the very moral of my poor dear mother, and she was a pretty woman, though I say it that shouldn't. She had such a splendid mouth of teeth. It was a sin to bury her in her teeth." I only knew of one thing at which she professes to be shocked. It is that her son Tom and his wife Topsy are teaching the baby to swear. "Oh! it's too dreadful awful," she exclaimed, "I don't know the meaning of the words, but I tell him he's a drunken sot." I believe the old woman in reality rather likes it. "But surely, Mrs Jupp," said I, "Tom's wife used not to be Topsy. You used to speak of her as Pheeb." "Ah! yes," she answered, "but Pheeb behaved bad, and it's Topsy now." Ernest's daughter Alice married the boy who had been her playmate more than a year ago. Ernest gave them all they said they wanted and a good deal more. They have already presented him with a grandson, and I doubt not, will do so with many more. Georgie though only twenty-one is owner of a fine steamer which his father has bought for him. He began when about thirteen going with old Rollings and Jack in the barge from Rochester to the upper Thames with bricks; then his father bought him and Jack barges of their own, and then he bought them both ships, and then steamers. I do not exactly know how people make money by having a steamer, but he does whatever is usual, and from all I can gather makes it pay extremely well. He is a good deal like his father in the face, but without a spark--so far as I have been able to observe--any literary ability; he has a fair sense of humour and abundance of common sense, but his instinct is clearly a practical one. I am not sure that he does not put me in mind almost more of what Theobald would have been if he had been a sailor, than of Ernest. Ernest used to go down to Battersby and stay with his father for a few days twice a year until Theobald's death, and the pair continued on excellent terms, in spite of what the neighbouring clergy call "the atrocious books which Mr Ernest Pontifex" has written. Perhaps the harmony, or rather absence of discord which subsisted between the pair was due to the fact that Theobald had never looked into the inside of one of his son's works, and Ernest, of course, never alluded to them in his father's presence. The pair, as I have said, got on excellently, but it was doubtless as well that Ernest's visits were short and not too frequent. Once Theobald wanted Ernest to bring his children, but Ernest knew they would not like it, so this was not done. Sometimes Theobald came up to town on small business matters and paid a visit to Ernest's chambers; he generally brought with him a couple of lettuces, or a cabbage, or half-a-dozen turnips done up in a piece of brown paper, and told Ernest that he knew fresh vegetables were rather hard to get in London, and he had brought him some. Ernest had often explained to him that the vegetables were of no use to him, and that he had rather he would not bring them; but Theobald persisted, I believe through sheer love of doing something which his son did not like, but which was too small to take notice of. He lived until about twelve months ago, when he was found dead in his bed on the morning after having written the following letter to his son:-- "Dear Ernest,--I've nothing particular to write about, but your letter has been lying for some days in the limbo of unanswered letters, to wit my pocket, and it's time it was answered. "I keep wonderfully well and am able to walk my five or six miles with comfort, but at my age there's no knowing how long it will last, and time flies quickly. I have been busy potting plants all the morning, but this afternoon is wet. "What is this horrid Government going to do with Ireland? I don't exactly wish they'd blow up Mr Gladstone, but if a mad bull would chivy him there, and he would never come back any more, I should not be sorry. Lord Hartington is not exactly the man I should like to set in his place, but he would be immeasurably better than Gladstone. "I miss your sister Charlotte more than I can express. She kept my household accounts, and I could pour out to her all little worries, and now that Joey is married too, I don't know what I should do if one or other of them did not come sometimes and take care of me. My only comfort is that Charlotte will make her husband happy, and that he is as nearly worthy of her as a husband can well be.--Believe me, Your affectionate father, "THEOBALD PONTIFEX." I may say in passing that though Theobald speaks of Charlotte's marriage as though it were recent, it had really taken place some six years previously, she being then about thirty-eight years old, and her husband about seven years younger. There was no doubt that Theobald passed peacefully away during his sleep. Can a man who died thus be said to have died at all? He has presented the phenomena of death to other people, but in respect of himself he has not only not died, but has not even thought that he was going to die. This is not more than half dying, but then neither was his life more than half living. He presented so many of the phenomena of living that I suppose on the whole it would be less trouble to think of him as having been alive than as never having been born at all, but this is only possible because association does not stick to the strict letter of its bond. This, however, was not the general verdict concerning him, and the general verdict is often the truest. Ernest was overwhelmed with expressions of condolence and respect for his father's memory. "He never," said Dr Martin, the old doctor who brought Ernest into the world, "spoke an ill word against anyone. He was not only liked, he was beloved by all who had anything to do with him." "A more perfectly just and righteously dealing man," said the family solicitor, "I have never had anything to do with--nor one more punctual in the discharge of every business obligation." "We shall miss him sadly," the bishop wrote to Joey in the very warmest terms. The poor were in consternation. "The well's never missed," said one old woman, "till it's dry," and she only said what everyone else felt. Ernest knew that the general regret was unaffected as for a loss which could not be easily repaired. He felt that there were only three people in the world who joined insincerely in the tribute of applause, and these were the very three who could least show their want of sympathy. I mean Joey, Charlotte, and himself. He felt bitter against himself for being of a mind with either Joey or Charlotte upon any subject, and thankful that he must conceal his being so as far as possible, not because of anything his father had done to him--these grievances were too old to be remembered now--but because he would never allow him to feel towards him as he was always trying to feel. As long as communication was confined to the merest commonplace all went well, but if these were departed from ever such a little he invariably felt that his father's instincts showed themselves in immediate opposition to his own. When he was attacked his father laid whatever stress was possible on everything which his opponents said. If he met with any check his father was clearly pleased. What the old doctor had said about Theobald's speaking ill of no man was perfectly true as regards others than himself, but he knew very well that no one had injured his reputation in a quiet way, so far as he dared to do, more than his own father. This is a very common case and a very natural one. It often happens that if the son is right, the father is wrong, and the father is not going to have this if he can help it. It was very hard, however, to say what was the true root of the mischief in the present case. It was not Ernest's having been imprisoned. Theobald forgot all about that much sooner than nine fathers out of ten would have done. Partly, no doubt, it was due to incompatibility of temperament, but I believe the main ground of complaint lay in the fact that he had been so independent and so rich while still very young, and that thus the old gentleman had been robbed of his power to tease and scratch in the way which he felt he was entitled to do. The love of teasing in a small way when he felt safe in doing so had remained part of his nature from the days when he told his nurse that he would keep her on purpose to torment her. I suppose it is so with all of us. At any rate I am sure that most fathers, especially if they are clergymen, are like Theobald. He did not in reality, I am convinced, like Joey or Charlotte one whit better than he liked Ernest. He did not like anyone or anything, or if he liked anyone at all it was his butler, who looked after him when he was not well, and took great care of him and believed him to be the best and ablest man in the whole world. Whether this faithful and attached servant continued to think this after Theobald's will was opened and it was found what kind of legacy had been left him I know not. Of his children, the baby who had died at a day old was the only one whom he held to have treated him quite filially. As for Christina he hardly ever pretended to miss her and never mentioned her name; but this was taken as a proof that he felt her loss too keenly to be able ever to speak of her. It may have been so, but I do not think it. Theobald's effects were sold by auction, and among them the Harmony of the Old and New Testaments which he had compiled during many years with such exquisite neatness and a huge collection of MS. sermons--being all in fact that he had ever written. These and the Harmony fetched ninepence a barrow load. I was surprised to hear that Joey had not given the three or four shillings which would have bought the whole lot, but Ernest tells me that Joey was far fiercer in his dislike of his father than ever he had been himself, and wished to get rid of everything that reminded him of him. It has already appeared that both Joey and Charlotte are married. Joey has a family, but he and Ernest very rarely have any intercourse. Of course, Ernest took nothing under his father's will; this had long been understood, so that the other two are both well provided for. Charlotte is as clever as ever, and sometimes asks Ernest to come and stay with her and her husband near Dover, I suppose because she knows that the invitation will not be agreeable to him. There is a _de haut en bas_ tone in all her letters; it is rather hard to lay one's finger upon it but Ernest never gets a letter from her without feeling that he is being written to by one who has had direct communication with an angel. "What an awful creature," he once said to me, "that angel must have been if it had anything to do with making Charlotte what she is." "Could you like," she wrote to him not long ago, "the thoughts of a little sea change here? The top of the cliffs will soon be bright with heather: the gorse must be out already, and the heather I should think begun, to judge by the state of the hill at Ewell, and heather or no heather--the cliffs are always beautiful, and if you come your room shall be cosy so that you may have a resting corner to yourself. Nineteen and sixpence is the price of a return-ticket which covers a month. Would you decide just as you would yourself like, only if you come we would hope to try and make it bright for you; but you must not feel it a burden on your mind if you feel disinclined to come in this direction." "When I have a bad nightmare," said Ernest to me, laughing as he showed me this letter, "I dream that I have got to stay with Charlotte." Her letters are supposed to be unusually well written, and I believe it is said among the family that Charlotte has far more real literary power than Ernest has. Sometimes we think that she is writing at him as much as to say, "There now--don't you think you are the only one of us who can write; read this! And if you want a telling bit of descriptive writing for your next book, you can make what use of it you like." I daresay she writes very well, but she has fallen under the dominion of the words "hope," "think," "feel," "try," "bright," and "little," and can hardly write a page without introducing all these words and some of them more than once. All this has the effect of making her style monotonous. Ernest is as fond of music as ever, perhaps more so, and of late years has added musical composition to the other irons in his fire. He finds it still a little difficult, and is in constant trouble through getting into the key of C sharp after beginning in the key of C and being unable to get back again. "Getting into the key of C sharp," he said, "is like an unprotected female travelling on the Metropolitan Railway, and finding herself at Shepherd's Bush, without quite knowing where she wants to go to. How is she ever to get safe back to Clapham Junction? And Clapham Junction won't quite do either, for Clapham Junction is like the diminished seventh--susceptible of such enharmonic change, that you can resolve it into all the possible termini of music." Talking of music reminds me of a little passage that took place between Ernest and Miss Skinner, Dr Skinner's eldest daughter, not so very long ago. Dr Skinner had long left Roughborough, and had become Dean of a Cathedral in one of our Midland counties--a position which exactly suited him. Finding himself once in the neighbourhood Ernest called, for old acquaintance sake, and was hospitably entertained at lunch. Thirty years had whitened the Doctor's bushy eyebrows--his hair they could not whiten. I believe that but for that wig he would have been made a bishop. His voice and manner were unchanged, and when Ernest remarking upon a plan of Rome which hung in the hall, spoke inadvertently of the Quirinal, he replied with all his wonted pomp: "Yes, the QuirInal--or as I myself prefer to call it, the QuirInal." After this triumph he inhaled a long breath through the corners of his mouth, and flung it back again into the face of Heaven, as in his finest form during his head-mastership. At lunch he did indeed once say, "next to impossible to think of anything else," but he immediately corrected himself and substituted the words, "next to impossible to entertain irrelevant ideas," after which he seemed to feel a good deal more comfortable. Ernest saw the familiar volumes of Dr Skinner's works upon the bookshelves in the Deanery dining-room, but he saw no copy of "Rome or the Bible--Which?" "And are you still as fond of music as ever, Mr Pontifex?" said Miss Skinner to Ernest during the course of lunch. "Of some kinds of music, yes, Miss Skinner, but you know I never did like modern music." "Isn't that rather dreadful?--Don't you think you rather"--she was going to have added, "ought to?" but she left it unsaid, feeling doubtless that she had sufficiently conveyed her meaning. "I would like modern music, if I could; I have been trying all my life to like it, but I succeed less and less the older I grow." "And pray, where do you consider modern music to begin?" "With Sebastian Bach." "And don't you like Beethoven?" "No, I used to think I did, when I was younger, but I know now that I never really liked him." "Ah! how can you say so? You cannot understand him, you never could say this if you understood him. For me a simple chord of Beethoven is enough. This is happiness." Ernest was amused at her strong family likeness to her father--a likeness which had grown upon her as she had become older, and which extended even to voice and manner of speaking. He remembered how he had heard me describe the game of chess I had played with the doctor in days gone by, and with his mind's ear seemed to hear Miss Skinner saying, as though it were an epitaph:-- "Stay: I may presently take A simple chord of Beethoven, Or a small semiquaver From one of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words." After luncheon when Ernest was left alone for half an hour or so with the Dean he plied him so well with compliments that the old gentleman was pleased and flattered beyond his wont. He rose and bowed. "These expressions," he said, _voce sua_, "are very valuable to me." "They are but a small part, Sir," rejoined Ernest, "of what anyone of your old pupils must feel towards you," and the pair danced as it were a minuet at the end of the dining-room table in front of the old bay window that looked upon the smooth shaven lawn. On this Ernest departed; but a few days afterwards, the Doctor wrote him a letter and told him that his critics were a [Greek text], and at the same time [Greek text]. Ernest remembered [Greek text], and knew that the other words were something of like nature, so it was all right. A month or two afterwards, Dr Skinner was gathered to his fathers. "He was an old fool, Ernest," said I, "and you should not relent towards him." "I could not help it," he replied, "he was so old that it was almost like playing with a child." Sometimes, like all whose minds are active, Ernest overworks himself, and then occasionally he has fierce and reproachful encounters with Dr Skinner or Theobald in his sleep--but beyond this neither of these two worthies can now molest him further. To myself he has been a son and more than a son; at times I am half afraid--as for example when I talk to him about his books--that I may have been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have, I trust he has forgiven me. His books are the only bone of contention between us. I want him to write like other people, and not to offend so many of his readers; he says he can no more change his manner of writing than the colour of his hair, and that he must write as he does or not at all. With the public generally he is not a favourite. He is admitted to have talent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer unpractical kind, and no matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest. His first book was a success for reasons which I have already explained, but none of his others have been more than creditable failures. He is one of those unfortunate men, each one of whose books is sneered at by literary critics as soon as it comes out, but becomes "excellent reading" as soon as it has been followed by a later work which may in its turn be condemned. He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life. I have told him over and over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thing I can say to him which makes him angry with me. "What can it matter to me," he says, "whether people read my books or not? It may matter to them--but I have too much money to want more, and if the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by. I do not know nor greatly care whether they are good or not. What opinion can any sane man form about his own work? Some people must write stupid books just as there must be junior ops and third class poll men. Why should I complain of being among the mediocrities? If a man is not absolutely below mediocrity let him be thankful--besides, the books will have to stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the better." I spoke to his publisher about him not long since. "Mr Pontifex," he said, "is a _homo unius libri_, but it doesn't do to tell him so." I could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith in Ernest's literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failure was all the more hopeless for the fact of his having once made a _coup_. "He is in a very solitary position, Mr Overton," continued the publisher. "He has formed no alliances, and has made enemies not only of the religious world but of the literary and scientific brotherhood as well. This will not do nowadays. If a man wishes to get on he must belong to a set, and Mr Pontifex belongs to no set--not even to a club." I replied, "Mr Pontifex is the exact likeness of Othello, but with a difference--he hates not wisely but too well. He would dislike the literary and scientific swells if he were to come to know them and they him; there is no natural solidarity between him and them, and if he were brought into contact with them his last state would be worse than his first. His instinct tells him this, so he keeps clear of them, and attacks them whenever he thinks they deserve it--in the hope, perhaps, that a younger generation will listen to him more willingly than the present." "Can anything,"' said the publisher, "be conceived more impracticable and imprudent?" To all this Ernest replies with one word only--"Wait." Such is my friend's latest development. He would not, it is true, run much chance at present of trying to found a College of Spiritual Pathology, but I must leave the reader to determine whether there is not a strong family likeness between the Ernest of the College of Spiritual Pathology and the Ernest who will insist on addressing the next generation rather than his own. He says he trusts that there is not, and takes the sacrament duly once a year as a sop to Nemesis lest he should again feel strongly upon any subject. It rather fatigues him, but "no man's opinions," he sometimes says, "can be worth holding unless he knows how to deny them easily and gracefully upon occasion in the cause of charity." In politics he is a Conservative so far as his vote and interest are concerned. In all other respects he is an advanced Radical. His father and grandfather could probably no more understand his state of mind than they could understand Chinese, but those who know him intimately do not know that they wish him greatly different from what he actually is. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Nach seiner Rückkehr von Battersby nach London beschließt Ernest, ins Ausland zu gehen, um nach den Gesellschaften zu suchen, die die "besten, ansehnlichsten und liebenswertesten" Menschen haben. Nach drei Jahren des Globetrottens nimmt er sein Leben in England wieder auf, gut versorgt mit Notizen, die seine literarischen Ambitionen befeuern sollen. Sein erstes Buch ist eine Sammlung von Essays zu verschiedenen Themen, angeblich von verschiedenen Autoren verfasst und anonym veröffentlicht. Der Inhalt und die ironische Natur dieser Essays erinnern an frühere literarische Bemühungen von Butler selbst. Das Buch wird vom Publikum und von Kritikern gleichermaßen gut aufgenommen, und als der Name des Autors bekannt wird, wird Ernest über Nacht berühmt. Leider haben seine nachfolgenden Schriften wegen ihres kontroversen Charakters wesentlich weniger Erfolg. Als Theobald in hohem Alter stirbt, drücken überraschend viele Menschen ihre Trauer aus, ein Gefühl, das von seinen Kindern nicht geteilt wird. Ernest eigenen Kinder, Georgie und Alice, gedeihen bei Pflegeeltern, die sie als ihre eigenen behandeln. Sie werden zu hübschen, gesunden und verantwortungsbewussten Erwachsenen, die von einer formalen Ausbildung nicht belastet sind. Frau Jupp bringt starke Beweise dafür vor, dass Ernest möglicherweise ein drittes Kind aus einer anderen Verbindung gezeugt haben könnte, aber Overton verzichtet darauf, Ernest zu bitten, diese Möglichkeit zu bestätigen oder zu leugnen. Selbst als Overton seinen achtzigsten Geburtstag überschritten hat, drängt er seinen Patensohn weiterhin, zu schreiben und dabei das allgemeine Publikum im Auge zu behalten, aber Ernest, ähnlich wie der Autor, dem er ähnelt, geht seinen eigenen Weg und beachtet die Meinungen anderer nicht, in dem Glauben, dass ihm eine spätere Generation von Lesern die Leserschaft geben wird, die ihm während seines eigenen Lebens fehlt.

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: Betritt TIME, der CHORUS TIME. Ich, der einigen gefällt, alles versucht, sowohl Freude als auch Schrecken Von Gutem und Bösem, das Fehler macht und enthüllt, Nehme nun, im Namen der Zeit, Meine Flügel an. Schreibt es mir nicht als Verbrechen zu, Dass ich oder mein schneller Übergang mich Über sechzehn Jahre hinweggleiten lasse und das Wachstum unversucht lasse Von dieser großen Lücke, da es in meiner Macht liegt, Das Gesetz umzustürzen und in einer selbstgeborenen Stunde Gewohnheiten zu setzen und zu überwältigen. Lasst mich passieren Der Gleiche zu sein, ehe die älteste Ordnung war Oder was jetzt angenommen wird. Ich bezeuge Die Zeit, die sie hereingeholt hat; und so werde ich Jetzt das Frischeste bezeugen und den Glanz Der Gegenwart abnutzen, wie es in meiner Geschichte Jetzt erscheint. Wenn du mir diese Geduld gewährst, Wende ich mein Glas und lasse meine Szene so anwachsen, Als ob du dazwischen geschlafen hättest. Leontes, der geht- Die Auswirkungen seiner törichten Eifersucht, so betrübt Dass er sich selbst abschließt- stellt euch vor, Ihr sanften Zuschauer, dass ich jetzt in Böhmen sein kann; Und denkt daran, dass ich von einem Sohn des Königs sprach, den Florizel Ich jetzt nenne; und nun von Perdita spreche, die nun in Anmut gewachsen ist Gleich mit Staunen. Was daraus folgt, Kann ich nicht prophezeien; aber lasst die Neuigkeiten der Zeit Bekannt sein, wenn sie ans Licht gebracht werden. Die Tochter eines Schäfers, Und was ihr folgt, ist das Thema der Zeit. Dies sei gestattet, Wenn du jemals zuvor Zeit schlechter verschwendet hast; Wenn nicht, so sagt doch Zeit selbst Dass er sich wünscht, ihr hättet es niemals getan. Geht ab Böhmen. Der Palast von POLIXENES Betritt POLIXENES und CAMILLO POLIXENES. Ich bitte dich, guter Camillo, sei nicht länger aufdringlich: es ist eine Krankheit, dir etwas zu verweigern; ein Tod, dies zu gewähren. CAMILLO. Es sind fünfzehn Jahre seit ich mein Land gesehen habe; obwohl ich die meiste Zeit im Ausland war, möchte ich meine Knochen dort beerdigen. Außerdem hat der reuige König, mein Herr, mich gerufen; um dessen empfundenes Leid ich etwas Linderung sein könnte, oder ich übertreibe zu glauben, dass ich es könnte, was ein weiterer Ansporn für meine Abreise ist. POLIXENES. Wie du mich liebst, Camillo, lösche nicht den Rest deiner Dienste aus, indem du mich jetzt verlässt. Das Bedürfnis, das ich nach dir habe, hat deine eigene Güte geschaffen. Besser wäre es gewesen, dich nie gehabt zu haben, als dich nun zu vermissen; du hast mir Geschäfte gemacht, die niemand ohne dich ausreichend bewältigen kann, entweder bleibst du, um sie selbst auszuführen, oder nimmst die von dir geleisteten Dienste mit dir; wenn ich das nicht genug bedacht habe- wie auch immer, ich kann es nicht zu sehr- dankbarer gegenüber dir zu sein, soll mein Studium sein; und mein Nutzen darin besteht, Freundschaften zu schließen. Von diesem fatalen Land Sizilien, bitteschön, rede nicht mehr; dessen bloße Nennung bestraft mich mit der Erinnerung an den reuigen, wie du ihn nennst, und versöhnlichen König, meinen Bruder; dessen Verlust seiner kostbarsten Königin und Kinder jetzt frisch betrauert werden müssen. Sag mir, wann hast du den Prinzen Florizel, meinen Sohn, gesehen? Könige sind nicht weniger unglücklich, wenn ihre Nachkommen nicht gnädig sind, als wenn sie sie verlieren, nachdem sie ihre Tugenden bewiesen haben. CAMILLO. Herr, es ist drei Tage her, dass ich den Prinzen gesehen habe. Was seine glücklicheren Angelegenheiten sein mögen, ist mir unbekannt; aber ich habe bemerkt, dass er sich in letzter Zeit häufiger von Hof zurückzieht und weniger oft seine fürstlichen Übungen durchführt, als er früher erschien. POLIXENES. Das habe ich auch bedacht, Camillo, und mit einiger Sorgfalt, so weit, dass ich Augen unter meinem Dienst habe, die auf seine Zurückgezogenheit schauen; von denen ich diese Informationen habe, dass er selten vom Haus eines sehr einfachen Schäfers weggeht- ein Mann, sagen sie, der aus absolut nichts und jenseits der Vorstellungskraft seiner Nachbarn zu einem unsagbaren Vermögen geworden ist. CAMILLO. Ich habe, Herr, von einem solchen Mann gehört, der eine Tochter hat von bemerkenswerter Note. Der Bericht über sie hat sich weiter verbreitet, als man es sich für solch eine Hütte vorstellen kann. POLIXENES. Das ist ebenfalls ein Teil meiner Informationen; aber ich befürchte, der Winkel, der unseren Sohn dorthin zieht. Du wirst uns zu diesem Ort begleiten; wo wir, ohne zu offenbaren, wer wir sind, einige Fragen an den Hirten stellen werden; von dessen Einfachheit ich glaube, dass es nicht schwierig ist, die Ursache von meines Sohnes Aufenthalt dort herauszufinden. Bitteschön, sei mein gegenwärtiger Partner in dieser Angelegenheit und lege die Gedanken an Sizilien beiseite. CAMILLO. Ich gehorche gerne deinem Befehl. POLIXENES. Mein bester Camillo! Wir müssen uns verkleiden. Gehen ab Böhmen. Eine Straße nahe der Hütte des SCHÄFERS Betritt AUTOLYCUS, singend Wenn Narzissen beginnen zu blinzeln, Mit heigh! Die Dirne über das Tal, Ja, dann beginnt das süße Jahr, Denn das rote Blut regiert im fahlen Winter. Das weiße Leintuch, das am Zaun bleicht, Mit heigh! die süßen Vögel, wie sie singen! Erregt meinen pickenden Zahn, Denn ein Quart Bier ist ein Gericht für einen König. Der Lerche, die Tirra Lirra singt, Mit heigh! Mit heigh! die Drossel und die Elster, Sind Sommerlieder für mich und meine Tanten, Während wir im Heu herumtollen. Ich habe Prinz Florizel gedient und in meiner Zeit dreifachen Samt getragen; aber jetzt bin ich arbeitslos. Doch soll ich darüber trauern, meine Liebe? Der blasse Mond scheint bei Nacht; Und wenn ich hier und da umherwandere, Dann gehe ich am meisten in die richtige Richtung. Wenn Schuhmacher leben dürfen, Und den billigen Kittel tragen, Dann kann ich mein Konto gut geben Und es offen sagen. Mein Handel sind Laken; wenn der Turmfalke baut, achte auf kleinere Leinwand. Mein Vater nannte mich Autolycus; der, wie ich bin, von Merkur gezeugt wurde, war auch ein Sammler unbeachteter Kleinigkeiten. Mit Spiel und Trug habe ich diese Verkleidung gekauft; und meine Einnahme ist der dumme Betrug. Galgen und Raub sind auf der Landstraße zu mächtig; Prügel und erhängen sind Schrecken für mich; für das Leben danach, darüber denke ich nicht nach. Ein Preis! Ein Preis! Betritt CLOWN CLOWN. Lass mal sehen: jedes elfte Wetter bringt Pfund und ein paar Schillinge ein; fünfzehnhundert geschorene, was kommt dabei an Wolle heraus? AUTOLYCUS. [Im Stillen] Wenn die Schlinge hält, gehört der Hahn mir. CLOWN. Ich kann es nicht ohne Zähler tun. Lass mal sehen: Was soll ich für unser Schafschur-Fest kaufen? Drei Pfund Zucker, fünf Pfund Rosinen, Reis - was soll meine Schwester damit machen? Aber mein Vater hat sie zur Herrin des Festes gemacht, und sie legt es darauf. Sie hat mir vierundzwanzig Blumensträuße für die Scherer gemacht - alle drei Männer-Sänger, und ganz gute; aber sie sind größtenteils Mittel- und Bass-Baritone; aber einer von ihnen ist Puritaner, und er singt Psalmen zu Hornpipes. Ich brauche Safran, um die Birnenpasteten einzufärben; Muskatnuss; Daten - keine, das steht nicht auf meiner Notiz; Muskatblüten, sieben; ein oder zwei Stücke Ingwer, wenn ich betteln darf; vier Pfund Pflaumen und ebenso viele Rosinen der Sonne. AUTOLYCUS. [Auf dem Boden kriechend] Oh, dass ich jemals geboren wurde! CLOWN. Im Namen von mir! AUTOLYCUS. Oh, hilf mir, hilf mir! Zieh mir nur diese Lumpen aus; und dann, Tod, Tod! CLOWN. Ach, du arme Seele! Du brauchst eher mehr Lumpen zum Drauflegen, als dass du diese ausziehst. AUTOLYCUS. Oh Herr, die Ekelhaftigkeit von ihnen beleidigt mich mehr als die Schläge, die ich bekommen habe, die gewaltig waren und Millionen. CLOWN. Armer Mann! Eine Million Schläge können zu einer großen Sache werden. AUTOLYCUS. Ich wurde ausgeraubt, Sir, und geschlagen; mein Geld und meine Kleidung wurden mir beraubt, und mir wurden diese abscheulichen Dinge angezogen. CLOWN. Von einem Reiter oder Fußgänger? AUTOLYCUS. Ein Fußgänger, süßer Herr, ein Fußgänger. CLOWN. In der Tat, er sollte ein Fußgänger sein, anhand der Kleidung, die er bei dir zurückgelassen hat; wenn das der Mantel eines Reiters ist, hat er sehr heißen Dienst geleistet. Gib mir deine Hand, ich helfe dir. Komm, gib mir deine Hand. [Ihm hochhilfend] AUTOLYCUS. Oh, guter Herr, vorsichtig, oh! CLOWN. Ach, du arme Seele! AUTOLYCUS. Oh, guter Herr, vorsichtig, guter Herr; ich fürchte, mein Schulterblatt ist ausgerenkt. CLOWN. Wie jetzt? Kannst du stehen? AUTOLYCUS. Vorsichtig, verehrter Herr [steckt seine Taschen ab]; guter Herr, vorsichtig. Du hast mir eine wohltätige Handlung erwiesen. CLOWN. Brauchst du Geld? Ich habe ein wenig Geld für dich. AUTOLYCUS. Nein, lieber süßer Herr; nein, ich bitte euch, Herr. Ich habe einen Verwandten, kaum eine viertel Meile von hier entfernt, zu dem ich gehen wollte; ich werde dort Geld haben oder alles, was ich brauche. Bietet mir kein Geld an, ich bitte euch; das bricht mir das Herz. CLOWN. Was für ein Kerl war das, der dich beraubt hat? AUTOLYCUS. Ein Kerl, Sir, den ich herumgehen sah mit Betrügerinnen; ich kannte ihn einmal als Diener des Prinzen. Ich kann nicht sagen, lieber Herr, wegen welcher seiner Tugenden es war, aber er wurde mit Sicherheit aus dem Hof gepeitscht. CLOWN. Seine Fehler, wollen Sie sagen. Es gibt keine Tugend, die aus dem Hof gepeitscht wird. Sie hegen sie, damit sie dort bleibt; und doch wird sie nicht länger als nötig dort bleiben. AUTOLYCUS. Fehler wollte ich sagen, Sir. Ich kenne diesen Mann gut; er war später Affenträger; dann Prozessbediensteter, ein Gerichtsvollzieher; dann führte er eine Bewegung über den verlorenen Sohn auf, und heiratete eine Schmiedefrau, die knapp eine Meile von dort wohnt, wo mein Land und mein Besitz liegen; und nachdem er viele schlechte Berufe durchlaufen hatte, blieb er nur bei dem Schurken hängen. Einige nennen ihn Autolycus. CLOWN. Verflucht ihn! Gauner, bei meinem Leben, Gauner! Er treibt sich auf Jahrmärkten, Messen und Hundekämpfen herum. AUTOLYCUS. Sehr wahr, Sir; er, Sir, er; das ist der Schurke, der mir diese Kleidung angezogen hat. CLOWN. Kein feigerer Schuft in ganz Böhmen; wenn du nur groß gewesen und ihm ins Gesicht gespuckt hättest, wäre er weggelaufen. AUTOLYCUS. Ich muss Ihnen gestehen, Sir, ich bin kein Kämpfer; ich bin in dieser Hinsicht von falschem Herzen, und das wusste er, ich bestätige ihn. CLOWN. Wie geht es dir jetzt? AUTOLYCUS. Süßer Herr, viel besser als vorher; ich kann stehen und gehen. Ich werde mich auch von Ihnen verabschieden und leise zu meinem Verwandten gehen. CLOWN. Soll ich dich begleiten? AUTOLYCUS. Nein, gutaussehender Herr; nein, lieber Herr. CLOWN. Dann leb wohl. Ich muss Gewürze für unsere Schafschur kaufen gehen. AUTOLYCUS. Erfolg in allem, lieber Herr! Ihre Brieftasche ist nicht heiß genug, um Ihr Gewürz zu kaufen. Ich werde auch bei Ihrer Schafschur sein. Wenn ich nicht noch einen anderen Betrug aufdecke und die Scherer sich als Schafe erweisen, lasst mich ausgerollt werden und meinen Namen im Buch der Tugend stehen! [Singt] Marschier weiter, marschier weiter, den Fußweg entlang, Und spring über das Stile-a fröhlich; Ein fröhliches Herz hat den ganzen Tag, Deine traurigen Reifen über eine Meile-a. [Ausgang] FLORIZEL. Diese ungewöhnlichen Gewänder geben jedem Teil von dir Leben - keine Schäferin, sondern Flora, Die im Vordergrund des Aprils Ausschau hält. Dieses Schafscheren von dir Ist wie ein Treffen der kleinen Götter, Und du bist die Königin davon. PERDITA. Herr, mein gnädiger Herr, Es steht mir nicht zu, dich wegen deiner Extreme zu tadeln - Oh, verzeih mir, dass ich sie beim Namen nenne! Dein hohes Selbst, Das gnädige Zeichen des Landes, hast du verdunkelt Mit der Tracht eines Bauern; und mich, armes demütiges Mädchen, Hast du wie eine Göttin aufgebrezelt. Aber dass unsere Feste In jeder Mahlzeit Torheit haben, und die Schlemmer Sie mit Gewohnheit verdauen, ich sollte erröten Dich so gekleidet zu sehen; ohnmächtig, denke ich, Mich selbst als Spiegel zu zeigen. FLORIZEL. Ich segne die Zeit, Als mein guter Falke über Die Fluren deines Vaters flog. PERDITA. Nun möge Jupiter dir Grund dazu geben! Mir schürt der Unterschied Angst; deine Größe Ist es nicht gewohnt zu fürchten. Selbst jetzt zittere ich Bei dem Gedanken, dass dein Vater, durch irgendeinen Zufall, Hier vorbeikommen sollte, so wie du es tatest. Oh, die Schicksale! Wie würde er aussehen, sein Werk, so edel, Niedrig gebunden zu sehen? Was würde er sagen? Oder wie Sollte ich, in diesen von mir geliehenen Trachten, den Ernst Seiner Anwesenheit erblicken? FLORIZEL. Ergreife Nichts außer Fröhlichkeit. Die Götter selbst, Indem sie ihre Gottheiten in Liebe demütigen, haben Die Gestalt von Tieren angenommen: Jupiter Wurde ein Bulle und brüllte; der grüne Neptun Ein Widder und blökte; und der Gott in goldener Robe, Goldener Apollo, ein armer bescheidener Bauer, So wie ich jetzt scheine. Ihre Verwandlungen Gab es nie für ein selteneres Stück Schönheit, Noch auf so keusche Weise, denn meine Begierden Laufen nicht vor meinem Ehre zu, noch brennen meine Gelüste Heißer als mein Glaube. PERDITA. Oh, aber, Herr, Dein Entschluss kann nicht aufrechterhalten werden, wenn er Widerstanden wird, wie er es muss, von der Macht des Königs. Eine von diesen beiden muss notwendig sein, Die dann sprechen wird, dass du diesen Zweck ändern musst, Oder ich mein Leben. FLORIZEL. Du liebste Perdita, Mit diesen erzwungenen Gedanken, ich bitte dich, verdunkle nicht Die Fröhlichkeit des Festes. Entweder gehörst du mir, meine Schöne, Oder nicht meinem Vater; denn ich kann nicht Mir selbst gehören, noch irgendetwas für irgendjemanden sein, Wenn ich nicht dir gehöre. Diesem bin ich am treuesten, Obwohl das Schicksal Nein sagt. Sei fröhlich, Zarte; Erwürge solche Gedanken mit irgendetwas, Was du inzwischen siehst. Deine Gäste nähern sich. Erhebe dein Gesicht, als wäre es der Tag Der Feier dieser Eheschließung, die Wir beide geschworen haben, stattfinden zu lassen. PERDITA. Oh, Göttin Fortuna, Steh uns günstig bei! FLORIZEL. Sieh, deine Gäste nähern sich. Bereite dich vor, sie vergnüglich zu bewirten, Und lass uns vor Freude rothaarig sein. Tritt SCHÄFER ein, mit POLIXENES und CAMILLO, verkleidet; NARR, MOPSA, DORCAS, und andere SHEPHERD. Pfui, Tochter! Als meine alte Frau noch lebte, war sie an diesem Tag sowohl Vorratsmeister, Butler, Koch, Dame und Dienerin; sie hieß alle willkommen und bediente alle. Sie sang ihr Lied und tanzte herum. Mal hier am oberen Ende des Tisches, mal in der Mitte. Auf seiner Schulter und seiner. Ihr Gesicht war vor Anstrengung in Flammen, und sie trank, um den Durst zu löschen, von dem, was sie für jeden mitgenommen hatte. Du hast dich zurückgezogen, als wärst du eine Angebetete und nicht die Gastgeberin des Treffens. Bitte, begrüße diese unbekannten Freunde, damit wir uns besser kennenlernen und uns mehr vertrauen können. Komm, unterdrücke deine Röte und präsentiere dich selbst als das, was du bist, die Gastgeberin des Festes. Komm und heiße uns willkommen zu deiner Schafschur, zum Wohlergehen deiner guten Herde. PERDITA. [zu POLIXENES] Sir, willkommen. Es ist der Wunsch meines Vaters, dass ich die Gastgeberrolle an diesem Tag übernehme. [zu CAMILLO] Sie sind willkommen, Sir. Geben Sie mir die Blumen dort, Dorcas. Würdige Herren, für Sie habe ich Rosmarin und Raute. Diese halten duftend und schmackhaft während des ganzen Winters. Gnade und Erinnerung sei mit euch beiden! Und willkommen zu unserer Schafschur. POLIXENES. Schäferin - eine wunderschöne bist du - du passt gut zu unseren Jahren mit Blumen des Winters. PERDITA. Sir, das Jahr wird alt, aber noch nicht am Ende des Sommers oder am Beginn des kalten Winters, sind die schönsten Blumen der Saison unsere Nelken und bunt gefleckten Gillyvor-Blumen, die einige "Naturbastarde" nennen. Von dieser Art ist unser einfacher Garten leer, und es liegt mir nicht daran, Ableger davon zu bekommen. POLIXENES. Warum, freundliche Maid, vernachlässigst du sie? PERDITA. Denn ich habe gehört, dass es eine Kunst gibt, die an ihrer Vielfarbigkeit teilhat, mit der großen schöpferischen Natur. POLIXENES. Wenn das so ist, dann wird die Natur durch nichts besser als durch die Natur selbst, denn die Natur schafft diese Mittel. Über diese Kunst, von der du sprichst und die angeblich der Natur hinzufügt, ist eine Kunst, die die Natur schafft. Du siehst, süße Maid, wir vereinen einen freundlicheren Spross mit dem wilden Stamm und lassen eine Rinde von minderer Qualität von einem edleren Geschlecht entstehen. Das ist eine Kunst, die die Natur "verbessert" - eher verändert, aber die Kunst selbst ist Natur. PERDITA. Das ist wahr. POLIXENES. Dann bereichere deinen Garten mit Gillyvors und nenne sie nicht Bastarde. PERDITA. Ich werde nicht eine einzige davon in die Erde pflanzen, nicht mehr, als wenn ich bemalt wäre, wünschte ich, dass diese Jugend sagen würde: "Ja, das ist gut", und nur daher das Verlangen hätte, mit mir Kinder zu zeugen. Hier sind Blumen für euch: heißer Lavendel, Minze, Bohnenkraut, Majoran; die Ringelblume, die mit der Sonne zu Bett geht und mit ihr weint; das sind Blumen des Hochsommers, und ich denke, sie sind für Menschen mittleren Alters. Ihr seid sehr willkommen. CAMILLO. Wäre ich einer eurer Herde, würde ich aufhören zu grasen und nur noch durch das Gaffen leben. PERDITA. Oh je! Dann wärst du so dünn, dass dich die Januarböen durch und durch blasen würden. Jetzt, mein liebster Freund, wünschte ich, ich hätte einige Frühlingsblumen, die zu deiner Tageszeit passen könnten - und zu deiner und deiner, die noch auf deinen jungfräulichen Zweigen wachsen, während deine Jungfräulichkeit noch wächst. O Proserpina, von den Blumen, die du eben erschrocken fallen ließest, vom Wagen des Dis! Narzissen, die vor der Schwalbe kommen und die Marchwinde mit Schönheit einfangen; Veilchen, blass, aber süßer als die Augenlider der Juno oder der Atem der Kytherea; blasse Schlüsselblumen, die unverheiratet sterben, bevor sie den strahlenden Phoebus in seiner Stärke sehen können - eine Krankheit, die Mädchen am häufigsten trifft; mutige Ochsenaugen und die Königin der Blumen; Lilien aller Art, die Blume der Lilie als eine. Oh, diese fehlen mir, um Kränze für euch zu machen, und meinem süßen Freund, um ihn immer wieder damit zu schmücken! FLORIZEL. Wie, wie für eine Leiche? PERDITA. Nein; wie eine Bank, auf der die Liebe sich niederlässt und spielt, nicht wie eine Leiche, oder falls doch - nicht begraben zu werden, sondern lebendig und in meinen Armen. Komm, nimm deine Blumen. Ich meine, ich spiele, wie ich sie in Whitsun-Pastorals gesehen habe. Sicherlich ändert dieses Gewand von mir meine Einstellung. FLORIZEL. Was immer du tust, verbessert das, was getan wurde. Wenn du sprichst, meine Süße, möchte ich, dass du es immer so tust. Wenn du singst, möchte ich, dass du kaufst und verkaufst; gib also auch Almosen. Bete so; und was deine Angelegenheiten betrifft, singe auch davon. Wenn du tanzt, wünschte ich, du wärst eine Meereswelle, die immer nur das tut; bewege dich immer noch so, ohne eine andere Funktion zu besitzen. Jedes deiner Taten, so einzigartig in jeder Hinsicht, krönt deine gegenwärtigen Taten, dass all deine Handlungen Königinnen sind. PERDITA. Oh, Doricles, Lob dir, ist zu viel. Aber dass deine Jugend und das wahre Blut, das gut sichtbar hindurchschimmert, dich als unbescholtenen Schäfer auszeichnen, mit der Weisheit könnte ich befürchten, mein Doricles, dass du mich auf falsche Weise gewonnen hast. FLORIZEL. Ich denke, du hast genauso wenig Angst wie ich den Zweck habe, dich dazu zu bringen. Aber komm schon, lass uns tanzen. Deine Hand, meine Perdita; wie Tauben, die nie vorhaben, sich zu trennen. PERDITA. Dafür verbürg' ich mich. POLIXENES. Das ist das hübscheste, aus einfachem Stand stammende Mädchen, das je auf dem Grün herumgelaufen ist; nichts, was sie tut oder sagt, scheint nicht von etwas Größerem als von ihr selbst zu zeugen, zu edel für diesen Ort. CAMILLO. Er erzählt ihr etwas, das ihr Blut in Wallung bringt. Wirklich, sie ist die Königin von Milchprodukten und Sahne. CLOWN. Los geht's, legt los! DORCAS. Mopsa muss eure Herrin sein; und heiratet Knoblauch, um damit ihre Küsse zu verbessern! MOPSA. Jetzt, gerade zur rechten Zeit! CLOWN. Kein Wort, kein Wort; wir halten uns an unsere Manieren. Los, legt los. [Musik] Hier ein Tanz von SCHÄFERN und SCHÄFERINNEN. POLIXENES. Sag mir, guter Schäfer, wer ist dieser hübsche Jüngling, der mit deiner Tochter tanzt? SHEPHERD. Sie nennen ihn Doricles und er rühmt sich, eine wertvolle Herde zu besitzen; aber ich habe es aus seinem eigenen Bericht und ich glaube ihm. Er sieht echt aus. Er sagt, er liebt meine Tochter; und ich denke, dass es wahr ist, denn noch nie hat der Mond so auf die Wasser geschaut wie er auf meinem Sohn stehen bleibt und liest, es sind als ob seine Augen die meiner Tochter wären; und um es offen zu sagen, glaube ich, dass es nicht gezwungen wäre, wenn sie einen Kuss bekäme, um zu entscheiden, wen sie am meisten liebt. POLIXENES. Sie tanzt geschickt. SHEPHERD. Ja, das tut sie in allem; obwohl ich es melden sollte und lieber schweigen würde. Wenn der junge Doricles auf sie trifft, wird sie ihm etwas bringen, von dem er nicht zu träumen gewagt hätte. SERVANT tritt ein. SERVANT: Oh Herr, wenn du nur den Händler an der Tür hören würdest, würdest du nie wieder nach einer Pauke und Flöte tanzen; nein, nicht einmal der Dudelsack könnte dich bewegen. Er singt mehrere Lieder schneller, als du Geld zählen kannst; er gibt sie von sich, als hätte er Balladen gegessen, und die Ohren der Männer wachsen an seinen Melodien. CLOWN: Er könnte nicht besser kommen; er soll hereinkommen. Ich liebe eine Ballade, aber sogar zu sehr, wenn sie traurige Inhalte fröhlich dargestellt werden oder eine wirklich angenehme Sache ist und traurig gesungen wird. SERVANT: Er hat Lieder für Männer und Frauen jeder Größe; kein Hutmacher kann seine Kunden besser mit Handschuhen versorgen. Er hat die schönsten Liebeslieder für Mädchen; ohne Anzüglichkeiten, das ist seltsam; mit so raffinierten Texten wie "springe auf sie und stoße sie"; und wenn irgendein grober Tölpel böse Absichten hat und eine schändliche Lücke öffnen will, bringt er das Mädchen dazu zu antworten "Hei, tu mir nichts, mein lieber Mann" - er weist ihn ab, verhöhnt ihn mit "Hei, tu mir nichts, mein lieber Mann". POLIXENES: Das ist ein tapferer Kerl. CLOWN: Glaub mir, du sprichst von einem bewundernswerten, geschickten Kerl. Hat er ungefärbte Waren? SERVANT: Er hat Bänder in allen Farben des Regenbogens; Schnürlöcher, mehr als alle Anwälte in Böhmen sie sachkundig handhaben können, obwohl sie in großen Mengen zu ihm kommen; eng gewebte Bänder, Schürzenbänder, feine Stoffe, Leinen. Wie er sie präsentiert, als wären sie Götter oder Göttinnen; du würdest denken, ein Hemd sei ein Engel, so singt er zu dem Ärmel und zu der Arbeit am quadratischen Ausschnitt. CLOWN: Bitte bring ihn herein; und lass ihn singend herankommen. PERDITA: Warne ihn davor, unanständige Worte in seinen Liedern zu benutzen. Exit SERVANT CLOWN: Du hast es mit Händlern zu tun, die mehr in sich haben, als man denkt, Schwester. PERDITA: Ja, lieber Bruder, oder denkt man. Betritt AUTOLYCUS, singend Der Stoff wie Schnee, rein und weiß, Zypressen schwarz, wie nachts der Geist, Handschuhe süß wie Rosen fein, Masken für Gesichter und Nase fein, Hirschhornarmbänder, Bernsteinkette, Parfüm für der Damen Gemachett, Goldene Häubchen, Schnürleibchen, Für meine Liebsten, ihre Liebchen; Nadeln und Spitzen, von Eisen hart, Was fehlt den Mägden von Kopf bis Fuß. Komm, kauf von mir, komm; kauf, Burschen, sonst weinen eure Mädchen. Komm, kauf. CLOWN: Wenn ich nicht in Mopsa verliebt wäre, würdest du kein Geld von mir nehmen; aber da ich so gefesselt bin, wird es auch die Fessel von bestimmten Bändern und Handschuhen sein. MOPSA: Sie wurden mir für das Fest versprochen; aber sie kommen jetzt nicht zu spät. DORCAS: Er hat dir mehr versprochen, oder es gibt Lügner. MOPSA: Er hat euch allen gegeben, was er euch versprochen hat. Vielleicht hat er euch mehr gegeben, was euch beschämt, es ihm zurückzugeben. CLOWN: Gibt es unter den Mädchen denn keine Manieren mehr? Werden sie ihre Geheimnisse dort zeigen, wo sie ihr Gesicht zeigen sollten? Ist es nicht Milchzeit, wenn ihr ins Bett geht, oder die Kornkammer, um diese Geheimnisse loszuwerden, aber ihr müsst das Schwatzen beginnen, bevor all unsere Gäste? Gut, dass sie flüstern. Haltet eure Zungen im Zaum und sagt kein Wort mehr. MOPSA: Ich habe aufgehört. Komm, du hast mir ein Schmuckband und ein Paar süße Handschuhe versprochen. CLOWN: Habe ich dir nicht erzählt, wie ich auf dem Weg betrogen wurde und all mein Geld verloren habe? AUTOLYCUS: Und in der Tat, Herr, es gibt viele Betrüger; deshalb müssen Männer vorsichtig sein. CLOWN: Hab keine Angst, Mann; hier wirst du nichts verlieren. AUTOLYCUS: Das hoffe ich doch, mein Herr; denn ich habe viele wertvolle Dinge bei mir. CLOWN: Was hast du hier? Balladen? MOPSA: Bitte, kauf welche. Ich liebe eine Ballade, die gedruckt ist, denn dann sind wir sicher, dass sie wahr sind. AUTOLYCUS: Hier ist eine zu einer sehr traurigen Melodie: Wie die Frau eines Wucherers zwanzig Geldbeutel in einer Schwangerschaft zur Welt brachte und wie sie sich danach sehnte, Viperköpfe zu essen und Kohlen gebratenen Kröten. MOPSA: Ist das wahr, glaubst du? AUTOLYCUS: Sehr wahr, und nur einen Monat alt. DORCAS: Gib mir Schutz vor der Hochzeit mit einem Wucherer! AUTOLYCUS: Hier ist der Name der Hebamme, eine gewisse Fräulein Hinterbringer, und fünf oder sechs ehrliche Frauen, die dabei waren. Warum sollte ich Lügen verbreiten? MOPSA: Bitte, kaufe sie jetzt. CLOWN: Leg sie beiseite; und lass uns zuerst mehr Balladen sehen; wir werden die anderen Dinge später kaufen. AUTOLYCUS: Hier ist eine andere Ballade, von einem Fisch, der am Mittwoch im April vierzigtausend Faden über dem Wasser vor der Küste auftauchte und diese Ballade gegen die harten Herzen der Mädchen sang. Man dachte, sie wäre eine Frau und wurde in einen kalten Fisch verwandelt, weil sie nicht bereit war, ihr Fleisch mit jemandem zu tauschen, der sie liebte. Die Ballade ist sehr bedauerlich und wahr. DORCAS: Ist das auch wahr, meinst du? AUTOLYCUS: Fünf Richter haben sie unterschrieben; und mehr Zeugen, als mein Korb fassen kann. CLOWN: Leg sie auch beiseite. Noch eine. AUTOLYCUS: Das ist eine fröhliche Ballade, aber eine sehr hübsche. MOPSA: Lasst uns einige fröhliche hören. AUTOLYCUS: Das ist wirklich eine sehr fröhliche und wird zur Melodie "Zwei Mädchen werben um einen Mann" gesungen. Es gibt kaum ein Mädchen im Westen, das es nicht singt; es ist sehr beliebt, das kann ich dir sagen. MOPSA: Ich kann es auch singen. Wenn du mitspielst, wirst du es hören; es geht in drei Teilen. DORCAS: Wir hatten die Melodie vor einem Monat. AUTOLYCUS: Ich kann meinen Teil singen; du musst wissen, das ist mein Beruf. Los gehts. LIED AUTOLYCUS: Geh weg von hier, denn ich muss gehen, Wo du nicht wissen sollst, wohin. DORCAS: Wohin? MOPSA: Oh, wohin? DORCAS: Wohin? MOPSA: Dein Eid passt gut zu dir, Sage mir deine Geheimnisse. DORCAS: Mir auch! Lass mich dorthin gehen. MOPSA: Oder du gehst zur Scheune oder Mühle. DORCAS: Wenn du zu einer von beiden gehst, machst du es falsch. AUTOLYCUS: Keines von beiden. DORCAS: Was, keines? AUTOLYCUS: Keines. DORCAS: Du hast geschworen, mich zu lieben. MOPSA: Du hast es mir noch mehr geschworen. Wohin gehst du also? Sag wohin? CLOWN: Wir werden dieses Lied gleich für uns allein singen; Mein Vater und die Herren haben eine ernste Unterhaltung und wir wollen sie nicht stören. Komm, folge DIENER. Herr, es gibt drei Fuhrleute, drei Hirten, drei Viehzüchter und drei Schweinehirten, die sich alle zu Männern mit wilden Haaren gemacht haben. Sie nennen sich selbst Saltiers und sie haben einen Tanz, den die Mädchen eine Mischung aus Possen nennen, weil sie nicht dabei sind. Aber sie sind selbst der Meinung, dass es, wenn es nicht zu wild für manche ist, die wenig mehr als Bowling kennen, sehr gefallen wird. HIRTE. Weg damit! Wir wollen nichts davon; hier gab es schon genug einfältiges Narrentum. Ich weiß, Herr, dass wir Ihnen zur Last fallen. POLIXENES. Ihr ermüdet diejenigen, die uns erfrischen. Lasst uns bitte diese zwölf Hirten sehen. DIENER. Ein Drittel von ihnen, wie sie selbst berichten, Herr, hat bereits vor dem König getanzt; und der Beste von ihnen springt nicht weniger als zwölf Fuß und einen halben Fuß hoch. HIRTE. Hört auf zu schwatzen; solange diese guten Männer zufrieden sind, lasst sie herein; aber schnell jetzt. DIENER. Warum, sie warten an der Tür, Herr. Abgang Hier ein Tanz von zwölf SATYREN POLIXENES. [Zum HIRTE] Oh Vater, du wirst später mehr darüber erfahren. [Zu CAMILLO] Ist es nicht schon zu weit gegangen? Es ist an der Zeit, sie zu trennen. Er ist einfach und plaudert viel. [Zu FLORIZEL] Wie geht es dir, schöner Hirte! Dein Herz ist voll von etwas, das deinen Geist vom Festmahl ablenkt. Ja, als ich jung war und Liebe so handhabte wie du, lud ich meine Geliebte mit Geschenken voll; ich hätte den seidenen Schatz des Wanderers durchstöbert und ihn ihr zur Annahme überreicht: Du hast ihn gehen lassen und nichts mit ihm getauscht. Wenn deine Liebste deine Interpretation missverstehen und dies deinen Mangel an Liebe oder Großzügigkeit nennen würde, wärst du in Verlegenheit eine Antwort zu geben, zumindest wenn du dir Sorgen machst, sie glücklich zu halten. FLORIZEL. Alter Herr, ich weiß, sie schätzt solche Kleinigkeiten nicht. Die Geschenke, die sie von mir erwartet, sind verpackt und verschlossen in meinem Herzen, das ich ihr bereits gegeben habe, aber noch nicht überbracht. Oh, hör mir zu, bevor ich mein Leben vor diesem alten Herrn aushauche, der, so scheint es, einmal verliebt war. Ich nehme deine Hand - diese Hand, so weich wie Daunen einer Taube und so weiß wie sie, oder ein äthiopischer Zahn oder der aufgewirbelte Schnee, dem die nördlichen Winde zweimal zusetzen. POLIXENES. Was folgt daraus? Wie nett scheint der junge Bursche die zuvor schöne Hand zu waschen! Ich habe dich durcheinandergebracht. Aber zu deiner Versicherung; lass mich hören, was du behauptest. FLORIZEL. Das will ich tun, und sei Zeuge davon. POLIXENES. Und auch mein Nachbar? FLORIZEL. Und er, und mehr als er, und Männer - die Erde, der Himmel und alles: Wenn ich der gekrönte Monarch wäre, des Throns würdigster, wenn ich der schönste Jüngling wäre, dem je ein Augenblick die Sinne raubte, der mehr Kraft und Wissen hatte als je ein Mensch zuvor, würde ich sie nicht schätzen, ohne ihre Liebe; für sie würde ich sie alle einsetzen; sie anpreisen und ihnen ihren eigenen Untergang wünschen. POLIXENES. Gut angeboten. CAMILLO. Das zeigt eine echte Zuneigung. HIRTE. Aber, meine Tochter, sagst du ihm dasselbe? PERDITA. Ich kann nicht so gut sprechen, nichts so gut; nein, auch nicht besser. Nach dem Muster meiner eigenen Gedanken habe ich seine Reinheit herausgeschnitten. HIRTE. Schlag ein, ein Geschäft! Und ihr unbekannten Freunde, ihr sollt Zeugen sein: Ich gebe meine Tochter ihm und werde ihr Erbe seinem gleichstellen. FLORIZEL. Oh, das muss im Wert deiner Tochter liegen. Wenn einer tot ist, werde ich mehr haben, als du dir vorstellen kannst; genug dann für dein Staunen. Aber komm, lass uns vor diesen Zeugen den Bräutigamvertrag schließen. HIRTE. Komm, deine Hand; Und Tochter, deine. POLIXENES. Warte, junger Bursche, bitte dich; hast du einen Vater? FLORIZEL. Ja, ich habe einen, aber was ist damit? POLIXENES. Weiß er davon? FLORIZEL. Das weiß er weder jetzt noch in Zukunft. POLIXENES. Ich denke, ein Vater sollte bei der Hochzeit seines Sohnes ein Gast sein, der sich am besten am Tisch benimmt. Bete dich, lass mich dich noch einmal fragen: Ist dein Vater nicht unfähig geworden, vernünftige Angelegenheiten zu erledigen? Ist er nicht geistig verblödet durch sein Alter und die sich ändernden Rheumaschmerzen? Kann er sprechen, hören, kann er einen Menschen von einem anderen unterscheiden, seinen eigenen Besitz bestreiten? Liegt er nicht bettlägerig und tut wieder nichts, außer kindisch zu handeln? FLORIZEL. Nein, Herr, ihm geht es gesundheitlich gut, und tatsächlich hat er mehr Kraft als die meisten in seinem Alter. POLIXENES. Bei meinem weißen Bart, du würdest ihm, wenn dem so ist, etwas Unrechtes antun, etwas unfilialisches. Mein Sohn sollte sich eine Frau aussuchen; aber genauso vernünftig ist es, dass der Vater - dessen einzige Freude nichts anderes ist als der Fortbestand seines Geschlechts - bei einer solchen Angelegenheit etwas mitzureden hat. FLORIZEL. Das gebe ich alles zu; aber aus anderen Gründen, mein ehrenwerter Herr, die für dich nicht passend sind, habe ich nicht vor, meinen Vater in diese Angelegenheit einzuweihen. POLIXENES. Lass ihn es wissen. FLORIZEL. Das wird er nicht tun. POLIXENES. Ich bitte dich, lass ihn es wissen. FLORIZEL. Nein, das darf er nicht. HIRTE. Lass ihn es wissen, mein Sohn; er wird sich nicht betrübt fühlen, wenn er von deiner Wahl erfährt. FLORIZEL. Komm schon, komm schon, er darf es nicht. Fasse unseren Vertrag ins Auge. POLIXENES. [Er enttarnt sich] Betrachte deine Scheidung, junger Herr, den ich nicht länger meinen Sohn nennen kann; du bist zu niederträchtig, um anerkannt zu werden - du, Erbe eines Zepters, der sich so sehr für einen Hirtenstab interessiert! Du, alter Verräter, es tut mir leid, dass ich dich nicht durch Erhängen, dein Leben nur um eine Woche verkürzen kann. Und du, zauberhaftes Mädchen, das von Natur aus wissen musst, welch königlichen Narren du dir ausgesucht hast - HIRTE. Oh mein Herz! POLIXENES. Ich werde deine Schönheit mit Dornen zerkratzen und hässlicher machen als deine soziale Stellung. Was dich betrifft, junger Narr, wenn ich je erfahre, dass du sehnlichst dieses Kleinod nicht mehr sehen wirst - ich meine nie, dass du es sehen wirst - werde ich dich von der Thronfolge ausschließen; ich werde dich nicht länger als Teil unseres Blutes betrachten, weiter entfernt als Deukalions Nachkommen. Merke meine Worte. Folge uns an den Hof. Du unwürdiger Jüngling, obwohl du unser Missfallen ausgelöst hast, möchten wir dich von dem schrecklichen Schlag befreien. Und du, Verblendung, die dir gut genug passt - ja, auch du (bist nur unserer Ehre wegen würdig) - wenn du von jetzt an diese ländlichen Schranken ihm zu seinem Eingang öffnest, oder seinen Körper weiterhin in deine Arme schließt, werde ich einen ebenso grausamen Tod für dich erfinden, wie du empfindlich dafür bist. Abgang PERDITA. Selbst hier ruiniert! Ich hatte keine große Angst; denn einmal oder zweimal hatte ich vor zu sprechen und ihm deutlich zu sagen, dass derselbe Sonnenschein, der sein Hof beleuchtet, sein Gesicht nicht vor unserer Hütte verbirgt, sondern ebenso darauf scheint. [Zu FLORIZEL] Würde es Ihnen gefallen, Sir, zu gehen? Ich habe Ihnen gesagt, was geschehen würde. Ich bitte Sie, sich um Ihre eigene Situation zu kümmern. Mein Traum - jetzt da ich wach bin, will ich nicht weiter Königin spielen, sondern meine Schafe melken und weinen. CAMILLO. Warum, was ist los, Vater! Sprechen Sie, bevor Sie sterben. HIRTE. Ich kann weder sprechen noch denken, noch wagen zu wissen, was ich weiß. [Zu FLORIZEL] Oh Herr, du hast einen Mann von dreiundsiebzig Jahren zugrunde gerichtet, der beabsichtigte, sein Grab in Ruhe zu füllen, ja, neben den ehrlichen Kno PERDITA. Wie oft habe ich dir gesagt, dass es so sein würde! Wie oft habe ich gesagt, dass meine Würde nur so lange bestehen würde, Bis es bekannt wäre! FLORIZEL. Es kann nur scheitern durch Die Verletzung meines Glaubens; und dann Lass die Natur die Seiten der Erde zusammendrücken Und die Samen darin zerstören! Erhebe deinen Blick. Von meinem Erbe wische mich ab, Vater; ich Bin Erbe meiner Zuneigung. CAMILLO. Höre auf meinen Rat. FLORIZEL. Das werde ich - und nach meinem Wunsch; wenn meine Vernunft Dazu gehorsam ist, habe ich Vernunft; Wenn nicht, meine Sinne, die lieber vom Wahnsinn erfreut sind, Heißen es willkommen. CAMILLO. Das ist verzweifelt, mein Herr. FLORIZEL. Nenn es so; aber es erfüllt meinen Schwur: Ich muss es für anständig halten. Camillo, Nicht für Böhmen und nicht für den Glanz, der Dort geerntet werden könnte, für alles, was die Sonne sieht oder Die enge Erde bewahrt oder das tiefe Meer verbirgt In unbekannten Tiefen, werde ich meinen Schwur nicht brechen, Für meine schöne Geliebte. Deshalb bitte ich dich, Da du immer ein geehrter Freund meines Vaters warst, Wenn er mich vermissen wird - denn, glaube mir, ich habe nicht vor Ihn noch einmal zu sehen - gib ihm guten Rat Über seine Leidenschaft. Lass mich und das Glück Für die kommende Zeit ringen. Dies kannst du wissen, Und so übergeben: Ich gehe aufs Meer Mit ihr, die ich hier nicht an Land halten kann. Und am passendsten ist es für ihre Bedürfnisse, Dass ein Schiff unweit davon fährt, aber nicht bereit Für dieses Vorhaben. Welchen Kurs ich halten werde, Wird dir nichts nützen, noch Mich betreffen, dass ich es berichte. CAMILLO. Oh mein Herr, Ich wünsche mir, dein Geist wäre zugänglicher für Ratschläge. Oder stärker für deine Not. FLORIZEL. Hör zu, Perdita. (Nimmt sie beiseite) (Zu CAMILLO) Ich höre dich gleich. CAMILLO. Er ist unerschütterlich, Entschlossen zu fliehen. Jetzt wäre ich glücklich, wenn Seine Abreise ich dazu bringen könnte, meinen Zweck zu erfüllen, Ihn vor Gefahr zu bewahren, ihn zu lieben und zu ehren, Die Sicht von Sizilien wieder zu erlangen, Und den unglücklichen König, meinen Meister, den Ich so sehr verlange zu sehen. FLORIZEL. Nun, guter Camillo, Ich bin so sehr mit wichtigen Angelegenheiten beschäftigt, dass Ich das Zeremonielle beiseite lasse. CAMILLO. Mein Herr, ich denke, Ihr habt von meinen bescheidenen Diensten in der Liebe Zu eurem Vater gehört? FLORIZEL. Sehr nobel Hast du dich verdient gemacht. Es ist die Musik meines Vaters Über deine Taten zu sprechen; keine Kleinigkeit seiner Sorge Sie zu belohnen, wie er es überlegt hat. CAMILLO. Nun, mein Herr, Wenn es euch beliebt, zu denken, dass ich den König liebe, Und durch ihn das, was ihm am nächsten ist, nämlich Euch, eure gnädige Selbst, dann akzeptiert meine Anleitung. Wenn euer streng festgelegtes Vorhaben Eine Änderung zulassen kann, so gelobe ich euch Zu einem Ort zu führen, an dem ihr solch einen Empfang haben werdet, Wie es eurer Hoheit zusteht; wo ihr Eure Geliebte genießen könnt, von der ich sehe, Dass es keine Trennung geben kann, außer durch, Gott bewahre! euren Ruin - heiratet sie; Und mit meinem besten Einsatz in eurer Abwesenheit Bemühe ich mich, euren unzufriedenen Vater zu besänftigen, Und ihn dazu zu bringen, euch zu mögen. FLORIZEL. Wie, Camillo, Wie kann dies, fast ein Wunder, geschehen? Dass ich dich etwas mehr als einen Menschen nennen kann, Und danach auf dich vertrauen. CAMILLO. Hast du darüber nachgedacht, Ein Ziel zu haben, wohin du gehen wirst? FLORIZEL. Noch keines; Aber so wie der unvorhergesehene Zwischenfall schuldig ist Für das, was wir wild tun, bekennen wir uns Unsere Sklaven des Zufalls und der Winde, Die wehen. CAMILLO. Dann hört mir zu. Wenn ihr euren Entschluss nicht ändern wollt, Sondern euch diesem Flug unterzieht: steuert auf Sizilien zu, Und stellt euch dort vor, zusammen mit eurer schönen Prinzessin - Denn so muss sie sein - vor Leontes. Sie soll bekleidet sein, wie es Einer Partnerin in eurem Bett zusteht. Ich glaube zu sehen, Wie Leontes seine freien Arme öffnet und weint Seine Willkommensgrüße; er fragt dich 'Sohn, Vergebung!' Als wäre es in der Person des Vaters; er küsst die Hände Deiner frischen Prinzessin; immer wieder teilt er ihn auf Zwischen seine Bösartigkeit und seine Freundlichkeit - den einen Geißelt er zur Hölle und befiehlt dem anderen zu wachsen Schneller als Gedanken oder Zeit. FLORIZEL. Würdiger Camillo, Welche Vorwände kann ich verwenden, um mich bei ihm zu melden? CAMILLO. Von eurem Vater als Bote Geschickt, um ihm zu grüßen und ihm Trost zu spenden. Herr, Wie ihr euch ihm gegenüber verhaltet, mit Was ihr als ob von eurem Vater sprechen werdet, Dinge, die zwischen uns dreien bekannt sind, werde ich euch schriftlich mitteilen; Diese zeigen euch bei jeder Gelegenheit, Was ihr sagen müsst, damit er nicht merkt, Dass ihr nur das Innerste eures Vaters habt Und sein Herz sprechen lasst. FLORIZEL. Ich bin euch verpflichtet. Hier steckt etwas Potential drin. CAMILLO. Eine vielversprechendere Methode Als sich wild ungebahnten Gewässern hinzugeben, unerträglichen Küsten entgegenzusteuern, mit genügend Elend Ohne Hoffnung euch zu helfen, Außer dass ihr einen abwerft, um einen anderen anzunehmen; Nichts ist so sicher wie eure Anker, die Ihre beste Funktion erfüllen, wenn sie euch nur halten können Wo ihr ungern sein werdet. Außerdem wisst ihr, Dass Wohlstand die Verbindung der Liebe ist, Der frische Teint und das Herz zusammen Das Leiden verändern. PERDITA. Eines davon ist wahr: Ich denke, das Leiden mag die Wangen beeinflussen, Aber nicht den Verstand betreffen. CAMILLO. Ja, sagst du das so? In eurem Vaterhaus wird in sieben Jahren Kein weiteres wie sie geboren. FLORIZEL. Mein lieber Camillo, Sie ist so weit fortgeschritten in ihrer Erziehung wie Sie hinten in unserer Geburt ist. CAMILLO. Ich kann nicht sagen, dass es bedauerlich ist, Dass es ihr an Anleitung mangelt, denn sie scheint eine Meisterin zu sein Für die meisten, die lehren. PERDITA. Verzeihung, Herr; dafür Danke ich dir. FLORIZEL. Meine hübsche Perdita! Aber oh, die Dornen, auf denen wir stehen! Camillo - Retter meines Vaters, jetzt von mir; Das Heilmittel unseres Hauses - wie sollen wir es tun? Wir sind nicht ausgestattet wie der Sohn von Böhmen; Noch werden wir so in Sizilien erscheinen. CAMILLO. Mein Herr, Fürchtet euch nicht davor. Ich denke, ihr kennt meine Schicksale Liegen alle dort. Ich werde mich gerne darum kümmern, Dass ihr königlich ausgestattet seid, als ob Die Szene, die ihr spielt, meine wäre. Zum Beispiel, Herr, Damit ihr wisst, dass es euch an nichts mangelt - ein Wort. [Miteinander reden sie leise.] AUTOLYCUS betritt erneut die Szene. AUTOLYCUS. Ha, ha! Was für ein Narr die Ehrlichkeit ist! Und Vertrauen, sein treuer Bruder, ein sehr einfacher Herr! Ich habe meinen Schund verkauft; kein falscher Stein, kein Band, kein Gewürzbällchen, kein Brosche, kein Tischbuch, kein Lied, kein Messer, kein Band, kein Handschuh, kein Schuhschnürband, kein Armband, kein Hornring, um meinen Packen nicht hungern zu lassen. Sie drängen, wer als Erster kaufen soll, als ob meine Kleinigkeiten geheiligt und dem Käufer einen Segen gebracht hätten. Auf diese Weise erkannte ich, wessen Geldbeutel das beste Bild hatte; und was ich sah, erinnerte ich mich zu meinem Vorteil. Mein Narr, der nur etwas braucht, um ein vernünftiger Mensch zu sein, verliebte sich so sehr in das Lied der Mädchen, dass er seine kleinen Füße nicht bewegte, bis er sowohl Melodie als auch Text hatte, was den Rest der Herde dazu brachte, sich um mich zu versammeln, dass all ihre anderen Sinne in ihren Ohren stecken blieben. Du hättest ein Schamhaar zwicken können, es war sinnlos; es war nichts, einen Nadelbeutel aus einem Münzköcher zu entfernen; ich hätte Schlüssel entfernt, die an Ketten hingen. Kein Gehör, kein Gefühl, außer für das Lied meines Herrn, und Bewunderung des Nichts darin. So dass ich in dieser Zeit der Lethargie die meisten ihrer Festtaschen ausplünderte und durch den alten Mann nicht gestört wurde, der mit Geschrei gegen seine Tochter und den Sohn des Königs kam und meine Raben vom Kornfeld vertrieb, hätte ich keine lebende Tasche in der ganzen Armee zurückgelassen. CAMILLO, FLORIZEL und PERDITA kommen vor. CAMILLO. Nun, meine Briefe werden, sobald du ankommst, diesen Zweifel klären. FLORIZEL. Und jene, die du von König Leontes besorgen wirst? CAMILLO. Sie werden deinen Vater zufriedenstellen. PERDITA. Glücklich seid ihr! Alles, was ihr sagt, klingt gut. CAMILLO. [Bemerkt AUTOLYCUS] Und wen haben wir hier? Wir werden dieses Instrument zu unserem Vorteil nutzen und nichts auslassen, was uns helfen könnte. AUTOLYCUS. [Im Stillen] Wenn sie mich jetzt belauscht haben - na, dann hängen. CAMILLO. Wie geht's, guter Mann! Warum zitterst du so? Hab keine Angst, es ist dir hier kein Schaden zugefügt. AUTOLYCUS. Ich bin ein armer Mann, Herr. CAMILLO. Nun, sei auch ruhig; hier wird dir niemand etwas stehlen. Aber wegen deiner Armutsverkleidung müssen wir etwas austauschen, also zieh dich sofort aus - du musst denken, es ist notwendig - und tausche Kleidung mit diesem Herrn. Auch wenn das, was er hat, weniger wert ist, halte es trotzdem, hier ist etwas Kleingeld. [Geld gebend] AUTOLYCUS. Ich bin ein armer Mann, Herr. [Im Stillen] Ich kenne euch gut genug. CAMILLO. Nun, bitte beeile dich. Der Herr hier ist schon halb gehäutet. AUTOLYCUS. Meint ihr das ernst, Herr? [Im Stillen] Ich rieche den Trick dahinter. FLORIZEL. Beeil dich, ich bitte dich. AUTOLYCUS. Ja, ich habe bereits etwas davon gehört, aber mein Gewissen erlaubt es mir nicht, es anzunehmen. CAMILLO. Entkleide dich, entkleide dich. FLORIZEL und AUTOLYCUS tauschen Kleidung aus. Glückliche Dame - lass meine Prophezeiung wahr werden - du musst dich zurückziehen, dich verstecken; nimm den Hut deines Liebsten und zieh ihn über deine Stirn, verhülle dein Gesicht, entstelle dich und verändere dein Äußeres so gut du kannst, damit du - denn ich befürchte, dass man uns beobachtet - unentdeckt an Bord gehen kannst. PERDITA. Ich sehe, dass ich eine Rolle spielen muss. CAMILLO. Keine andere Lösung. Bist du fertig dort? FLORIZEL. Wenn ich jetzt meinem Vater begegnen würde, würde er mich nicht mehr seinen Sohn nennen. CAMILLO. Nein, du wirst keinen Hut haben. [Gibt ihn PERDITA] Komm, Dame, komm. Lebwohl, mein Freund. AUTOLYCUS. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr. FLORIZEL. Oh Perdita, was haben wir vergessen? Ich bitte dich um ein Wort. [Sie sprechen apart] CAMILLO. [Im Stillen] Was ich als Nächstes tun werde, ist dem König von dieser Flucht zu berichten und wohin sie unterwegs sind; dabei hoffe ich, dass ich ihn dazu bewegen kann, ihnen zu folgen. In seiner Begleitung werde ich mir Sizilien noch einmal ansehen, auf dessen Anblick ich so scharf bin wie eine Frau. FLORIZEL. Die Götter mögen uns Glück bringen! So brechen wir auf, Camillo, zum Meeresufer. CAMILLO. Je schneller, desto besser. Abgang FLORIZEL, PERDITA und CAMILLO. AUTOLYCUS. Ich verstehe das Geschäft, ich habe gehört, was gesagt wurde. Ein offenes Ohr, ein scharfes Auge und eine flinke Hand sind für einen Taschendieb notwendig; auch eine gute Nase ist erforderlich, um Arbeit für die anderen Sinne aufzuspüren. Ich sehe, dass dies die Zeit ist, in der der ungerechte Mann gedeiht. Was für ein Tausch wäre das gewesen, ohne Gewinn! Was für ein Gewinn ist hier mit diesem Tausch verbunden! Sicherlich sehen die Götter in diesem Jahr über uns hinweg und wir können alles spontan tun. Der Prinz selbst ist in ein Stück Unrecht verwickelt - er stiehlt sich mit seinem Anhänger von seinem Vater davon. Wenn ich dachte, es wäre ein Akt der Ehrlichkeit, den König darüber zu informieren, würde ich es nicht tun. Ich halte es für noch größeren Betrug, es zu verschweigen, und darin bleibe ich meiner Profession treu. Wieder erscheinen der Narr und der Schäfer. eigene Übersetzung: Abgesehen davon, hier ist noch mehr Stoff für ein heißes Gehirn. Jede Straße, jeder Laden, jede Kirche, jede Sitzung, jede Hinrichtung liefert einem sorgfältigen Mann Arbeit. CLOWN. Schau mal, schau mal, was für ein Mann du jetzt bist! Es gibt keinen anderen Weg, als dem König zu sagen, dass sie ein Wechselbalg ist und nicht von deinem Fleisch und Blut. SCHÄFER. Na, hört mich doch an. CLOWN. Na, hört mich doch an. SCHÄFER. Gut, dann los. CLOWN. Da sie nicht von deinem Fleisch und Blut ist, hat dein Fleisch und Blut den König nicht beleidigt; und so soll dein Fleisch und Blut nicht von ihm bestraft werden. Zeige ihm die Dinge, die du bei ihr gefunden hast, diese geheimen Dinge - alles außer dem, was sie bei sich hat. Ist das erledigt, kann das Gesetz pfeifen gehen; ich garantiere es dir. SCHÄFER. Ich werde dem König alles erzählen, jedes Wort - ja, auch die Scherze seines Sohnes; der, muss ich sagen, ist kein anständiger Mann, weder zu seinem Vater noch zu mir, der versucht, mich zum Schwager des Königs zu machen. CLOWN. In der Tat, Schwager wäre das Weitest entfernte, was du von ihm sein könntest; und dann hätte dein Blut umso teurer sein sollen, um wie viel Unzen auch immer. AUTOLYCUS. [Beiseite] Sehr klug, ihr Welpen! SCHÄFER. Nun, lassen Sie uns zum König gehen. Da ist etwas in diesem Bündel, das ihn zum Kratzen seines Bartes bringen wird. AUTOLYCUS. [Beiseite] Ich weiß nicht, welches Hindernis diese Beschwerde für die Flucht meines Herrn sein kann. CLOWN. Beten wir inständig, dass er im Palast ist. AUTOLYCUS. [Beiseite] Obwohl ich von Natur aus nicht ehrlich bin, bin ich es manchmal zufälligerweise. Ich werde meinen Händlerdreck in meine Tasche stecken. [Nimmt seinen falschen Bart ab] Wie jetzt, Bauern! Wohin geht ihr? SCHÄFER. Zum Palast, wenn es Euch recht ist, Euer Hochwohlgeboren. AUTOLYCUS. Eure Angelegenheiten dort, was, mit wem, der Zustand dieses Bündels, der Ort Eures Wohnsitzes, Eure Namen, Eure Alter, Euer Haben, Eure Erziehung und alles andere, was bekannt sein sollte - offenbart es. CLOWN. Wir sind nur einfache Leute, mein Herr. AUTOLYCUS. Eine Lüge: Ihr seid grob und haarig. Lasst mich keine Lügen hören; das ist nur den Kaufleuten vorbehalten, und sie lügen uns Soldaten oft an; aber wir bezahlen sie dafür mit geprägtem Geld, nicht mit stechendem Stahl; deshalb lügen sie uns nicht an. CLOWN. Ihr hättet uns fast einen geliefert, wenn Ihr Euch nicht selbst gefangen hättet. SCHÄFER. Seid Ihr ein Höfling, wenn es Euch recht ist, mein Herr? AUTOLYCUS. Ob es mir gefällt oder nicht, ich bin ein Höfling. Siehst du nicht die Luft des Hofes in diesen Kleidern? Hat mein Gang nicht das Maß des Hofes? Empfängt nicht deine Nase den Hofduft von mir? Verachte ich nicht deine Niedertracht und höhnischen Gerichtssaal? Denkst du, weil ich mich einschleiche, dass ich dir dein Geschäft abspenstig machen will, deshalb bin ich kein Höfling? Ich bin ein Höfling durch und durch und einer, der deinem Geschäft dort den Weg bahnen oder dich zurückziehen wird; daher befehle ich dir, dein Anliegen offen zu legen. SCHÄFER. Mein Anliegen, mein Herr, betrifft den König. AUTOLYCUS. Welchen Fürsprecher hast du bei ihm? SCHÄFER. Ich weiß es nicht, wenn es Euch recht ist. CLOWN. "Fürsprecher" ist das hochgestochene Wort für Fasan; sag, du hast keinen. SCHÄFER. Keinen, mein Herr; ich habe weder Fasanenhahn noch -henne. AUTOLYCUS. Wie gesegnet sind wir, die keine einfachen Leute sind! Doch die Natur könnte mich auch wie sie gemacht haben, deshalb werde ich nicht verachten. CLOWN. Das kann nur ein großer Höfling sein. SCHÄFER. Seine Kleider sind reich, aber er trägt sie nicht elegant. CLOWN. Er scheint edler zu sein, wenn er fantastisch ist. Ein großer Mann, das versichere ich euch; ich weiß es am Knibbeln seiner Zähne. AUTOLYCUS. Das Bündel da? Was ist im Bündel? Wofür ist diese Schachtel? SCHÄFER. Sir, in diesem Bündel und dieser Schachtel liegen Geheimnisse, die niemand außer dem König wissen darf; und er wird es innerhalb dieser Stunde erfahren, wenn ich mit ihm sprechen kann. AUTOLYCUS. Du hast umsonst gearbeitet, Alter. SCHÄFER. Warum, Sir? AUTOLYCUS. Der König ist nicht im Palast; er ist auf einem neuen Schiff, um seine Melancholie zu lindern und sich frische Luft zu verschaffen; denn, wenn du fähig bist, ernsthafte Dinge zu verstehen, musst du wissen, dass der König voller Kummer ist. SCHÄFER. So wird es gesagt, Sir - wegen seines Sohnes, der eine Schäferstochter hätte heiraten sollen. AUTOLYCUS. Wenn dieser Schäfer nicht in seiner Gewalt ist, soll er fliehen; die Flüche, die er haben wird, die Qualen, die er fühlen wird, werden den Rücken des Mannes brechen, das Herz des Monsters. CLOWN. Denkt Ihr das, Sir? AUTOLYCUS. Nicht nur er wird erleiden, was der Witz schwer machen und die Rache bitter machen kann; sondern auch diejenigen, die mit ihm verwandt sind, mögen sie noch so oft entfernt sein, sollen alle unter den Henker kommen - was, obwohl es schade ist, dennoch notwendig ist. Einen alten, auf Schafe pfiffenden Schurken, einen Widder-Züchter, der es wagt, seine Tochter auf den Weg der Gnade zu führen! Manche sagen, er soll gesteinigt werden; aber dieser Tod ist zu sanft für ihn, sage ich. Unseren Thron in einen Schafstall zu ziehen! - alle Tode sind zu wenige, die schärfsten zu einfach. CLOWN. Hat der alte Mann einen Sohn, Sir, hört Ihr, wenn es Euch gefällt, Sir? AUTOLYCUS. Er hat einen Sohn - der lebendig gehäutet werden soll; dann mit Honig bestrichen über einem Wespennest stehen soll; dann soll er stehen, bis er zu drei Vierteln und einem Hein tot ist; dann wiedererweckt mit Aqua vitae oder irgendeiner anderen heißen Infusion; dann, so roh wie er ist und an dem heißesten Tag, der vorausgesagt wird, soll er gegen eine Ziegelwand gesetzt werden, wobei die Sonne mit südlichem Blick auf ihn schaut, wo er sie mit zu Tode geblasenen Fliegen betrachten soll. Aber warum reden wir von diesen verräterischen Schurken, deren Elend belächelt werden soll, da ihre Vergehen so gravierend sind? Sagt mir, ihr scheint ehrliche und einfache Leute zu sein, was habt ihr dem König mitzuteilen? Wenn etwas sanft und wohlüberlegt ist, werde ich euch zu ihm bringen, eure Personen in seiner Anwesenheit vorstellen, ihm eure Bitten zuraunen, und wenn es neben dem König jemanden gibt, der eure Anliegen vorantreiben kann, dann ist hier der Mann, der es tun wird. CLOWN. Er scheint große Autorität zu haben. Schließt euch ihm an, gebt ihm Gold; und obwohl Autorität ein sturer Bär ist, wird er oft mit Gold an der Nase herumgeführt. Zeigt den Inhalt Schwester, wir sind anderswohin gegangen. Herr, ich werde Ihnen so viel geben wie dieser alte Mann, wenn das Geschäft erledigt ist; und ich bleibe, wie er sagt, als Ihre Pfand, bis es Ihnen gebracht wird. AUTOLYCUS. Ich werde dir vertrauen. Geh voraus in Richtung Meerseite; gehe nach rechts; ich werde nur auf die Hecke schauen und dir folgen. CLOWN. Wir sind in diesem Mann gesegnet, kann ich sagen, sogar gesegnet. SHEPHERD. Lasst uns vorangehen, wie er uns sagt. Er war dazu bereit, uns etwas Gutes zu tun. Sie gehen ab, SHEPHERD und CLOWN AUTOLYCUS. Wenn ich den Wunsch hätte ehrlich zu sein, sehe ich, dass Fortune es mir nicht erlauben würde: Sie wirft Beute in meinen Mund. Jetzt werde ich umworben mit einer doppelten Gelegenheit - Gold und die Möglichkeit, dem Prinzen, meinem Herrn, Gutes zu tun; wer weiß, wie sich das zu meiner Beförderung zurückentwickeln könnte? Ich werde ihm diese beiden Maulwürfe, diese Blinden, präsentieren. Wenn er meint, es sei angemessen, sie wieder an Land zu bringen, und dass die Beschwerde, die sie an den König haben, ihn nichts angeht, dann kann er mich als Schurken bezeichnen, weil ich so weit vorausgreife; denn ich bin gegen diesen Titel immun und gegen alle anderen Schande. Ihm werde ich sie vorstellen. Es könnte etwas darin stecken. Austritt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Vater Zeit, der Chor dieses Stücks, teilt dem Publikum mit, dass seit dem Ende des dritten Akts sechzehn Jahre vergangen sind. Wir lassen Leontes, der in Sizilien trauert, zurück und kommen nach Böhmen. Perdita, nun eine junge Frau, wächst in Anmut und Schönheit heran. Vater Zeit bittet uns auch daran zu denken, dass Polixenes einen Sohn namens Florizell hat, der nun ein junger Mann ist. Szene ii: Camillo bittet Polixenes, ihm die Rückkehr in die Heimat zu erlauben. Leontes hat Camillo gebeten, zurückzukommen, und Camillo sehnt sich danach, seine Heimat und seinen alten Herrn zu sehen. Polixenes ist auf Camillos Verwaltungsfähigkeiten angewiesen und drängt den Höfling, zu bleiben. Ihr Gespräch lässt darauf schließen, dass Böhmen und Sizilien wieder gute Beziehungen pflegen, obwohl sich die Freundschaft zwischen den Königen nie erholt hat. Polixenes fragt Camillo, ob er den Aufenthaltsort von Prinz Florizell kennt, der in letzter Zeit oft abwesend ist. Der König hat gehört, dass Florizell oft das Haus eines Schäfers besucht, der eine schöne Tochter hat. Er bittet Camillo, mit ihm zu gehen, verkleidet, um herauszufinden, was Florizell getan hat. Szene iii: Autolycus, ein junger Mann früher in den Diensten des Prinzen, bestreitet nun seinen Lebensunterhalt als Trickbetrüger. Er gibt vor, von Räubern auf der Straße verwundet worden zu sein. Der arglose Sohn des Schäfers, der gerade dabei ist, Vorräte und Zutaten für das Schafschur-Fest zu kaufen, hält an, um ihm zu helfen. Während der Sohn des Schäfers abgelenkt ist, stiehlt der Schurke ihm die Brieftasche. Als Autolycus von dem Schafschur-Fest hört, sieht er eine Gelegenheit, erneut zuzuschlagen. Szene iv: Florizell und Perdita sprechen liebevoll miteinander im Haus des Schäfers. Sie trägt ein hübsches Kleid für das Fest, während der Prinz als junger Bauer verkleidet ist. Wir erfahren, dass sie sich zum ersten Mal kennengelernt haben, als sein Jagdfalke über das Grundstück von Perditas Zuhause flog. Florizell ist vor Liebe zu Perdita entzückt, aber sie ist nervös wegen des Rangs des Prinzen. Sie befürchtet, dass es eine Katastrophe für sie und ihre Familie wäre, wenn sein Vater es herausfindet. Wir erfahren, dass die beiden Jugendlichen zwar verliebt sind, aber ihre Beziehung noch nicht vollzogen haben. Florizell sagt Perdita, dass er für sie riskieren wird, verstossen zu werden. Der Schäfer, der Sohn des Schäfers, Mopsa, Dorcas, Schäfer und Schäferinnen, Diener, Musiker, Polixenes und Camillo in Verkleidung betreten die Bühne. Der Schäfer ermutigt seine Tochter, sich ganz der Rolle der Gastgeberin zu widmen, und beschreibt, wie seine verstorbene Frau eine Gastgeberin war, die es wert ist, nachgeahmt zu werden. Perdita gehorcht ihrem Vater und ist charmant und freundlich zu den Gästen. Polixenes und Camillo sind von der Schönheit und dem Auftreten des Mädchens beeindruckt. Polixenes spricht den Schäfer an und fragt nach der Identität des jungen Mannes bei Perdita. Der Schäfer kennt Florizells wahre Identität nicht; er glaubt, dass Florizell ein Landjugendlicher namens Doricles ist. Er erzählt dem verkleideten König, dass der Junge und Perdita verliebt sind, und der Schäfer stimmt der Verbindung zu. Ein Bediensteter kündigt den Annäherung eines Balladensängers an, der Bänder und andere Kleinigkeiten verkauft, und der Sohn des Schäfers ruft ihn freudig herein. Perdita warnt davor, dass der Balladensänger keine obszönen Worte verwenden sollte. Da kommt der Sänger herein, der niemand anders als Autolycus ist. Er singt ein Lied über die Ware, die er verkauft. Wir erfahren, dass der Sohn des Schäfers und das Mädchen Mopsa ein Paar sind, obwohl Dorcas oft spielerisch mit ihm flirtet. Die drei singen ein Lied mit Autolycus, und dann gehen sie alle aus, wobei der Sohn des Schäfers verspricht, beiden Frauen Kleinigkeiten zu kaufen. Ein Diener kündigt das Herannahen von Bauern an, die sich als Satyrn verkleidet haben. Der Schäfer, besorgt, dass er seine Gäste mit zu viel "häuslicher Narretei" langweilt, will die Satyrn fort schicken, aber Polixenes ist begeistert von der Aussicht auf tanzende Satyrn und besteht darauf, dass sie hereingeholt werden. Nach dem Tanz unterhält sich Polixenes mit Florizell, der ihn nicht erkennt. Florizell erklärt mitreißend seine Liebe zu Perdita, und Perdita zeigt, dass sie genauso empfindet. Der Schäfer stimmt der Verbindung zu. Der verkleidete Polixenes fragt Florizell, ob er einen Vater hat und ob sein Vater von dieser Verbindung weiß. Florizell gibt zu, dass sein Vater nichts weiß und auch nichts erfahren wird. Polixenes drängt ihn, seinem Vater die wichtige Nachricht zu berichten, und der Schäfer stimmt zu, dass Florizells Vater Bescheid wissen sollte. Als Florizell sich immer noch weigert, die wichtige Nachricht mit seinem Vater zu teilen, enthüllt Polixenes seine Identität. Wütend verstösst er seinen Sohn und bedroht den Schäfer und Perdita. Der Schäfer wird dieses Mal ohne Schaden davonkommen, aber wenn Perdita Florizell wieder sieht, wird sie hingerichtet. Polixenes geht. Perdita wollte ihm sagen, dass die gleiche Sonne auf den Hof und auf ihre Hütte scheint, aber jetzt ist die Chance vorbei und ihre Sorge gilt der Sicherheit ihrer Familie. Sie bittet Florizell zu gehen. Der Schäfer ist wütend auf beide Kinder wegen ihrer Täuschung und geht beleidigt weg. Florizell lässt sich von der Missbilligung seines Vaters nicht abschrecken. Er will immer noch Perdita heiraten. Camillo, der nun enthüllt ist, versucht den Prinzen vor übereiltem Verhalten zu warnen, aber der Prinz hat seine Wahl getroffen. Er wird Perdita heiraten und notfalls aus Böhmen fliehen. In einem inneren Monolog fragt sich Camillo, ob er dem Prinzen bei seiner Flucht helfen kann und gleichzeitig die Gelegenheit nutzen kann, um davon zu profitieren, damit er seine Heimat Sicilia und seinen alten Herrn, König Leontes, wiedersehen kann. Camillo hat einen Plan. Florizell und Perdita sollen nach Sizilien gehen, wo König Leontes sie willkommen heißen wird. In ihrer Abwesenheit wird Camillo versuchen, Polixenes dazu zu bringen, die Entscheidung seines Sohnes zu akzeptieren. Florizell und Perdita sollen vorgeben, Boten von Polixenes zu sein, mit Briefen und Anweisungen von Camillo, um das Ganze glaubhaft zu machen. Autolycus tritt erneut auf, nachdem er seinen Plunder verkauft hat. Camillo bezahlt ihn, damit er die Kleidung mit Florizell tauscht, damit der Prinz in Verkleidung fliehen kann. Der Hut wird Perdita gegeben. In einem inneren Monolog offenbart Camillo, dass er dem König sagen wird, wohin die Kinder gegangen sind, in der Hoffnung, dass der König ihnen nach Sicilia folgen wird. Camillo wird ihn begleiten, und der alte Hofmann wird seine Heimat wiedersehen können. Perdita, Camillo und Florizell verlassen die Szene. Autolycus kennt Camillo und den Prinzen, entscheidet sich aber, es dem König nicht zu sagen, weil Ehrlichkeit nicht zu seinem Schurkencharakter passt. Der Schäfer und der Sohn des Schäfers betreten die Bühne erneut und besprechen ihre verzweifelte Lage. Der Sohn des Schäfers überzeugt den Schäfer, dass sie Polixenes sagen müssen, dass Perdita ein Wechselkind ist. Autolycus nähert sich ihnen, gibt vor, ein großer Höfling zu sein, und warnt die Männer, dass der König wütend ist. Er täuscht sie und lässt sie glauben, dass der König für alle, die an Florizells Werben um Perdita beteiligt sind, grausame Folterungen plant. Er sagt ihnen, dass er sie notfalls dem König präsentieren und ein gutes Wort für sie einlegen wird. Der Schäfer und der Sohn des Schäfers werden getäuscht und geben Autolycus Gold, um ihm für seine Hilfe zu danken. Autolycus offenbart dem Publikum in einem inneren Monolog, dass er daran arbeiten wird, seinem alten Herrn, dem Prinzen, zu nutzen, in der Hoffnung, dass er dadurch etwas Fortschritt macht. Wenn er dem Prinzen hilft, ist nichts dabei, die Bauern um noch ein wenig Gold zu betrügen.

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: "'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall." --Measure for Measure. Lydgate certainly had good reason to reflect on the service his practice did him in counteracting his personal cares. He had no longer free energy enough for spontaneous research and speculative thinking, but by the bedside of patients, the direct external calls on his judgment and sympathies brought the added impulse needed to draw him out of himself. It was not simply that beneficent harness of routine which enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to live calmly--it was a perpetual claim on the immediate fresh application of thought, and on the consideration of another's need and trial. Many of us looking back through life would say that the kindest man we have ever known has been a medical man, or perhaps that surgeon whose fine tact, directed by deeply informed perception, has come to us in our need with a more sublime beneficence than that of miracle-workers. Some of that twice-blessed mercy was always with Lydgate in his work at the Hospital or in private houses, serving better than any opiate to quiet and sustain him under his anxieties and his sense of mental degeneracy. Mr. Farebrother's suspicion as to the opiate was true, however. Under the first galling pressure of foreseen difficulties, and the first perception that his marriage, if it were not to be a yoked loneliness, must be a state of effort to go on loving without too much care about being loved, he had once or twice tried a dose of opium. But he had no hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the hauntings of misery. He was strong, could drink a great deal of wine, but did not care about it; and when the men round him were drinking spirits, he took sugar and water, having a contemptuous pity even for the earliest stages of excitement from drink. It was the same with gambling. He had looked on at a great deal of gambling in Paris, watching it as if it had been a disease. He was no more tempted by such winning than he was by drink. He had said to himself that the only winning he cared for must be attained by a conscious process of high, difficult combination tending towards a beneficent result. The power he longed for could not be represented by agitated fingers clutching a heap of coin, or by the half-barbarous, half-idiotic triumph in the eyes of a man who sweeps within his arms the ventures of twenty chapfallen companions. But just as he had tried opium, so his thought now began to turn upon gambling--not with appetite for its excitement, but with a sort of wistful inward gaze after that easy way of getting money, which implied no asking and brought no responsibility. If he had been in London or Paris at that time, it is probable that such thoughts, seconded by opportunity, would have taken him into a gambling-house, no longer to watch the gamblers, but to watch with them in kindred eagerness. Repugnance would have been surmounted by the immense need to win, if chance would be kind enough to let him. An incident which happened not very long after that airy notion of getting aid from his uncle had been excluded, was a strong sign of the effect that might have followed any extant opportunity of gambling. The billiard-room at the Green Dragon was the constant resort of a certain set, most of whom, like our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge, were regarded as men of pleasure. It was here that poor Fred Vincy had made part of his memorable debt, having lost money in betting, and been obliged to borrow of that gay companion. It was generally known in Middlemarch that a good deal of money was lost and won in this way; and the consequent repute of the Green Dragon as a place of dissipation naturally heightened in some quarters the temptation to go there. Probably its regular visitants, like the initiates of freemasonry, wished that there were something a little more tremendous to keep to themselves concerning it; but they were not a closed community, and many decent seniors as well as juniors occasionally turned into the billiard-room to see what was going on. Lydgate, who had the muscular aptitude for billiards, and was fond of the game, had once or twice in the early days after his arrival in Middlemarch taken his turn with the cue at the Green Dragon; but afterwards he had no leisure for the game, and no inclination for the socialities there. One evening, however, he had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge at that resort. The horsedealer had engaged to get him a customer for his remaining good horse, for which Lydgate had determined to substitute a cheap hack, hoping by this reduction of style to get perhaps twenty pounds; and he cared now for every small sum, as a help towards feeding the patience of his tradesmen. To run up to the billiard-room, as he was passing, would save time. Mr. Bambridge was not yet come, but would be sure to arrive by-and-by, said his friend Mr. Horrock; and Lydgate stayed, playing a game for the sake of passing the time. That evening he had the peculiar light in the eyes and the unusual vivacity which had been once noticed in him by Mr. Farebrother. The exceptional fact of his presence was much noticed in the room, where there was a good deal of Middlemarch company; and several lookers-on, as well as some of the players, were betting with animation. Lydgate was playing well, and felt confident; the bets were dropping round him, and with a swift glancing thought of the probable gain which might double the sum he was saving from his horse, he began to bet on his own play, and won again and again. Mr. Bambridge had come in, but Lydgate did not notice him. He was not only excited with his play, but visions were gleaming on him of going the next day to Brassing, where there was gambling on a grander scale to be had, and where, by one powerful snatch at the devil's bait, he might carry it off without the hook, and buy his rescue from his daily solicitings. He was still winning when two new visitors entered. One of them was a young Hawley, just come from his law studies in town, and the other was Fred Vincy, who had spent several evenings of late at this old haunt of his. Young Hawley, an accomplished billiard-player, brought a cool fresh hand to the cue. But Fred Vincy, startled at seeing Lydgate, and astonished to see him betting with an excited air, stood aside, and kept out of the circle round the table. Fred had been rewarding resolution by a little laxity of late. He had been working heartily for six months at all outdoor occupations under Mr. Garth, and by dint of severe practice had nearly mastered the defects of his handwriting, this practice being, perhaps, a little the less severe that it was often carried on in the evening at Mr. Garth's under the eyes of Mary. But the last fortnight Mary had been staying at Lowick Parsonage with the ladies there, during Mr. Farebrother's residence in Middlemarch, where he was carrying out some parochial plans; and Fred, not seeing anything more agreeable to do, had turned into the Green Dragon, partly to play at billiards, partly to taste the old flavor of discourse about horses, sport, and things in general, considered from a point of view which was not strenuously correct. He had not been out hunting once this season, had had no horse of his own to ride, and had gone from place to place chiefly with Mr. Garth in his gig, or on the sober cob which Mr. Garth could lend him. It was a little too bad, Fred began to think, that he should be kept in the traces with more severity than if he had been a clergyman. "I will tell you what, Mistress Mary--it will be rather harder work to learn surveying and drawing plans than it would have been to write sermons," he had said, wishing her to appreciate what he went through for her sake; "and as to Hercules and Theseus, they were nothing to me. They had sport, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand." And now, Mary being out of the way for a little while, Fred, like any other strong dog who cannot slip his collar, had pulled up the staple of his chain and made a small escape, not of course meaning to go fast or far. There could be no reason why he should not play at billiards, but he was determined not to bet. As to money just now, Fred had in his mind the heroic project of saving almost all of the eighty pounds that Mr. Garth offered him, and returning it, which he could easily do by giving up all futile money-spending, since he had a superfluous stock of clothes, and no expense in his board. In that way he could, in one year, go a good way towards repaying the ninety pounds of which he had deprived Mrs. Garth, unhappily at a time when she needed that sum more than she did now. Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that on this evening, which was the fifth of his recent visits to the billiard-room, Fred had, not in his pocket, but in his mind, the ten pounds which he meant to reserve for himself from his half-year's salary (having before him the pleasure of carrying thirty to Mrs. Garth when Mary was likely to be come home again)--he had those ten pounds in his mind as a fund from which he might risk something, if there were a chance of a good bet. Why? Well, when sovereigns were flying about, why shouldn't he catch a few? He would never go far along that road again; but a man likes to assure himself, and men of pleasure generally, what he could do in the way of mischief if he chose, and that if he abstains from making himself ill, or beggaring himself, or talking with the utmost looseness which the narrow limits of human capacity will allow, it is not because he is a spooney. Fred did not enter into formal reasons, which are a very artificial, inexact way of representing the tingling returns of old habit, and the caprices of young blood: but there was lurking in him a prophetic sense that evening, that when he began to play he should also begin to bet--that he should enjoy some punch-drinking, and in general prepare himself for feeling "rather seedy" in the morning. It is in such indefinable movements that action often begins. But the last thing likely to have entered Fred's expectation was that he should see his brother-in-law Lydgate--of whom he had never quite dropped the old opinion that he was a prig, and tremendously conscious of his superiority--looking excited and betting, just as he himself might have done. Fred felt a shock greater than he could quite account for by the vague knowledge that Lydgate was in debt, and that his father had refused to help him; and his own inclination to enter into the play was suddenly checked. It was a strange reversal of attitudes: Fred's blond face and blue eyes, usually bright and careless, ready to give attention to anything that held out a promise of amusement, looking involuntarily grave and almost embarrassed as if by the sight of something unfitting; while Lydgate, who had habitually an air of self-possessed strength, and a certain meditativeness that seemed to lie behind his most observant attention, was acting, watching, speaking with that excited narrow consciousness which reminds one of an animal with fierce eyes and retractile claws. Lydgate, by betting on his own strokes, had won sixteen pounds; but young Hawley's arrival had changed the poise of things. He made first-rate strokes himself, and began to bet against Lydgate's strokes, the strain of whose nerves was thus changed from simple confidence in his own movements to defying another person's doubt in them. The defiance was more exciting than the confidence, but it was less sure. He continued to bet on his own play, but began often to fail. Still he went on, for his mind was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if he had been the most ignorant lounger there. Fred observed that Lydgate was losing fast, and found himself in the new situation of puzzling his brains to think of some device by which, without being offensive, he could withdraw Lydgate's attention, and perhaps suggest to him a reason for quitting the room. He saw that others were observing Lydgate's strange unlikeness to himself, and it occurred to him that merely to touch his elbow and call him aside for a moment might rouse him from his absorption. He could think of nothing cleverer than the daring improbability of saying that he wanted to see Rosy, and wished to know if she were at home this evening; and he was going desperately to carry out this weak device, when a waiter came up to him with a message, saying that Mr. Farebrother was below, and begged to speak with him. Fred was surprised, not quite comfortably, but sending word that he would be down immediately, he went with a new impulse up to Lydgate, said, "Can I speak to you a moment?" and drew him aside. "Farebrother has just sent up a message to say that he wants to speak to me. He is below. I thought you might like to know he was there, if you had anything to say to him." Fred had simply snatched up this pretext for speaking, because he could not say, "You are losing confoundedly, and are making everybody stare at you; you had better come away." But inspiration could hardly have served him better. Lydgate had not before seen that Fred was present, and his sudden appearance with an announcement of Mr. Farebrother had the effect of a sharp concussion. "No, no," said Lydgate; "I have nothing particular to say to him. But--the game is up--I must be going--I came in just to see Bambridge." "Bambridge is over there, but he is making a row--I don't think he's ready for business. Come down with me to Farebrother. I expect he is going to blow me up, and you will shield me," said Fred, with some adroitness. Lydgate felt shame, but could not bear to act as if he felt it, by refusing to see Mr. Farebrother; and he went down. They merely shook hands, however, and spoke of the frost; and when all three had turned into the street, the Vicar seemed quite willing to say good-by to Lydgate. His present purpose was clearly to talk with Fred alone, and he said, kindly, "I disturbed you, young gentleman, because I have some pressing business with you. Walk with me to St. Botolph's, will you?" It was a fine night, the sky thick with stars, and Mr. Farebrother proposed that they should make a circuit to the old church by the London road. The next thing he said was-- "I thought Lydgate never went to the Green Dragon?" "So did I," said Fred. "But he said that he went to see Bambridge." "He was not playing, then?" Fred had not meant to tell this, but he was obliged now to say, "Yes, he was. But I suppose it was an accidental thing. I have never seen him there before." "You have been going often yourself, then, lately?" "Oh, about five or six times." "I think you had some good reason for giving up the habit of going there?" "Yes. You know all about it," said Fred, not liking to be catechised in this way. "I made a clean breast to you." "I suppose that gives me a warrant to speak about the matter now. It is understood between us, is it not?--that we are on a footing of open friendship: I have listened to you, and you will be willing to listen to me. I may take my turn in talking a little about myself?" "I am under the deepest obligation to you, Mr. Farebrother," said Fred, in a state of uncomfortable surmise. "I will not affect to deny that you are under some obligation to me. But I am going to confess to you, Fred, that I have been tempted to reverse all that by keeping silence with you just now. When somebody said to me, 'Young Vincy has taken to being at the billiard-table every night again--he won't bear the curb long;' I was tempted to do the opposite of what I am doing--to hold my tongue and wait while you went down the ladder again, betting first and then--" "I have not made any bets," said Fred, hastily. "Glad to hear it. But I say, my prompting was to look on and see you take the wrong turning, wear out Garth's patience, and lose the best opportunity of your life--the opportunity which you made some rather difficult effort to secure. You can guess the feeling which raised that temptation in me--I am sure you know it. I am sure you know that the satisfaction of your affections stands in the way of mine." There was a pause. Mr. Farebrother seemed to wait for a recognition of the fact; and the emotion perceptible in the tones of his fine voice gave solemnity to his words. But no feeling could quell Fred's alarm. "I could not be expected to give her up," he said, after a moment's hesitation: it was not a case for any pretence of generosity. "Clearly not, when her affection met yours. But relations of this sort, even when they are of long standing, are always liable to change. I can easily conceive that you might act in a way to loosen the tie she feels towards you--it must be remembered that she is only conditionally bound to you--and that in that case, another man, who may flatter himself that he has a hold on her regard, might succeed in winning that firm place in her love as well as respect which you had let slip. I can easily conceive such a result," repeated Mr. Farebrother, emphatically. "There is a companionship of ready sympathy, which might get the advantage even over the longest associations." It seemed to Fred that if Mr. Farebrother had had a beak and talons instead of his very capable tongue, his mode of attack could hardly be more cruel. He had a horrible conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement there was a knowledge of some actual change in Mary's feeling. "Of course I know it might easily be all up with me," he said, in a troubled voice. "If she is beginning to compare--" He broke off, not liking to betray all he felt, and then said, by the help of a little bitterness, "But I thought you were friendly to me." "So I am; that is why we are here. But I have had a strong disposition to be otherwise. I have said to myself, 'If there is a likelihood of that youngster doing himself harm, why should you interfere? Aren't you worth as much as he is, and don't your sixteen years over and above his, in which you have gone rather hungry, give you more right to satisfaction than he has? If there's a chance of his going to the dogs, let him--perhaps you could nohow hinder it--and do you take the benefit.'" There was a pause, in which Fred was seized by a most uncomfortable chill. What was coming next? He dreaded to hear that something had been said to Mary--he felt as if he were listening to a threat rather than a warning. When the Vicar began again there was a change in his tone like the encouraging transition to a major key. "But I had once meant better than that, and I am come back to my old intention. I thought that I could hardly _secure myself_ in it better, Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me. And now, do you understand me? I want you to make the happiness of her life and your own, and if there is any chance that a word of warning from me may turn aside any risk to the contrary--well, I have uttered it." There was a drop in the Vicar's voice when he spoke the last words. He paused--they were standing on a patch of green where the road diverged towards St. Botolph's, and he put out his hand, as if to imply that the conversation was closed. Fred was moved quite newly. Some one highly susceptible to the contemplation of a fine act has said, that it produces a sort of regenerating shudder through the frame, and makes one feel ready to begin a new life. A good degree of that effect was just then present in Fred Vincy. "I will try to be worthy," he said, breaking off before he could say "of you as well as of her." And meanwhile Mr. Farebrother had gathered the impulse to say something more. "You must not imagine that I believe there is at present any decline in her preference of you, Fred. Set your heart at rest, that if you keep right, other things will keep right." "I shall never forget what you have done," Fred answered. "I can't say anything that seems worth saying--only I will try that your goodness shall not be thrown away." "That's enough. Good-by, and God bless you." In that way they parted. But both of them walked about a long while before they went out of the starlight. Much of Fred's rumination might be summed up in the words, "It certainly would have been a fine thing for her to marry Farebrother--but if she loves me best and I am a good husband?" Perhaps Mr. Farebrother's might be concentrated into a single shrug and one little speech. "To think of the part one little woman can play in the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline!" 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.

Lydgate ist gestresst genug, dass er angefangen hat, Opium zu nehmen, um sich zu beruhigen. Er gerät auch dazu, Billard um Geld zu spielen, im Green Dragon. Fred kommt gelegentlich im Green Dragon vorbei, um ein schnelles Spiel zu machen, spielt aber nicht um Geld, da er versucht, sein Gehalt zu sparen, um den Garths das zu zahlen, was er ihnen schuldet. Er geht jedoch häufiger hin als früher, und Mr. Farebrother erfährt davon. Eines Tages ist Fred schockiert, als er seinen Schwager Lydgate im oberen Billardzimmer sieht und er zu aufgeregt aussieht, da er um Geld spielt. Farebrother wartet unten auf Fred und Fred schafft es, Lydgate aus der Spielhalle herauszuführen. Farebrother sagt Lydgate nichts über das Glücksspiel, er hat Geschäfte mit Fred. Er erzählt Fred, dass er Gerüchte gehört habe, dass Fred in letzter Zeit oft im Green Dragon sei. Er weiß, dass Fred kein Geld gewettet hat, aber es ist trotzdem ein schäbiger Ort. Als Freund warnt er Fred davor, sich vom Green Dragon fernzuhalten, da er weiß, dass es Mary Garth nicht gefallen würde. Er fügt hinzu, dass Freds Zuneigung zu Mary seinem eigenen im Wege steht, und es für ihn einfacher gewesen wäre, nichts zu sagen, Fred von Mary abservieren zu lassen und dann selbst vorzugehen. Aber er versichert Fred, dass Mary immer noch Gefühle für ihn hat, er sich jedoch in Acht nehmen sollte, keine schlechten Gewohnheiten wieder aufzunehmen.

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: An diesem Abend ging ein Zug nach Turin und Paris. Nachdem die Gräfin gegangen war, hatte Isabel eine schnelle und entscheidende Konferenz mit ihrer Dienerin, die diskret, treu und aktiv war. Danach dachte sie (abgesehen von ihrer Reise) nur an eine Sache. Sie musste Pansy besuchen; von ihr konnte sie sich nicht abwenden. Sie hatte sie noch nicht gesehen, da Osmond ihr gesagt hatte, es sei zu früh, um anzufangen. Um fünf Uhr fuhr sie in eine hohe Etage in einer engen Straße im Viertel Piazza Navona und wurde von der Portiersfrau des Klosters, einer herzlichen und dienstbaren Person, eingelassen. Isabel war schon einmal in dieser Einrichtung gewesen; sie war mit Pansy gekommen, um die Schwestern zu besuchen. Sie wusste, dass es gute Frauen waren, und sie sah, dass die großen Räume sauber und fröhlich waren und dass der viel benutzte Garten im Winter Sonne und im Frühling Schatten hatte. Aber sie mochte den Ort nicht, er beleidigte und erschreckte sie fast; um nichts in der Welt hätte sie dort eine Nacht verbracht. Es vermittelte heute einen stärkeren Eindruck von einem gut ausgestatteten Gefängnis als zuvor; denn man konnte nicht behaupten, dass Pansy frei sei, es zu verlassen. Diese unschuldige Kreatur war ihr in einem neuen und gewaltsamen Licht präsentiert worden, aber die sekundäre Wirkung der Offenbarung bewog sie dazu, die Hand auszustrecken. Die Portiersfrau ließ sie im Empfangszimmer des Klosters warten, während sie bekanntmachte, dass es einen Besucher für die liebe junge Dame gab. Das Empfangszimmer war ein riesiger, kalter Raum mit neu aussehenden Möbeln; ein großer, sauberer Ofen aus weißem Porzellan, unbeleuchtet, eine Sammlung von Wachsblumen unter Glas und eine Serie von Kupferstichen religiöser Bilder an den Wänden. Beim letzten Besuch hatte Isabel gedacht, es sei weniger wie Rom als wie Philadelphia, aber heute machte sie keine Reflexionen; das Zimmer schien ihr nur sehr leer und sehr lautlos. Die Portiersfrau kehrte nach etwa fünf Minuten zurück und führte eine weitere Person herein. Isabel stand auf und erwartete, eine der Damen der Schwesternschaft zu sehen, aber zu ihrer großen Überraschung sah sie sich Madame Merle gegenüber. Die Wirkung war seltsam, denn Madame Merle war ihr bereits so präsent, dass ihr Erscheinen im Fleisch wie das plötzliche und eher furchteinflößende Sehen eines bewegten Gemäldes wirkte. Isabel hatte den ganzen Tag über an ihre Falschheit, ihre Kühnheit, ihre Fähigkeiten, ihr wahrscheinliches Leiden gedacht; und diese dunklen Dinge schienen mit einem plötzlichen Licht zu leuchten, als sie den Raum betrat. Dass sie überhaupt hier war, hatte den Charakter hässlicher Beweise, von Handschriften, von entweihten Reliquien, von grimmigen Dingen, die vor Gericht produziert wurden. Isabel wurde schwindelig; wenn es notwendig gewesen wäre, sofort zu sprechen, wäre sie dazu überhaupt nicht in der Lage gewesen. Aber eine solche Notwendigkeit war für sie nicht deutlich; es schien ihr sogar, dass sie absolut nichts zu Madame Merle zu sagen hatte. In ihren Beziehungen zu dieser Dame gab es jedoch nie absolute Notwendigkeiten; sie hatte eine Art, die nicht nur ihre eigenen Defizite, sondern auch die anderer Personen überspielte. Aber sie war anders als sonst; sie kam langsam, hinter der Portiersfrau, herein, und Isabel erkannte sofort, dass sie sich nicht auf ihre gewohnten Ressourcen verlassen würde. Denn auch für sie war die Gelegenheit außergewöhnlich, und sie hatte beschlossen, sie entsprechend im Moment zu behandeln. Das gab ihr eine eigene Ernsthaftigkeit; sie tat sogar so, als würde sie nicht lächeln, und obwohl Isabel sah, dass sie mehr als je zuvor eine Rolle spielte, schien es ihr, dass diese wunderbare Frau im Allgemeinen noch nie so natürlich gewesen war. Sie betrachtete ihre junge Freundin von oben bis unten, aber nicht hart oder herausfordernd; eher mit kalter Sanftmut und ohne jeglichen Hauch einer Anspielung auf ihr letztes Treffen. Es war, als wolle sie eine Unterscheidung markieren. Damals war sie irritiert gewesen, jetzt war sie versöhnt. "Sie können uns allein lassen", sagte sie zur Portiersfrau; "in fünf Minuten wird diese Dame Sie rufen." Dann wandte sie sich an Isabel, die, nachdem sie das gerade Erwähnte zur Kenntnis genommen hatte, aufgehört hatte, es zu beachten, und ihre Augen so weit wie möglich im Raum umherschweifen ließ. Sie wünschte sich, Madame Merle niemals wieder anzusehen. "Sie sind überrascht, mich hier anzutreffen, und ich fürchte, Sie sind nicht erfreut", fuhr diese Dame fort. "Sie sehen nicht ein, warum ich gekommen bin; es ist, als ob ich Ihnen zuvorgekommen wäre. Ich gebe zu, ich habe mich ziemlich unvorsichtig verhalten - ich hätte um Ihre Erlaubnis bitten sollen." Dabei lag in ihrer Aussage keine Spur einer schrägen Ironie; sie wurde einfach und mild ausgesprochen. Aber Isabel, in einem Meer des Erstaunens und des Schmerzes treibend, konnte sich nicht erklären, mit welcher Absicht es ausgesprochen wurde. "Aber ich habe nicht lange gesessen", fuhr Madame Merle fort, "ich war nicht lange bei Pansy. Ich bin zu ihr gekommen, weil mir heute Nachmittag einfiel, dass sie ziemlich alleine und vielleicht sogar ein wenig unglücklich sein muss. Es kann gut für ein kleines Mädchen sein; ich weiß so wenig über kleine Mädchen; ich kann es nicht sagen. Auf jeden Fall ist es ein wenig düster. Deshalb bin ich gekommen - auf gut Glück. Ich wusste natürlich, dass Sie kommen würden, und ihr Vater auch; trotzdem hat man mir nichts davon gesagt, dass andere Besucher verboten sind. Die gute Frau - wie heißt sie? Madame Catherine - hat überhaupt keinen Einwand erhoben. Ich bin zwanzig Minuten bei Pansy geblieben; sie hat ein entzückendes kleines Zimmer, das überhaupt nicht an ein Kloster erinnert, mit einem Klavier und Blumen. Sie hat es herrlich eingerichtet; sie hat so viel Geschmack. Natürlich geht mich das alles nichts an, aber seit ich sie gesehen habe, fühle ich mich glücklicher. Sie kann sogar eine Dienerin haben, wenn sie will; aber natürlich hat sie keinen Grund, sich anzuziehen. Sie trägt ein kleines schwarzes Kleid; sie sieht so bezaubernd aus. Danach bin ich zu Mutter Catherine gegangen, die auch ein sehr gutes Zimmer hat; ich versichere Ihnen, dass ich die armen Schwestern überhaupt nicht monastisch finde. Mutter Catherine hat einen äußerst koketten kleinen Toilettentisch mit etwas, das verdächtig nach einem Fläschchen Eau de Cologne aussah. Sie spricht entzückend von Pansy; sagt, es sei ein großes Glück für sie, sie zu haben. Sie ist ein kleiner Heiliger des Himmels und ein Vorbild für die ältesten von ihnen. Gerade als ich Madame Catherine verließ, kam die Portiersfrau und sagte ihr, dass eine Dame für die Signorina da sei. Natürlich wusste ich, dass sie es Sie sein müssten, und ich bat sie, mich anstelle von ihr zu Ihnen zu lassen. Sie wehrte sich sehr dagegen - das muss ich Ihnen sagen - und sagte, es sei ihre Pflicht, die Oberin zu benachrichtigen, es sei von so großer Bedeutung, dass Sie mit Respekt behandelt werden. Ich bat sie, die Oberin in Ruhe zu lassen, und fragte sie, wie sie vermutete, wie ich Sie behandeln würde!" So fuhr Madame Merle fort, mit viel Brillanz einer Frau, die die Kunst der Konversation lange beherrscht hatte. Aber es gab Phasen und Abstufungen in ihrer Rede, von denen keine Isabels Ohr entging, obwohl ihre Augen vom Gesicht ihrer Begleiterin abwesend waren. Sie hatte nicht weit fortgesetzt, als Isabel eine plötzliche Unterbrechung in ihrer Stimme, einen Abbruch ihrer Kontinuität feststellte, der an sich schon ein vollständiges Drama war. Diese subtile Modulation markierte eine bedeutende Entdeckung - die Erkenntnis einer völlig neuen Haltung seitens Isabel sah alles so deutlich, als ob es sich in einem großen klaren Glas reflektiert hätte. Es hätte ein großer Moment für sie sein können, denn es hätte ein Moment des Triumphs sein können. Dass Madame Merle ihren Mut verloren hatte und das Phantom der Bloßstellung vor sich sah - das allein war eine Rache, das allein war fast die Verheißung eines besseren Tages. Und für einen Moment, in dem sie scheinbar aus dem Fenster schaute, mit dem Rücken halb abgewandt, genoss Isabel dieses Wissen. Auf der anderen Seite des Fensters lag der Garten des Klosters; aber das sah sie nicht; sie sah nichts von den sprießenden Pflanzen und dem leuchtenden Nachmittag. Sie sah, im rohen Licht dieser Offenbarung, die bereits Teil ihrer Erfahrung geworden war und deren Wertigkeit ihr durch die Schwäche des Gefäßes, in dem es ihr angeboten worden war, nur einen inneren Wert verlieh, die trockene, anstarrende Tatsache, dass sie ein benutztes, gehandhabtes Werkzeug gewesen war, so sinnlos und bequem wie bloß geformtes Holz und Eisen. Die ganze Bitterkeit dieses Wissens strömte wieder in ihre Seele; es war, als würde sie den Geschmack der Schande auf ihren Lippen spüren. Es gab einen Moment, in dem sie, wenn sie sich umgedreht und gesprochen hätte, etwas hätte sagen können, das wie ein Peitschenhieb zischte. Aber sie schloss die Augen, und dann verschwand die abscheuliche Vision. Was blieb, war die klügste Frau der Welt, die dort stand, nur wenige Meter von ihr entfernt, und nicht besser wusste, was sie denken sollte, als die Niedrigste. Isabels einzige Rache war es, weiterhin zu schweigen - Madame Merle in dieser beispiellosen Situation zu lassen. Sie ließ sie dort zurück für eine Zeit, die für diese Dame lang gewesen sein muss, die sich schließlich mit einer Bewegung, die an sich ein Eingeständnis von Hilflosigkeit war, hinsetzte. Dann wandte Isabel langsam ihre Augen, schaute auf sie hinab. Madame Merle war sehr blass; ihre eigenen Augen bedeckten das Gesicht von Isabel. Sie mochte sehen, was immer sie wollte, aber ihre Gefahr war vorbei. Isabel würde sie niemals anklagen, niemals tadeln; vielleicht, weil sie ihr niemals die Gelegenheit geben würde, sich zu verteidigen. "Ich bin gekommen, um Pansy Lebewohl zu sagen", sagte unsere junge Frau schließlich. "Ich gehe heute Abend nach England." "Heute Abend nach England gehen!" Madame Merle wiederholte und saß da und schaute zu ihr hinauf. "Ich gehe nach Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett stirbt." "Ah, das wirst du spüren". Madame Merle fing sich wieder; sie hatte Gelegenheit, Sympathie auszudrücken. "Reist du alleine?" "Ja, ohne meinen Mann." Madame Merle gab ein leises, vages Murmeln von sich; eine Art Anerkennung der allgemeinen Traurigkeit der Dinge. "Mr. Touchett mochte mich nie, aber es tut mir leid, dass er stirbt. Wirst du seine Mutter sehen?" "Ja, sie ist aus Amerika zurückgekommen." "Sie war früher sehr nett zu mir; aber sie hat sich verändert. Andere haben sich auch verändert", sagte Madame Merle mit einer ruhigen, edlen Traurigkeit. Sie machte eine Pause, dann fügte sie hinzu: "Und du wirst wieder dieses schöne alte Gardencourt sehen!" "Ich werde es nicht besonders genießen", antwortete Isabel. "Natürlich - in deinem Kummer. Aber alles in allem ist es, von allen Häusern, die ich kenne, und ich kenne viele, dasjenige, in dem ich am liebsten gewohnt hätte. Ich wage es nicht, den Menschen eine Botschaft zu schicken", fügte Madame Merle hinzu, "aber ich möchte dem Ort meine Liebe schicken." Isabel wandte sich ab. "Ich gehe besser zu Pansy. Ich habe nicht viel Zeit." Als sie sich umsah, um den richtigen Ausgang zu finden, öffnete sich die Tür und eine der Damen des Hauses trat ein, mit einem diskreten Lächeln, während sie sanft unter ihren langen weiten Ärmeln ein Paar voller weißer Hände rieb. Isabel erkannte Madame Catherine, deren Bekanntschaft sie bereits gemacht hatte, und bat sie, sie sofort zu Miss Osmond zu bringen. Madame Catherine wirkte doppelt zurückhaltend, lächelte aber sehr freundlich und sagte: "Es wird ihr gut tun, dich zu sehen. Ich werde dich selbst zu ihr bringen." Dann richtete sie ihren zufriedenen, wachsamen Blick auf Madame Merle. "Darf ich noch ein wenig bleiben?" fragte diese Dame. "Es ist so schön hier zu sein." "Du darfst bleiben, solange du möchtest!" Und die liebe Schwester gab ein wissendes Lachen von sich. Sie führte Isabel aus dem Raum, durch mehrere Gänge und eine lange Treppe hinauf. Alle diese Bereiche waren massiv und kahl, hell und sauber; so dachte Isabel, sind die großen Strafanstalten. Madame Catherine öffnete sanft die Tür von Pansys Zimmer und führte die Besucherin herein; dann stand sie lächelnd mit gefalteten Händen da, während die beiden sich trafen und umarmten. "Sie freut sich, dich zu sehen", wiederholte sie; "es wird ihr guttun." Und sie stellte sorgfältig den besten Stuhl für Isabel auf. Aber sie machte keine Bewegung, um selbst Platz zu nehmen; sie schien bereit, sich zurückzuziehen. "Wie sieht dieses liebe Kind aus?" fragte sie Isabel und verweilte einen Moment. "Sie sieht blass aus", antwortete Isabel. "Das ist die Freude, dich zu sehen. Sie ist sehr glücklich. Elle eclaire la maison", sagte die liebe Schwester. Pansy trug, wie Madame Merle gesagt hatte, ein kleines schwarzes Kleid; vielleicht war es das, was sie blass aussehen ließ. "Sie sind sehr gut zu mir - sie denken an alles!" rief sie mit all ihrer gewohnten Eifer, es allen recht zu machen. "Wir denken immer an dich - du bist ein kostbares Pfand", bemerkte Madame Catherine in dem Ton einer Frau, für die Wohltätigkeit eine Gewohnheit war und deren Vorstellung von Pflicht die Annahme jeder Sorge war. Es fiel Isabel schwer auf die Ohren; es schien die Hingabe einer Persönlichkeit zu repräsentieren, die Autorität der Kirche. Als Madame Catherine die beiden allein gelassen hatte, kniete Pansy nieder und verbarg ihr Gesicht in Isabels Schoß. So blieb sie einige Augenblicke, während Isabel sanft ihr Haar streichelte. Dann stand sie auf, wandte ihr Gesicht ab und schaute im Zimmer umher. "Findest du nicht, dass ich es gut eingerichtet habe? Ich habe alles, was ich zu Hause habe." "Es ist sehr hübsch; du bist sehr komfortabel." Isabel wusste kaum, was sie zu ihr sagen könnte. Einerseits konnte sie nicht zulassen, dass sie glaubte, sie sei gekommen, um Mitleid mit ihr zu haben, und andererseits wäre es eine trübe Verhöhnung, vorzutäuschen, sich mit ihr zu freuen. Also fügte sie nach einem Moment einfach hinzu: "Ich bin gekommen, um dir Lebewohl zu sagen. Ich gehe nach England." Pansys kleines blasses Gesicht wurde rot. "Nach England! Du wirst nicht wiederkommen?" "Ich weiß nicht, wann ich zurückkommen werde." "Ah, das tut mir leid", hauchte Pansy schwach. Sie sprach, als hätte sie kein Recht zu kritisieren; aber ihr Ton drückte eine tiefe Enttäuschung aus. "Mein Cousin, Mr. Touchett, ist sehr krank; er wird wahrscheinlich sterben. Ich möchte ihn sehen", sagte Isabel. "Ah ja; du hast mir gesagt, dass er sterben wird. Natürlich musst du gehen. Und wird Papa mitkommen?" "Nein; ich werde alle "Er denkt, dass ich nicht genug hatte", sagte Pansy. "Aber ich habe. Die Damen sind sehr nett zu mir und die kleinen Mädchen kommen, um mich zu besuchen. Es gibt einige ganz kleine - so charmante Kinder. Dann mein Zimmer - siehst du selbst. Das alles ist sehr erfreulich. Aber ich habe genug gehabt. Papa wollte, dass ich ein wenig nachdenke - und ich habe viel nachgedacht." "Was hast du gedacht?" "Nun, dass ich Papa niemals verärgern darf." "Das wusstest du schon vorher." "Ja, aber ich weiß es jetzt besser. Ich werde alles tun - ich werde alles tun", sagte Pansy. Als sie ihre eigenen Worte hörte, wurde ihr Gesicht tiefrot. Isabel verstand die Bedeutung davon; sie sah, dass das arme Mädchen besiegt worden war. Es war gut, dass Herr Edward Rosier seine Schmuckstücke aufbewahrt hatte! Isabel schaute in Pansys Augen und sah dort vor allem ein Gebet, dass man mit ihr nachsichtig umgehen solle. Sie legte ihre Hand auf Pansys, um ihr zu zeigen, dass ihr Blick keine Abnahme der Wertschätzung ausdrückte; denn der Zusammenbruch des flüchtigen Widerstands des Mädchens (stumm und bescheiden, wie er gewesen war) schien nur ihre Huldigung an die Wahrheit der Dinge zu sein. Sie maß sich nicht an, andere zu beurteilen, aber sie hatte sich selbst beurteilt; sie hatte die Realität gesehen. Sie hatte keine Berufung dafür, sich mit komplizierten Situationen auseinanderzusetzen; in der Ernsthaftigkeit der Isolation gab es etwas, das sie überwältigte. Sie senkte den schönen Kopf vor der Autorität und bat die Autorität nur um Gnade. Ja, es war gut, dass Edward Rosier ein paar Dinge aufbewahrt hatte! Isabel stand auf; ihre Zeit wurde knapp. "Auf Wiedersehen dann. Ich verlasse Rom heute Nacht." Pansy packte ihr Kleid; es gab eine plötzliche Veränderung in dem Gesicht des Mädchens. "Du siehst komisch aus, du erschreckst mich." "Oh, ich bin ganz harmlos", sagte Isabel. "Vielleicht kommst du nicht zurück?" "Vielleicht nicht. Ich kann es nicht sagen." "Oh, Frau Osmond, du wirst mich nicht verlassen!" Isabel sah nun, dass das Mädchen alles erraten hatte. "Mein liebes Kind, was kann ich für dich tun?", fragte sie. "Ich weiß nicht - aber ich bin glücklicher, wenn ich an dich denke." "Du kannst immer an mich denken." "Nicht, wenn du so weit weg bist. Ich habe ein wenig Angst", sagte Pansy. "Wovor hast du Angst?" "Vor Papa - ein wenig. Und vor Madame Merle. Sie war gerade bei mir." "Das darfst du nicht sagen", bemerkte Isabel. "Oh, ich werde alles tun, was sie wollen. Aber wenn du hier bist, werde ich es leichter tun." Isabel überlegte. "Ich werde dich nicht im Stich lassen", sagte sie schließlich. "Auf Wiedersehen, mein Kind." Dann hielten sie sich einen Moment lang in einer stillen Umarmung wie zwei Schwestern; und danach ging Pansy mit ihrem Besucher den Korridor entlang bis zur Spitze der Treppe. "Madame Merle war hier", bemerkte sie, als sie gingen; und als Isabel nichts sagte, fügte sie abrupt hinzu: "Ich mag Madame Merle nicht!" Isabel zögerte, dann blieb sie stehen. "Das darfst du niemals sagen - dass du Madame Merle nicht magst." Pansy sah sie verwundert an; aber Verwunderung war für Pansy noch nie ein Grund für Widerstand. "Das werde ich nie wieder tun", sagte sie mit exquisiter Sanftheit. Oben auf der Treppe mussten sie sich trennen, da es offensichtlich Teil der milden, aber sehr klaren Disziplin war, unter der Pansy lebte, dass sie nicht hinuntergehen durfte. Isabel stieg hinab, und als sie unten ankam, stand das Mädchen oben. "Kommst du zurück?" rief sie mit einer Stimme, die Isabel sich später erinnern würde. "Ja - ich komme zurück." Madame Catherine traf Mrs. Osmond unten und führte sie zur Tür des Salons, vor dem die beiden eine Minute lang sprachen. "Ich werde nicht hineingehen", sagte die gute Schwester. "Madame Merle wartet auf dich." Bei dieser Ankündigung erstarrte Isabel; sie war im Begriff zu fragen, ob es keinen anderen Ausgang aus dem Kloster gäbe. Aber ein Moment des Nachdenkens überzeugte sie davon, dass es besser wäre, der werten Nonne nicht ihre Absicht zu verraten, Pansys anderen Freund zu meiden. Ihre Begleiterin ergriff ihren Arm ganz sanft und fixierte sie einen Moment mit klugen, gütigen Augen. Dann sagte sie auf Französisch und fast vertraut: "Nun, liebe Madame, was denken Sie?" "Über meine Stieftochter? Oh, es würde lange dauern, es Ihnen zu erklären." "Wir denken, es reicht", stellte Madame Catherine deutlich fest. Und sie öffnete die Tür des Salons. Madame Merle saß dort, wie Isabel sie verlassen hatte, wie eine Frau, so in Gedanken versunken, dass sie nicht einmal einen kleinen Finger bewegt hatte. Als Madame Catherine die Tür schloss, stand sie auf, und Isabel sah, dass sie zu einem Zweck nachgedacht hatte. Sie hatte ihr Gleichgewicht wiedergefunden; sie beherrschte ihre Ressourcen vollständig. "Ich wollte auf Sie warten", sagte sie höflich. "Aber es geht nicht um Pansy zu reden." Isabel fragte sich, worum es wohl gehen könnte, und trotz der Erklärung von Madame Merle antwortete sie nach einer Weile: "Madame Catherine sagt, es reicht." "Ja, das scheint mir auch so. Ich wollte Ihnen noch ein weiteres Wort über den armen Herrn Touchett sagen", fügte Madame Merle hinzu. "Haben Sie Grund zu der Annahme, dass er wirklich am Ende ist?" "Ich habe keine Informationen, außer einem Telegramm. Leider bestätigt es nur eine Vermutung." "Ich werde Ihnen eine seltsame Frage stellen", sagte Madame Merle. "Haben Sie Ihren Cousin sehr lieb?" Und sie lächelte so seltsam wie sie sprach. "Ja, ich habe ihn sehr lieb. Aber ich verstehe Sie nicht." Sie zögerte einen Moment. "Es ist ziemlich schwer zu erklären. Es ist mir etwas eingefallen, was Ihnen vielleicht nicht eingefallen ist, und ich teile Ihnen meine Idee mit. Ihr Cousin hat Ihnen einst einen großen Gefallen getan. Haben Sie das nie geahnt?" "Er hat mir viele Gefälligkeiten getan." "Ja, aber eine war besonders. Er hat Sie zu einer reichen Frau gemacht." "ER hat mich gemacht -?" Madame Merle schien sich erfolgreich zu sehen, daher fuhr sie triumphierend fort: "Er hat Ihnen jenen zusätzlichen Glanz verliehen, der erforderlich war, um Sie zu einer glänzenden Partie zu machen. Im Grunde haben Sie es ihm zu verdanken." Sie hielt inne, etwas war in Isabels Augen. "Ich verstehe Sie nicht. Es war das Geld meines Onkels." "Ja, es war das Geld Ihres Onkels, aber es war die Idee Ihres Cousins. Er hat seinen Vater dafür gewonnen. Ah, meine Liebe, die Summe war groß!" Isabel stand da und starrte; heute schien sie in einer Welt zu leben, die von grellen Blitzlichtern erhellt wurde. "Ich weiß nicht, warum Sie solche Dinge sagen. Ich weiß nicht, was Sie wissen." "Ich weiß nichts außer dem, was ich vermutet habe. Aber das habe ich vermutet." Isabel ging zur Tür, öffnete sie und blieb einen Moment mit der Hand auf dem Griff stehen. Dann sagte sie - das war ihre einzige Rache -: "Ich dachte, es sei Ihnen zu verdanken!" Madame Merle senkte den Blick; sie stand da wie in einer Art stolzer Buße. "Sie sind sehr unglücklich, das weiß ich. Aber ich bin es noch mehr." "Ja, das kann ich glauben. Ich glaube, ich möchte Sie nie wiedersehen." Madame Merle hob den Blick. "Ich werde nach Amerika gehen", bemerkte sie ruhig, während Isabel hinausging. 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.

Bevor sie nach England aufbricht, macht Isabel einen Besuch bei Pansy. Im Kloster trifft sie Madame Merle, die gerade bei Pansy war. Sie versucht ihre Gründe zu erklären, aber Isabel ist desinteressiert. Pansy hat sich verändert. Sie hat genug vom Klosterleben und möchte heraustreten. Sie weiß nun, dass sie ihrem Vater in allem gehorchen muss, sonst wird es noch schlimmere Konsequenzen geben. Sie fürchtet sich, weil Isabel geht, und bittet Isabel zurückzukommen und ihr zu helfen. Isabel verspricht, sie nicht im Stich zu lassen. Als Isabel geht, erwähnt Pansy, dass Madame Merle da war, um sie zu sehen, und dass sie Madame Merle nicht mag. Als Isabel geht, trifft sie wieder auf Madame Merle. Diesmal sagt Madame Merle ihr, dass Ralph für ihr Erbe verantwortlich ist. Isabel sagt Madame Merle einfach, dass sie sie nie wiedersehen 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. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him. Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away. After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance. Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated. As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion. Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her. She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance. She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers. She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests. Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat. Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say: "Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Woodhouses geben ein kleines Abendessen, zu dem sie andere Mitglieder ihres sozialen Kreises einladen: die Witwe Frau Bates; ihre unverheiratete, mittelalte Tochter, Fräulein Bates; und Frau Goddard, die Leiterin des örtlichen Internats. Frau Goddard bringt eine ihrer Internatsschülerinnen, Harriet Smith, ein Mädchen, dessen Abstammung unbekannt ist. Emma bewundert Harriet für ihre Schönheit und ihren Respekt gegenüber Emma und Hartfield. Sie beschließt, Harriets Freundschaft zu suchen und das naive Mädchen zu verbessern, indem sie es von der minderwertigen Bekanntschaft der Bauernfamilie Martin löst. Sie plant, Harriet in die höhere Gesellschaft einzuführen.

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. A room in Caesar's palace. [Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown.] CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight: Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, "Help, ho! They murder Caesar!"--Who's within? [Enter a Servant.] SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my lord. [Exit.] [Enter Calpurnia.] CALPURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house to-day. CAESAR. Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten me Ne'er look but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPURNIA. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets; And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan; And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar,these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them! CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.-- [Re-enter Servant.] What say the augurers? SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth to-day. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart, If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he: We are two lions litter'd in one day, And I the elder and more terrible; And Caesar shall go forth. CALPURNIA. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consumed in confidence! Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We'll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, And he shall say you are not well to-day: Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And, for thy humor, I will stay at home. [Enter Decius.] Here's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar: I come to fetch you to the Senate-house. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the Senators, And tell them that I will not come to-day. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser: I will not come to-day. Tell them so, Decius. CALPURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth?-- Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so. CAESAR. The cause is in my will; I will not come: That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But, for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know: Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home: She dreamt to-night she saw my statua, Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling and did bathe their hands in it: And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent; and on her knee Hath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day. DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted: It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bathed, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood; and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calpurnia's dream is signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say; And know it now: The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render'd, for someone to say "Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams." If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper "Lo, Caesar is afraid"? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this; And reason to my love is liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. [Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna.] And look where Publius is come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow, Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius.-- What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too?-- Good morrow, Casca.--Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean.-- What is't o'clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, 'tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. [Enter Antony.] See! Antony, that revels long o'nights, Is notwithstanding up.--Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within: I am to blame to be thus waited for.-- Now, Cinna;--now, Metellus;--what, Trebonius! I have an hour's talk in store for you: Remember that you call on me to-day; Be near me, that I may remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [Aside.] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; And we, like friends, will straightway go together. BRUTUS. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon! [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das stürmische Wetter und eine Reihe von Albträumen haben Caesars Ehefrau Calphurnia verängstigt, die ihn fleht, an diesem Tag nicht zum Kapitol zu gehen. Sie erzählt ihm, dass sie geträumt habe, eine Löwin habe in den Straßen geworfen, Gräber ihre Toten freigegeben, Blut auf das Kapitol geregnet und Geister in ganz Rom geheult und geschrien hätten. Außerdem habe sie lächelnde Römer gesehen, die ihre Hände in Caesars Blut gewaschen hätten. Caesar, der den Inhalt ihrer Träume ignoriert, versucht seine Frau zu beruhigen; er schickt einen Diener, um die Priester anzuweisen, für sie ein Opfer darzubringen, um die Götter zu besänftigen. Der Diener kehrt schnell zurück und gibt Caesar ein weiteres Omen. Die Priester konnten kein Herz im geopferten Tier finden, daher raten sie Caesar ebenfalls, zu Hause zu bleiben. Caesar ist immer noch skeptisch. Er fürchtet, die Männer würden ihn als Feigling sehen, wenn er nicht zum Kapitol ginge; aber er ist zumindest besorgt über die Reihe von Omen. Schließlich überredet Calphurnia ihn, zu Hause zu bleiben. Caesar beschließt, Antonius zu schicken, um den Senatoren mitzuteilen, dass er krank sei. Decius Brutus, ein vermeintlicher Freund, kommt herein und begrüßt Caesar; in Wahrheit ist er derjenige, der von den Verschwörern dazu bestimmt wurde, Caesar zum Kapitol zu bringen. Als Caesar ihm von Calphurnias Träumen erzählt, gibt Decius Brutus ihnen geschickt eine positive Interpretation und schmeichelt Caesar, indem er sagt, dass das spritzende Blut im Traum ein Symbol für Caesars Blut sei, das Rom verjüngt. Als Caesar ihm sagt, dass er sich nicht wohl fühle und beschlossen habe, zu Hause zu bleiben, erkennt Decius Brutus klugerweise, dass er Caesars Ehrgeiz und Stolz ansprechen muss, um ihn zum Kapitol zu bringen. Er sagt Caesar, dass die Senatoren heute sicherlich ihn zum König krönen würden, aber sie ihre Meinung ändern könnten, wenn er nicht anwesend sei. Er provoziert Caesar weiter, indem er fragt, wie es aussehen würde, wenn der zukünftige König von den Träumen seiner Frau verängstigt wäre. Decius' Worte sind erfolgreich, denn Caesar beschließt zu gehen. Alle Verschwörer, außer Cassius, treffen ein, um Caesar zum Kapitol zu begleiten. Als Antonius kommt, um seinen Freund zu begleiten, lobt Caesar ihn, dass er trotz seiner gewohnheitsmäßigen nächtlichen Ausschweifungen pünktlich ist. Caesar wendet sich dann an Trebonius und sagt ihm, er solle in der Nähe bleiben, denn er müsse wichtige Angelegenheiten mit ihm besprechen. In einem Nebensatz bemerkt Trebonius böswillig, dass er Caesar so nahe sein wird, dass seine besten Freunde sich wünschen würden, er wäre weiter entfernt gewesen. Caesar glaubt immer noch, dass die Verschwörer seine Freunde sind; er lädt sie ein, mit ihm etwas Wein zu trinken, bevor er sich auf den Weg zum Kapitol macht. In seinem eigenen Nebensatz trauert Brutus über die Falschheit dieser sogenannten "Freunde", einschließlich sich selbst, die mit Caesar trinken, aber seinen Tod planen.

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 last it came, the famous agricultural show. On the morning of the solemnity all the inhabitants at their doors were chatting over the preparations. The pediment of the town hall had been hung with garlands of ivy; a tent had been erected in a meadow for the banquet; and in the middle of the Place, in front of the church, a kind of bombarde was to announce the arrival of the prefect and the names of the successful farmers who had obtained prizes. The National Guard of Buchy (there was none at Yonville) had come to join the corps of firemen, of whom Binet was captain. On that day he wore a collar even higher than usual; and, tightly buttoned in his tunic, his figure was so stiff and motionless that the whole vital portion of his person seemed to have descended into his legs, which rose in a cadence of set steps with a single movement. As there was some rivalry between the tax-collector and the colonel, both, to show off their talents, drilled their men separately. One saw the red epaulettes and the black breastplates pass and re-pass alternately; there was no end to it, and it constantly began again. There had never been such a display of pomp. Several citizens had scoured their houses the evening before; tri-coloured flags hung from half-open windows; all the public-houses were full; and in the lovely weather the starched caps, the golden crosses, and the coloured neckerchiefs seemed whiter than snow, shone in the sun, and relieved with the motley colours the sombre monotony of the frock-coats and blue smocks. The neighbouring farmers' wives, when they got off their horses, pulled out the long pins that fastened around them their dresses, turned up for fear of mud; and the husbands, for their part, in order to save their hats, kept their handkerchiefs around them, holding one corner between their teeth. The crowd came into the main street from both ends of the village. People poured in from the lanes, the alleys, the houses; and from time to time one heard knockers banging against doors closing behind women with their gloves, who were going out to see the fete. What was most admired were two long lamp-stands covered with lanterns, that flanked a platform on which the authorities were to sit. Besides this there were against the four columns of the town hall four kinds of poles, each bearing a small standard of greenish cloth, embellished with inscriptions in gold letters. On one was written, "To Commerce"; on the other, "To Agriculture"; on the third, "To Industry"; and on the fourth, "To the Fine Arts." But the jubilation that brightened all faces seemed to darken that of Madame Lefrancois, the innkeeper. Standing on her kitchen-steps she muttered to herself, "What rubbish! what rubbish! With their canvas booth! Do they think the prefect will be glad to dine down there under a tent like a gipsy? They call all this fussing doing good to the place! Then it wasn't worth while sending to Neufchatel for the keeper of a cookshop! And for whom? For cowherds! tatterdemalions!" The druggist was passing. He had on a frock-coat, nankeen trousers, beaver shoes, and, for a wonder, a hat with a low crown. "Your servant! Excuse me, I am in a hurry." And as the fat widow asked where he was going-- "It seems odd to you, doesn't it, I who am always more cooped up in my laboratory than the man's rat in his cheese." "What cheese?" asked the landlady. "Oh, nothing! nothing!" Homais continued. "I merely wished to convey to you, Madame Lefrancois, that I usually live at home like a recluse. To-day, however, considering the circumstances, it is necessary--" "Oh, you're going down there!" she said contemptuously. "Yes, I am going," replied the druggist, astonished. "Am I not a member of the consulting commission?" Mere Lefrancois looked at him for a few moments, and ended by saying with a smile-- "That's another pair of shoes! But what does agriculture matter to you? Do you understand anything about it?" "Certainly I understand it, since I am a druggist--that is to say, a chemist. And the object of chemistry, Madame Lefrancois, being the knowledge of the reciprocal and molecular action of all natural bodies, it follows that agriculture is comprised within its domain. And, in fact, the composition of the manure, the fermentation of liquids, the analyses of gases, and the influence of miasmata, what, I ask you, is all this, if it isn't chemistry, pure and simple?" The landlady did not answer. Homais went on-- "Do you think that to be an agriculturist it is necessary to have tilled the earth or fattened fowls oneself? It is necessary rather to know the composition of the substances in question--the geological strata, the atmospheric actions, the quality of the soil, the minerals, the waters, the density of the different bodies, their capillarity, and what not. And one must be master of all the principles of hygiene in order to direct, criticize the construction of buildings, the feeding of animals, the diet of domestics. And, moreover, Madame Lefrancois, one must know botany, be able to distinguish between plants, you understand, which are the wholesome and those that are deleterious, which are unproductive and which nutritive, if it is well to pull them up here and re-sow them there, to propagate some, destroy others; in brief, one must keep pace with science by means of pamphlets and public papers, be always on the alert to find out improvements." The landlady never took her eyes off the "Cafe Francois" and the chemist went on-- "Would to God our agriculturists were chemists, or that at least they would pay more attention to the counsels of science. Thus lately I myself wrote a considerable tract, a memoir of over seventy-two pages, entitled, 'Cider, its Manufacture and its Effects, together with some New Reflections on the Subject,' that I sent to the Agricultural Society of Rouen, and which even procured me the honour of being received among its members--Section, Agriculture; Class, Pomological. Well, if my work had been given to the public--" But the druggist stopped, Madame Lefrancois seemed so preoccupied. "Just look at them!" she said. "It's past comprehension! Such a cookshop as that!" And with a shrug of the shoulders that stretched out over her breast the stitches of her knitted bodice, she pointed with both hands at her rival's inn, whence songs were heard issuing. "Well, it won't last long," she added. "It'll be over before a week." Homais drew back with stupefaction. She came down three steps and whispered in his ear-- "What! you didn't know it? There is to be an execution in next week. It's Lheureux who is selling him out; he has killed him with bills." "What a terrible catastrophe!" cried the druggist, who always found expressions in harmony with all imaginable circumstances. Then the landlady began telling him the story that she had heard from Theodore, Monsieur Guillaumin's servant, and although she detested Tellier, she blamed Lheureux. He was "a wheedler, a sneak." "There!" she said. "Look at him! he is in the market; he is bowing to Madame Bovary, who's got on a green bonnet. Why, she's taking Monsieur Boulanger's arm." "Madame Bovary!" exclaimed Homais. "I must go at once and pay her my respects. Perhaps she'll be very glad to have a seat in the enclosure under the peristyle." And, without heeding Madame Lefrancois, who was calling him back to tell him more about it, the druggist walked off rapidly with a smile on his lips, with straight knees, bowing copiously to right and left, and taking up much room with the large tails of his frock-coat that fluttered behind him in the wind. Rodolphe, having caught sight of him from afar, hurried on, but Madame Bovary lost her breath; so he walked more slowly, and, smiling at her, said in a rough tone-- "It's only to get away from that fat fellow, you know, the druggist." She pressed his elbow. "What's the meaning of that?" he asked himself. And he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. Her profile was so calm that one could guess nothing from it. It stood out in the light from the oval of her bonnet, with pale ribbons on it like the leaves of weeds. Her eyes with their long curved lashes looked straight before her, and though wide open, they seemed slightly puckered by the cheek-bones, because of the blood pulsing gently under the delicate skin. A pink line ran along the partition between her nostrils. Her head was bent upon her shoulder, and the pearl tips of her white teeth were seen between her lips. "Is she making fun of me?" thought Rodolphe. Emma's gesture, however, had only been meant for a warning; for Monsieur Lheureux was accompanying them, and spoke now and again as if to enter into the conversation. "What a superb day! Everybody is out! The wind is east!" And neither Madame Bovary nor Rodolphe answered him, whilst at the slightest movement made by them he drew near, saying, "I beg your pardon!" and raised his hat. When they reached the farrier's house, instead of following the road up to the fence, Rodolphe suddenly turned down a path, drawing with him Madame Bovary. He called out-- "Good evening, Monsieur Lheureux! See you again presently." "How you got rid of him!" she said, laughing. "Why," he went on, "allow oneself to be intruded upon by others? And as to-day I have the happiness of being with you--" Emma blushed. He did not finish his sentence. Then he talked of the fine weather and of the pleasure of walking on the grass. A few daisies had sprung up again. "Here are some pretty Easter daisies," he said, "and enough of them to furnish oracles to all the amorous maids in the place." He added, "Shall I pick some? What do you think?" "Are you in love?" she asked, coughing a little. "H'm, h'm! who knows?" answered Rodolphe. The meadow began to fill, and the housewives hustled you with their great umbrellas, their baskets, and their babies. One had often to get out of the way of a long file of country folk, servant-maids with blue stockings, flat shoes, silver rings, and who smelt of milk, when one passed close to them. They walked along holding one another by the hand, and thus they spread over the whole field from the row of open trees to the banquet tent. But this was the examination time, and the farmers one after the other entered a kind of enclosure formed by a long cord supported on sticks. The beasts were there, their noses towards the cord, and making a confused line with their unequal rumps. Drowsy pigs were burrowing in the earth with their snouts, calves were bleating, lambs baaing; the cows, on knees folded in, were stretching their bellies on the grass, slowly chewing the cud, and blinking their heavy eyelids at the gnats that buzzed round them. Plough-men with bare arms were holding by the halter prancing stallions that neighed with dilated nostrils looking towards the mares. These stood quietly, stretching out their heads and flowing manes, while their foals rested in their shadow, or now and then came and sucked them. And above the long undulation of these crowded animals one saw some white mane rising in the wind like a wave, or some sharp horns sticking out, and the heads of men running about. Apart, outside the enclosure, a hundred paces off, was a large black bull, muzzled, with an iron ring in its nostrils, and who moved no more than if he had been in bronze. A child in rags was holding him by a rope. Between the two lines the committee-men were walking with heavy steps, examining each animal, then consulting one another in a low voice. One who seemed of more importance now and then took notes in a book as he walked along. This was the president of the jury, Monsieur Derozerays de la Panville. As soon as he recognised Rodolphe he came forward quickly, and smiling amiably, said-- "What! Monsieur Boulanger, you are deserting us?" Rodolphe protested that he was just coming. But when the president had disappeared-- "Ma foi!*" said he, "I shall not go. Your company is better than his." *Upon my word! And while poking fun at the show, Rodolphe, to move about more easily, showed the gendarme his blue card, and even stopped now and then in front of some fine beast, which Madame Bovary did not at all admire. He noticed this, and began jeering at the Yonville ladies and their dresses; then he apologised for the negligence of his own. He had that incongruity of common and elegant in which the habitually vulgar think they see the revelation of an eccentric existence, of the perturbations of sentiment, the tyrannies of art, and always a certain contempt for social conventions, that seduces or exasperates them. Thus his cambric shirt with plaited cuffs was blown out by the wind in the opening of his waistcoat of grey ticking, and his broad-striped trousers disclosed at the ankle nankeen boots with patent leather gaiters. These were so polished that they reflected the grass. He trampled on horses's dung with them, one hand in the pocket of his jacket and his straw hat on one side. "Besides," added he, "when one lives in the country--" "It's waste of time," said Emma. "That is true," replied Rodolphe. "To think that not one of these people is capable of understanding even the cut of a coat!" Then they talked about provincial mediocrity, of the lives it crushed, the illusions lost there. "And I too," said Rodolphe, "am drifting into depression." "You!" she said in astonishment; "I thought you very light-hearted." "Ah! yes. I seem so, because in the midst of the world I know how to wear the mask of a scoffer upon my face; and yet, how many a time at the sight of a cemetery by moonlight have I not asked myself whether it were not better to join those sleeping there!" "Oh! and your friends?" she said. "You do not think of them." "My friends! What friends? Have I any? Who cares for me?" And he accompanied the last words with a kind of whistling of the lips. But they were obliged to separate from each other because of a great pile of chairs that a man was carrying behind them. He was so overladen with them that one could only see the tips of his wooden shoes and the ends of his two outstretched arms. It was Lestiboudois, the gravedigger, who was carrying the church chairs about amongst the people. Alive to all that concerned his interests, he had hit upon this means of turning the show to account; and his idea was succeeding, for he no longer knew which way to turn. In fact, the villagers, who were hot, quarreled for these seats, whose straw smelt of incense, and they leant against the thick backs, stained with the wax of candles, with a certain veneration. Madame Bovary again took Rodolphe's arm; he went on as if speaking to himself-- "Yes, I have missed so many things. Always alone! Ah! if I had some aim in life, if I had met some love, if I had found someone! Oh, how I would have spent all the energy of which I am capable, surmounted everything, overcome everything!" "Yet it seems to me," said Emma, "that you are not to be pitied." "Ah! you think so?" said Rodolphe. "For, after all," she went on, "you are free--" she hesitated, "rich--" "Do not mock me," he replied. And she protested that she was not mocking him, when the report of a cannon resounded. Immediately all began hustling one another pell-mell towards the village. It was a false alarm. The prefect seemed not to be coming, and the members of the jury felt much embarrassed, not knowing if they ought to begin the meeting or still wait. At last at the end of the Place a large hired landau appeared, drawn by two thin horses, which a coachman in a white hat was whipping lustily. Binet had only just time to shout, "Present arms!" and the colonel to imitate him. All ran towards the enclosure; everyone pushed forward. A few even forgot their collars; but the equipage of the prefect seemed to anticipate the crowd, and the two yoked jades, trapesing in their harness, came up at a little trot in front of the peristyle of the town hall at the very moment when the National Guard and firemen deployed, beating drums and marking time. "Present!" shouted Binet. "Halt!" shouted the colonel. "Left about, march." And after presenting arms, during which the clang of the band, letting loose, rang out like a brass kettle rolling downstairs, all the guns were lowered. Then was seen stepping down from the carriage a gentleman in a short coat with silver braiding, with bald brow, and wearing a tuft of hair at the back of his head, of a sallow complexion and the most benign appearance. His eyes, very large and covered by heavy lids, were half-closed to look at the crowd, while at the same time he raised his sharp nose, and forced a smile upon his sunken mouth. He recognised the mayor by his scarf, and explained to him that the prefect was not able to come. He himself was a councillor at the prefecture; then he added a few apologies. Monsieur Tuvache answered them with compliments; the other confessed himself nervous; and they remained thus, face to face, their foreheads almost touching, with the members of the jury all round, the municipal council, the notable personages, the National Guard and the crowd. The councillor pressing his little cocked hat to his breast repeated his bows, while Tuvache, bent like a bow, also smiled, stammered, tried to say something, protested his devotion to the monarchy and the honour that was being done to Yonville. Hippolyte, the groom from the inn, took the head of the horses from the coachman, and, limping along with his club-foot, led them to the door of the "Lion d'Or", where a number of peasants collected to look at the carriage. The drum beat, the howitzer thundered, and the gentlemen one by one mounted the platform, where they sat down in red utrecht velvet arm-chairs that had been lent by Madame Tuvache. All these people looked alike. Their fair flabby faces, somewhat tanned by the sun, were the colour of sweet cider, and their puffy whiskers emerged from stiff collars, kept up by white cravats with broad bows. All the waist-coats were of velvet, double-breasted; all the watches had, at the end of a long ribbon, an oval cornelian seal; everyone rested his two hands on his thighs, carefully stretching the stride of their trousers, whose unsponged glossy cloth shone more brilliantly than the leather of their heavy boots. The ladies of the company stood at the back under the vestibule between the pillars while the common herd was opposite, standing up or sitting on chairs. As a matter of fact, Lestiboudois had brought thither all those that he had moved from the field, and he even kept running back every minute to fetch others from the church. He caused such confusion with this piece of business that one had great difficulty in getting to the small steps of the platform. "I think," said Monsieur Lheureux to the chemist, who was passing to his place, "that they ought to have put up two Venetian masts with something rather severe and rich for ornaments; it would have been a very pretty effect." "To be sure," replied Homais; "but what can you expect? The mayor took everything on his own shoulders. He hasn't much taste. Poor Tuvache! and he is even completely destitute of what is called the genius of art." Rodolphe, meanwhile, with Madame Bovary, had gone up to the first floor of the town hall, to the "council-room," and, as it was empty, he declared that they could enjoy the sight there more comfortably. He fetched three stools from the round table under the bust of the monarch, and having carried them to one of the windows, they sat down by each other. There was commotion on the platform, long whisperings, much parleying. At last the councillor got up. They knew now that his name was Lieuvain, and in the crowd the name was passed from one to the other. After he had collated a few pages, and bent over them to see better, he began-- "Gentlemen! May I be permitted first of all (before addressing you on the object of our meeting to-day, and this sentiment will, I am sure, be shared by you all), may I be permitted, I say, to pay a tribute to the higher administration, to the government to the monarch, gentle men, our sovereign, to that beloved king, to whom no branch of public or private prosperity is a matter of indifference, and who directs with a hand at once so firm and wise the chariot of the state amid the incessant perils of a stormy sea, knowing, moreover, how to make peace respected as well as war, industry, commerce, agriculture, and the fine arts?" "I ought," said Rodolphe, "to get back a little further." "Why?" said Emma. But at this moment the voice of the councillor rose to an extraordinary pitch. He declaimed-- "This is no longer the time, gentlemen, when civil discord ensanguined our public places, when the landlord, the business-man, the working-man himself, falling asleep at night, lying down to peaceful sleep, trembled lest he should be awakened suddenly by the noise of incendiary tocsins, when the most subversive doctrines audaciously sapped foundations." "Well, someone down there might see me," Rodolphe resumed, "then I should have to invent excuses for a fortnight; and with my bad reputation--" "Oh, you are slandering yourself," said Emma. "No! It is dreadful, I assure you." "But, gentlemen," continued the councillor, "if, banishing from my memory the remembrance of these sad pictures, I carry my eyes back to the actual situation of our dear country, what do I see there? Everywhere commerce and the arts are flourishing; everywhere new means of communication, like so many new arteries in the body of the state, establish within it new relations. Our great industrial centres have recovered all their activity; religion, more consolidated, smiles in all hearts; our ports are full, confidence is born again, and France breathes once more!" "Besides," added Rodolphe, "perhaps from the world's point of view they are right." "How so?" she asked. "What!" said he. "Do you not know that there are souls constantly tormented? They need by turns to dream and to act, the purest passions and the most turbulent joys, and thus they fling themselves into all sorts of fantasies, of follies." Then she looked at him as one looks at a traveller who has voyaged over strange lands, and went on-- "We have not even this distraction, we poor women!" "A sad distraction, for happiness isn't found in it." "But is it ever found?" she asked. "Yes; one day it comes," he answered. "And this is what you have understood," said the councillor. "You, farmers, agricultural labourers! you pacific pioneers of a work that belongs wholly to civilization! you, men of progress and morality, you have understood, I say, that political storms are even more redoubtable than atmospheric disturbances!" "It comes one day," repeated Rodolphe, "one day suddenly, and when one is despairing of it. Then the horizon expands; it is as if a voice cried, 'It is here!' You feel the need of confiding the whole of your life, of giving everything, sacrificing everything to this being. There is no need for explanations; they understand one another. They have seen each other in dreams!" (And he looked at her.) "In fine, here it is, this treasure so sought after, here before you. It glitters, it flashes; yet one still doubts, one does not believe it; one remains dazzled, as if one went out from darkness into light." And as he ended Rodolphe suited the action to the word. He passed his hand over his face, like a man seized with giddiness. Then he let it fall on Emma's. She took hers away. "And who would be surprised at it, gentlemen? He only who is so blind, so plunged (I do not fear to say it), so plunged in the prejudices of another age as still to misunderstand the spirit of agricultural populations. Where, indeed, is to be found more patriotism than in the country, greater devotion to the public welfare, more intelligence, in a word? And, gentlemen, I do not mean that superficial intelligence, vain ornament of idle minds, but rather that profound and balanced intelligence that applies itself above all else to useful objects, thus contributing to the good of all, to the common amelioration and to the support of the state, born of respect for law and the practice of duty--" "Ah! again!" said Rodolphe. "Always 'duty.' I am sick of the word. They are a lot of old blockheads in flannel vests and of old women with foot-warmers and rosaries who constantly drone into our ears 'Duty, duty!' Ah! by Jove! one's duty is to feel what is great, cherish the beautiful, and not accept all the conventions of society with the ignominy that it imposes upon us." "Yet--yet--" objected Madame Bovary. "No, no! Why cry out against the passions? Are they not the one beautiful thing on the earth, the source of heroism, of enthusiasm, of poetry, music, the arts, of everything, in a word?" "But one must," said Emma, "to some extent bow to the opinion of the world and accept its moral code." "Ah! but there are two," he replied. "The small, the conventional, that of men, that which constantly changes, that brays out so loudly, that makes such a commotion here below, of the earth earthly, like the mass of imbeciles you see down there. But the other, the eternal, that is about us and above, like the landscape that surrounds us, and the blue heavens that give us light." Monsieur Lieuvain had just wiped his mouth with a pocket-handkerchief. He continued-- "And what should I do here gentlemen, pointing out to you the uses of agriculture? Who supplies our wants? Who provides our means of subsistence? Is it not the agriculturist? The agriculturist, gentlemen, who, sowing with laborious hand the fertile furrows of the country, brings forth the corn, which, being ground, is made into a powder by means of ingenious machinery, comes out thence under the name of flour, and from there, transported to our cities, is soon delivered at the baker's, who makes it into food for poor and rich alike. Again, is it not the agriculturist who fattens, for our clothes, his abundant flocks in the pastures? For how should we clothe ourselves, how nourish ourselves, without the agriculturist? And, gentlemen, is it even necessary to go so far for examples? Who has not frequently reflected on all the momentous things that we get out of that modest animal, the ornament of poultry-yards, that provides us at once with a soft pillow for our bed, with succulent flesh for our tables, and eggs? But I should never end if I were to enumerate one after the other all the different products which the earth, well cultivated, like a generous mother, lavishes upon her children. Here it is the vine, elsewhere the apple tree for cider, there colza, farther on cheeses and flax. Gentlemen, let us not forget flax, which has made such great strides of late years, and to which I will more particularly call your attention." He had no need to call it, for all the mouths of the multitude were wide open, as if to drink in his words. Tuvache by his side listened to him with staring eyes. Monsieur Derozerays from time to time softly closed his eyelids, and farther on the chemist, with his son Napoleon between his knees, put his hand behind his ear in order not to lose a syllable. The chins of the other members of the jury went slowly up and down in their waistcoats in sign of approval. The firemen at the foot of the platform rested on their bayonets; and Binet, motionless, stood with out-turned elbows, the point of his sabre in the air. Perhaps he could hear, but certainly he could see nothing, because of the visor of his helmet, that fell down on his nose. His lieutenant, the youngest son of Monsieur Tuvache, had a bigger one, for his was enormous, and shook on his head, and from it an end of his cotton scarf peeped out. He smiled beneath it with a perfectly infantine sweetness, and his pale little face, whence drops were running, wore an expression of enjoyment and sleepiness. The square as far as the houses was crowded with people. One saw folk leaning on their elbows at all the windows, others standing at doors, and Justin, in front of the chemist's shop, seemed quite transfixed by the sight of what he was looking at. In spite of the silence Monsieur Lieuvain's voice was lost in the air. It reached you in fragments of phrases, and interrupted here and there by the creaking of chairs in the crowd; then you suddenly heard the long bellowing of an ox, or else the bleating of the lambs, who answered one another at street corners. In fact, the cowherds and shepherds had driven their beasts thus far, and these lowed from time to time, while with their tongues they tore down some scrap of foliage that hung above their mouths. Rodolphe had drawn nearer to Emma, and said to her in a low voice, speaking rapidly-- "Does not this conspiracy of the world revolt you? Is there a single sentiment it does not condemn? The noblest instincts, the purest sympathies are persecuted, slandered; and if at length two poor souls do meet, all is so organised that they cannot blend together. Yet they will make the attempt; they will flutter their wings; they will call upon each other. Oh! no matter. Sooner or later, in six months, ten years, they will come together, will love; for fate has decreed it, and they are born one for the other." His arms were folded across his knees, and thus lifting his face towards Emma, close by her, he looked fixedly at her. She noticed in his eyes small golden lines radiating from black pupils; she even smelt the perfume of the pomade that made his hair glossy. Then a faintness came over her; she recalled the Viscount who had waltzed with her at Vaubyessard, and his beard exhaled like this air an odour of vanilla and citron, and mechanically she half-closed her eyes the better to breathe it in. But in making this movement, as she leant back in her chair, she saw in the distance, right on the line of the horizon, the old diligence, the "Hirondelle," that was slowly descending the hill of Leux, dragging after it a long trail of dust. It was in this yellow carriage that Leon had so often come back to her, and by this route down there that he had gone for ever. She fancied she saw him opposite at his windows; then all grew confused; clouds gathered; it seemed to her that she was again turning in the waltz under the light of the lustres on the arm of the Viscount, and that Leon was not far away, that he was coming; and yet all the time she was conscious of the scent of Rodolphe's head by her side. This sweetness of sensation pierced through her old desires, and these, like grains of sand under a gust of wind, eddied to and fro in the subtle breath of the perfume which suffused her soul. She opened wide her nostrils several times to drink in the freshness of the ivy round the capitals. She took off her gloves, she wiped her hands, then fanned her face with her handkerchief, while athwart the throbbing of her temples she heard the murmur of the crowd and the voice of the councillor intoning his phrases. He said--"Continue, persevere; listen neither to the suggestions of routine, nor to the over-hasty councils of a rash empiricism. "Apply yourselves, above all, to the amelioration of the soil, to good manures, to the development of the equine, bovine, ovine, and porcine races. Let these shows be to you pacific arenas, where the victor in leaving it will hold forth a hand to the vanquished, and will fraternise with him in the hope of better success. And you, aged servants, humble domestics, whose hard labour no Government up to this day has taken into consideration, come hither to receive the reward of your silent virtues, and be assured that the state henceforward has its eye upon you; that it encourages you, protects you; that it will accede to your just demands, and alleviate as much as in it lies the burden of your painful sacrifices." Monsieur Lieuvain then sat down; Monsieur Derozerays got up, beginning another speech. His was not perhaps so florid as that of the councillor, but it recommended itself by a more direct style, that is to say, by more special knowledge and more elevated considerations. Thus the praise of the Government took up less space in it; religion and agriculture more. He showed in it the relations of these two, and how they had always contributed to civilisation. Rodolphe with Madame Bovary was talking dreams, presentiments, magnetism. Going back to the cradle of society, the orator painted those fierce times when men lived on acorns in the heart of woods. Then they had left off the skins of beasts, had put on cloth, tilled the soil, planted the vine. Was this a good, and in this discovery was there not more of injury than of gain? Monsieur Derozerays set himself this problem. From magnetism little by little Rodolphe had come to affinities, and while the president was citing Cincinnatus and his plough, Diocletian, planting his cabbages, and the Emperors of China inaugurating the year by the sowing of seed, the young man was explaining to the young woman that these irresistible attractions find their cause in some previous state of existence. "Thus we," he said, "why did we come to know one another? What chance willed it? It was because across the infinite, like two streams that flow but to unite; our special bents of mind had driven us towards each other." And he seized her hand; she did not withdraw it. "For good farming generally!" cried the president. "Just now, for example, when I went to your house." "To Monsieur Bizat of Quincampoix." "Did I know I should accompany you?" "Seventy francs." "A hundred times I wished to go; and I followed you--I remained." "Manures!" "And I shall remain to-night, to-morrow, all other days, all my life!" "To Monsieur Caron of Argueil, a gold medal!" "For I have never in the society of any other person found so complete a charm." "To Monsieur Bain of Givry-Saint-Martin." "And I shall carry away with me the remembrance of you." "For a merino ram!" "But you will forget me; I shall pass away like a shadow." "To Monsieur Belot of Notre-Dame." "Oh, no! I shall be something in your thought, in your life, shall I not?" "Porcine race; prizes--equal, to Messrs. Leherisse and Cullembourg, sixty francs!" Rodolphe was pressing her hand, and he felt it all warm and quivering like a captive dove that wants to fly away; but, whether she was trying to take it away or whether she was answering his pressure; she made a movement with her fingers. He exclaimed-- "Oh, I thank you! You do not repulse me! You are good! You understand that I am yours! Let me look at you; let me contemplate you!" A gust of wind that blew in at the window ruffled the cloth on the table, and in the square below all the great caps of the peasant women were uplifted by it like the wings of white butterflies fluttering. "Use of oil-cakes," continued the president. He was hurrying on: "Flemish manure-flax-growing-drainage-long leases-domestic service." Rodolphe was no longer speaking. They looked at one another. A supreme desire made their dry lips tremble, and wearily, without an effort, their fingers intertwined. "Catherine Nicaise Elizabeth Leroux, of Sassetot-la-Guerriere, for fifty-four years of service at the same farm, a silver medal--value, twenty-five francs!" "Where is Catherine Leroux?" repeated the councillor. She did not present herself, and one could hear voices whispering-- "Go up!" "Don't be afraid!" "Oh, how stupid she is!" "Well, is she there?" cried Tuvache. "Yes; here she is." "Then let her come up!" Then there came forward on the platform a little old woman with timid bearing, who seemed to shrink within her poor clothes. On her feet she wore heavy wooden clogs, and from her hips hung a large blue apron. Her pale face framed in a borderless cap was more wrinkled than a withered russet apple. And from the sleeves of her red jacket looked out two large hands with knotty joints, the dust of barns, the potash of washing the grease of wools had so encrusted, roughened, hardened these that they seemed dirty, although they had been rinsed in clear water; and by dint of long service they remained half open, as if to bear humble witness for themselves of so much suffering endured. Something of monastic rigidity dignified her face. Nothing of sadness or of emotion weakened that pale look. In her constant living with animals she had caught their dumbness and their calm. It was the first time that she found herself in the midst of so large a company, and inwardly scared by the flags, the drums, the gentlemen in frock-coats, and the order of the councillor, she stood motionless, not knowing whether to advance or run away, nor why the crowd was pushing her and the jury were smiling at her. Thus stood before these radiant bourgeois this half-century of servitude. "Approach, venerable Catherine Nicaise Elizabeth Leroux!" said the councillor, who had taken the list of prize-winners from the president; and, looking at the piece of paper and the old woman by turns, he repeated in a fatherly tone--"Approach! approach!" "Are you deaf?" said Tuvache, fidgeting in his armchair; and he began shouting in her ear, "Fifty-four years of service. A silver medal! Twenty-five francs! For you!" Then, when she had her medal, she looked at it, and a smile of beatitude spread over her face; and as she walked away they could hear her muttering "I'll give it to our cure up home, to say some masses for me!" "What fanaticism!" exclaimed the chemist, leaning across to the notary. The meeting was over, the crowd dispersed, and now that the speeches had been read, each one fell back into his place again, and everything into the old grooves; the masters bullied the servants, and these struck the animals, indolent victors, going back to the stalls, a green-crown on their horns. The National Guards, however, had gone up to the first floor of the town hall with buns spitted on their bayonets, and the drummer of the battalion carried a basket with bottles. Madame Bovary took Rodolphe's arm; he saw her home; they separated at her door; then he walked about alone in the meadow while he waited for the time of the banquet. The feast was long, noisy, ill served; the guests were so crowded that they could hardly move their elbows; and the narrow planks used for forms almost broke down under their weight. They ate hugely. Each one stuffed himself on his own account. Sweat stood on every brow, and a whitish steam, like the vapour of a stream on an autumn morning, floated above the table between the hanging lamps. Rodolphe, leaning against the calico of the tent was thinking so earnestly of Emma that he heard nothing. Behind him on the grass the servants were piling up the dirty plates, his neighbours were talking; he did not answer them; they filled his glass, and there was silence in his thoughts in spite of the growing noise. He was dreaming of what she had said, of the line of her lips; her face, as in a magic mirror, shone on the plates of the shakos, the folds of her gown fell along the walls, and days of love unrolled to all infinity before him in the vistas of the future. He saw her again in the evening during the fireworks, but she was with her husband, Madame Homais, and the druggist, who was worrying about the danger of stray rockets, and every moment he left the company to go and give some advice to Binet. The pyrotechnic pieces sent to Monsieur Tuvache had, through an excess of caution, been shut up in his cellar, and so the damp powder would not light, and the principal set piece, that was to represent a dragon biting his tail, failed completely. Now and then a meagre Roman-candle went off; then the gaping crowd sent up a shout that mingled with the cry of the women, whose waists were being squeezed in the darkness. Emma silently nestled against Charles's shoulder; then, raising her chin, she watched the luminous rays of the rockets against the dark sky. Rodolphe gazed at her in the light of the burning lanterns. They went out one by one. The stars shone out. A few crops of rain began to fall. She knotted her fichu round her bare head. At this moment the councillor's carriage came out from the inn. His coachman, who was drunk, suddenly dozed off, and one could see from the distance, above the hood, between the two lanterns, the mass of his body, that swayed from right to left with the giving of the traces. "Truly," said the druggist, "one ought to proceed most rigorously against drunkenness! I should like to see written up weekly at the door of the town hall on a board ad hoc* the names of all those who during the week got intoxicated on alcohol. Besides, with regard to statistics, one would thus have, as it were, public records that one could refer to in case of need. But excuse me!" *Specifically for that. And he once more ran off to the captain. The latter was going back to see his lathe again. "Perhaps you would not do ill," Homais said to him, "to send one of your men, or to go yourself--" "Leave me alone!" answered the tax-collector. "It's all right!" "Do not be uneasy," said the druggist, when he returned to his friends. "Monsieur Binet has assured me that all precautions have been taken. No sparks have fallen; the pumps are full. Let us go to rest." "Ma foi! I want it," said Madame Homais, yawning at large. "But never mind; we've had a beautiful day for our fete." Rodolphe repeated in a low voice, and with a tender look, "Oh, yes! very beautiful!" And having bowed to one another, they separated. Two days later, in the "Final de Rouen," there was a long article on the show. Homais had composed it with verve the very next morning. "Why these festoons, these flowers, these garlands? Whither hurries this crowd like the waves of a furious sea under the torrents of a tropical sun pouring its heat upon our heads?" Then he spoke of the condition of the peasants. Certainly the Government was doing much, but not enough. "Courage!" he cried to it; "a thousand reforms are indispensable; let us accomplish them!" Then touching on the entry of the councillor, he did not forget "the martial air of our militia;" nor "our most merry village maidens;" nor the "bald-headed old men like patriarchs who were there, and of whom some, the remnants of our phalanxes, still felt their hearts beat at the manly sound of the drums." He cited himself among the first of the members of the jury, and he even called attention in a note to the fact that Monsieur Homais, chemist, had sent a memoir on cider to the agricultural society. When he came to the distribution of the prizes, he painted the joy of the prize-winners in dithyrambic strophes. "The father embraced the son, the brother the brother, the husband his consort. More than one showed his humble medal with pride; and no doubt when he got home to his good housewife, he hung it up weeping on the modest walls of his cot. "About six o'clock a banquet prepared in the meadow of Monsieur Leigeard brought together the principal personages of the fete. The greatest cordiality reigned here. Divers toasts were proposed: Monsieur Lieuvain, the King; Monsieur Tuvache, the Prefect; Monsieur Derozerays, Agriculture; Monsieur Homais, Industry and the Fine Arts, those twin sisters; Monsieur Leplichey, Progress. In the evening some brilliant fireworks on a sudden illumined the air. One would have called it a veritable kaleidoscope, a real operatic scene; and for a moment our little locality might have thought itself transported into the midst of a dream of the 'Thousand and One Nights.' Let us state that no untoward event disturbed this family meeting." And he added "Only the absence of the clergy was remarked. No doubt the priests understand progress in another fashion. Just as you please, messieurs the followers of Loyola!" Können Sie 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.

Es ist ein großer Tag für das kleine Yonville - der Jahrmarkt der Stadt. Jeder in der Stadt steht früh auf, um sich dafür vorzubereiten. Binet, der auch als Kapitän der Feuerwehr tätig ist, ist ganz schick gekleidet. Die ganze Stadt sieht so schön aus. Die einzige Person, die darüber nicht allzu begeistert ist, ist Madame Lefrancois. Homais bleibt stehen, um mit ihr zu plaudern, und sie wird ein wenig aufgemuntert, als sie erfährt, dass er im Beirat für den Jahrmarkt ist. Homais redet weiter, aber sein Publikum hört nicht zu. Wir folgen dem Blick von Madame Lefrancois und sehen, was sie so verärgert macht - die andere Kneipe der Stadt, ihre Rivalin, ist voller singender Menschen. Diese guten Tage werden jedoch nicht lange dauern; sie erzählt Homais, dass sie gehört hat, dass Tellier, der Wirt, Monsieur Lheureux so hoch verschuldet ist, dass die Kneipe in der nächsten Woche geschlossen werden soll. Aus der Perspektive dieser klatschenden Nachbarn sehen wir Emma und Rodolphe ein Stück entfernt mit Monsieur Lheureux reden. Rodolphe plant offensichtlich bereits seinen Angriff - im Gegensatz zu Leon ist er ein ziemlich geschickter Taktiker. Homais geht hinüber, um Hallo zu sagen, aber Rodolphe schafft es, ihm auszuweichen. Er betrachtet Emma, während sie entlanggehen - er ist zufrieden mit dem, was er sieht. Monsieur Lheureux versucht, ihnen zu folgen und das Gespräch aufrechtzuerhalten, aber sie werden ihn schnell los. Rodolphe startet sofort seinen Angriff und flirtet offen mit Emma, sobald sie allein sind. Die Stadtbewohner sind für verschiedene landwirtschaftliche Wettbewerbe versammelt. Rodolphe soll als Juror teilnehmen, aber er hat andere Dinge im Kopf. Er richtet seine ganze Aufmerksamkeit auf Emma, die ihm begeistert antwortet. Er weiß genau, welche Knöpfe er drücken muss - sie reden über die Frustrationen des ländlichen Lebens, die Einsamkeit des Daseins... im Grunde genommen alle Themen, die Emma am liebsten sind. Ihr Gespräch wird durch das Eintreten der Feuerwehr und den Beginn der Preisverleihung unterbrochen. Ein Regierungsbeamter, Monsieur Lieuvain, trifft ein, um die Preise zu vergeben; er hält eine lange, lange, seeeehr lange Rede über die Regierung, das Land. Währenddessen führen Emma und Rodolphe ihr intimes Gespräch fort. Rodolphe behauptet, dass die einzige wahre Pflicht darin besteht, das Schöne am Leben zu genießen und die Konventionen der Gesellschaft abzulehnen. Emma versucht schwach zu argumentieren, dass die moralischen Standards der Gesellschaft wichtig sind, aber Rodolphe weist sie prompt ab. Er ist hier der klare Sieger; Emma hat verloren. Monsieur Lieuvain spricht derweil einfach weiter und weiter. Seine Rede ist voll mit Regierungsrhetorik, aber im Grunde genommen sagt er nichts. Trotzdem ist die ganze Stadt von ihm hingerissen. Rodolphe gewinnt Emma schnell für sich. Alle ihre Gefühle für Leon, den Vicomte auf dem Ball, und ihre Einsamkeit kehren zurück und richten sich auf Rodolphe. Sie ist hin und weg. Schließlich beendet Monsieur Lieuvain seine Rede. Eine weitere Rede beginnt, und Rodolphe macht weiterhin den Hof an Emma. Es werden landwirtschaftliche Preise für Dinge wie Schweine, Gülle und Drainage vergeben. Gleichzeitig erklärt Rodolphe seine Liebe zu Emma. Die Preisverleihung und das Werben enden mit der Auszeichnung einer alten verwirrten Frau für langjährigen Dienst. Flaubert beschreibt diese Frau, Catherine Leroux, mit quälender Genauigkeit; offensichtlich ist sie durch jahrelange harte Arbeit gebrochen. Sie sagt, dass sie ihr Preisgeld dem Priester geben wird, was Homais beleidigt. Nach dieser lächerlichen Zeremonie beginnt ein großes Festmahl. Die Stadtbewohner fressen sich in einem gemeinschaftlichen Rausch voll. Rodolphe ist nicht am Essen interessiert - er denkt an Emma und daran, welches Vergnügen er in der Zukunft mit ihr haben wird. Emma ist mit Charles und der Familie Homais unterwegs. Der Höhepunkt des Festivals ist ein Feuerwerk - leider sind sie zu feucht und gehen kaum los. Der Abend endet eher unspektakulär, und alle kehren nach Hause zurück. Homais schreibt einen enthusiastischen, übertriebenen Artikel über die Fiesta und veröffentlicht ihn in einer Rouener Zeitung.

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: Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously. In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night. I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it. I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss--for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the market then--and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short--as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go 'meandering' about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, 'Let us have no meandering.' Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth. I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or 'there by', as they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father's eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months, when mine opened on it. There is something strange to me, even now, in the reflection that he never saw me; and something stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have of my first childish associations with his white grave-stone in the churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little parlour was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the doors of our house were--almost cruelly, it seemed to me sometimes--bolted and locked against it. An aunt of my father's, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by and by, was the principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she sufficiently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married to a husband younger than herself, who was very handsome, except in the sense of the homely adage, 'handsome is, that handsome does'--for he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having once, on a disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but determined arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs' window. These evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to pay him off, and effect a separation by mutual consent. He went to India with his capital, and there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was once seen riding on an elephant, in company with a Baboon; but I think it must have been a Baboo--or a Begum. Anyhow, from India tidings of his death reached home, within ten years. How they affected my aunt, nobody knew; for immediately upon the separation, she took her maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long way off, established herself there as a single woman with one servant, and was understood to live secluded, ever afterwards, in an inflexible retirement. My father had once been a favourite of hers, I believe; but she was mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground that my mother was 'a wax doll'. She had never seen my mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my mother's age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution. He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months before I came into the world. This was the state of matters, on the afternoon of, what I may be excused for calling, that eventful and important Friday. I can make no claim therefore to have known, at that time, how matters stood; or to have any remembrance, founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what follows. My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden. My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance, that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange lady, over the garden-fence, and she came walking up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of countenance that could have belonged to nobody else. When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like any ordinary Christian; and now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that extent, that my poor dear mother used to say it became perfectly flat and white in a moment. She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a Friday. My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room, slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and carried her eyes on, like a Saracen's Head in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and a gesture to my mother, like one who was accustomed to be obeyed, to come and open the door. My mother went. 'Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,' said Miss Betsey; the emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother's mourning weeds, and her condition. 'Yes,' said my mother, faintly. 'Miss Trotwood,' said the visitor. 'You have heard of her, I dare say?' My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had been an overpowering pleasure. 'Now you see her,' said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head, and begged her to walk in. They went into the parlour my mother had come from, the fire in the best room on the other side of the passage not being lighted--not having been lighted, indeed, since my father's funeral; and when they were both seated, and Miss Betsey said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to restrain herself, began to cry. 'Oh tut, tut, tut!' said Miss Betsey, in a hurry. 'Don't do that! Come, come!' My mother couldn't help it notwithstanding, so she cried until she had had her cry out. 'Take off your cap, child,' said Miss Betsey, 'and let me see you.' My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such nervous hands that her hair (which was luxuriant and beautiful) fell all about her face. 'Why, bless my heart!' exclaimed Miss Betsey. 'You are a very Baby!' My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance even for her years; she hung her head, as if it were her fault, poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she was but a childish widow, and would be but a childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no ungentle hand; but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender, frowning at the fire. 'In the name of Heaven,' said Miss Betsey, suddenly, 'why Rookery?' 'Do you mean the house, ma'am?' asked my mother. 'Why Rookery?' said Miss Betsey. 'Cookery would have been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical ideas of life, either of you.' 'The name was Mr. Copperfield's choice,' returned my mother. 'When he bought the house, he liked to think that there were rooks about it.' The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among some tall old elm-trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way. As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind, some weatherbeaten ragged old rooks'-nests, burdening their higher branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea. 'Where are the birds?' asked Miss Betsey. 'The--?' My mother had been thinking of something else. 'The rooks--what has become of them?' asked Miss Betsey. 'There have not been any since we have lived here,' said my mother. 'We thought--Mr. Copperfield thought--it was quite a large rookery; but the nests were very old ones, and the birds have deserted them a long while.' 'David Copperfield all over!' cried Miss Betsey. 'David Copperfield from head to foot! Calls a house a rookery when there's not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust, because he sees the nests!' 'Mr. Copperfield,' returned my mother, 'is dead, and if you dare to speak unkindly of him to me--' My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary intention of committing an assault and battery upon my aunt, who could easily have settled her with one hand, even if my mother had been in far better training for such an encounter than she was that evening. But it passed with the action of rising from her chair; and she sat down again very meekly, and fainted. When she came to herself, or when Miss Betsey had restored her, whichever it was, she found the latter standing at the window. The twilight was by this time shading down into darkness; and dimly as they saw each other, they could not have done that without the aid of the fire. 'Well?' said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect; 'and when do you expect--' 'I am all in a tremble,' faltered my mother. 'I don't know what's the matter. I shall die, I am sure!' 'No, no, no,' said Miss Betsey. 'Have some tea.' 'Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any good?' cried my mother in a helpless manner. 'Of course it will,' said Miss Betsey. 'It's nothing but fancy. What do you call your girl?' 'I don't know that it will be a girl, yet, ma'am,' said my mother innocently. 'Bless the Baby!' exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer upstairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me, 'I don't mean that. I mean your servant-girl.' 'Peggotty,' said my mother. 'Peggotty!' repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation. 'Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone into a Christian church, and got herself named Peggotty?' 'It's her surname,' said my mother, faintly. 'Mr. Copperfield called her by it, because her Christian name was the same as mine.' 'Here! Peggotty!' cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlour door. 'Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don't dawdle.' Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if she had been a recognized authority in the house ever since it had been a house, and having looked out to confront the amazed Peggotty coming along the passage with a candle at the sound of a strange voice, Miss Betsey shut the door again, and sat down as before: with her feet on the fender, the skirt of her dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee. 'You were speaking about its being a girl,' said Miss Betsey. 'I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it must be a girl. Now child, from the moment of the birth of this girl--' 'Perhaps boy,' my mother took the liberty of putting in. 'I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl,' returned Miss Betsey. 'Don't contradict. From the moment of this girl's birth, child, I intend to be her friend. I intend to be her godmother, and I beg you'll call her Betsey Trotwood Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life with THIS Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with HER affections, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and well guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where they are not deserved. I must make that MY care.' There was a twitch of Miss Betsey's head, after each of these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working within her, and she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong constraint. So my mother suspected, at least, as she observed her by the low glimmer of the fire: too much scared by Miss Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and bewildered altogether, to observe anything very clearly, or to know what to say. 'And was David good to you, child?' asked Miss Betsey, when she had been silent for a little while, and these motions of her head had gradually ceased. 'Were you comfortable together?' 'We were very happy,' said my mother. 'Mr. Copperfield was only too good to me.' 'What, he spoilt you, I suppose?' returned Miss Betsey. 'For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world again, yes, I fear he did indeed,' sobbed my mother. 'Well! Don't cry!' said Miss Betsey. 'You were not equally matched, child--if any two people can be equally matched--and so I asked the question. You were an orphan, weren't you?' 'Yes.' 'And a governess?' 'I was nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copperfield came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me, and took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good deal of attention, and at last proposed to me. And I accepted him. And so we were married,' said my mother simply. 'Ha! Poor Baby!' mused Miss Betsey, with her frown still bent upon the fire. 'Do you know anything?' 'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' faltered my mother. 'About keeping house, for instance,' said Miss Betsey. 'Not much, I fear,' returned my mother. 'Not so much as I could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me--' ('Much he knew about it himself!') said Miss Betsey in a parenthesis. --'And I hope I should have improved, being very anxious to learn, and he very patient to teach me, if the great misfortune of his death'--my mother broke down again here, and could get no farther. 'Well, well!' said Miss Betsey. --'I kept my housekeeping-book regularly, and balanced it with Mr. Copperfield every night,' cried my mother in another burst of distress, and breaking down again. 'Well, well!' said Miss Betsey. 'Don't cry any more.' --'And I am sure we never had a word of difference respecting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my threes and fives being too much like each other, or to my putting curly tails to my sevens and nines,' resumed my mother in another burst, and breaking down again. 'You'll make yourself ill,' said Miss Betsey, 'and you know that will not be good either for you or for my god-daughter. Come! You mustn't do it!' This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though her increasing indisposition had a larger one. There was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Betsey's occasionally ejaculating 'Ha!' as she sat with her feet upon the fender. 'David had bought an annuity for himself with his money, I know,' said she, by and by. 'What did he do for you?' 'Mr. Copperfield,' said my mother, answering with some difficulty, 'was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to me.' 'How much?' asked Miss Betsey. 'A hundred and five pounds a year,' said my mother. 'He might have done worse,' said my aunt. The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard and candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was,--as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough,--conveyed her upstairs to her own room with all speed; and immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had been for some days past secreted in the house, unknown to my mother, as a special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor. Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when they arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an unknown lady of portentous appearance, sitting before the fire, with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears with jewellers' cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and my mother saying nothing about her, she was quite a mystery in the parlour; and the fact of her having a magazine of jewellers' cotton in her pocket, and sticking the article in her ears in that way, did not detract from the solemnity of her presence. The doctor having been upstairs and come down again, and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there, face to face, for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and social. He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. It is nothing to say that he hadn't a word to throw at a dog. He couldn't have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as he walked; but he wouldn't have been rude to him, and he couldn't have been quick with him, for any earthly consideration. Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side, and making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the jewellers' cotton, as he softly touched his left ear: 'Some local irritation, ma'am?' 'What!' replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear like a cork. Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness--as he told my mother afterwards--that it was a mercy he didn't lose his presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly: 'Some local irritation, ma'am?' 'Nonsense!' replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at one blow. Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look at her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was called upstairs again. After some quarter of an hour's absence, he returned. 'Well?' said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear nearest to him. 'Well, ma'am,' returned Mr. Chillip, 'we are--we are progressing slowly, ma'am.' 'Ba--a--ah!' said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the contemptuous interjection. And corked herself as before. Really--really--as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was almost shocked; speaking in a professional point of view alone, he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her, notwithstanding, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at the fire, until he was again called out. After another absence, he again returned. 'Well?' said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side again. 'Well, ma'am,' returned Mr. Chillip, 'we are--we are progressing slowly, ma'am.' 'Ya--a--ah!' said my aunt. With such a snarl at him, that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred to go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and a strong draught, until he was again sent for. Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was a very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be regarded as a credible witness, reported next day, that happening to peep in at the parlour-door an hour after this, he was instantly descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices overhead which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That, marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past twelve o'clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was. The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner: 'Well, ma'am, I am happy to congratulate you.' 'What upon?' said my aunt, sharply. Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity of my aunt's manner; so he made her a little bow and gave her a little smile, to mollify her. 'Mercy on the man, what's he doing!' cried my aunt, impatiently. 'Can't he speak?' 'Be calm, my dear ma'am,' said Mr. Chillip, in his softest accents. 'There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma'am. Be calm.' It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn't shake him, and shake what he had to say, out of him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that made him quail. 'Well, ma'am,' resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had courage, 'I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma'am, and well over.' During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly. 'How is she?' said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied on one of them. 'Well, ma'am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,' returned Mr. Chillip. 'Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing her presently, ma'am. It may do her good.' 'And SHE. How is SHE?' said my aunt, sharply. Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird. 'The baby,' said my aunt. 'How is she?' 'Ma'am,' returned Mr. Chillip, 'I apprehended you had known. It's a boy.' My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy; or like one of those supernatural beings, whom it was popularly supposed I was entitled to see; and never came back any more. No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed; but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled; and the light upon the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, without whom I had never been. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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David Copperfield wird an einem Freitag um 12 Uhr morgens geboren. Die Uhrzeit seiner Geburt lässt mehrere Frauen in der Nähe vorhersagen, dass er vom Unglück verfolgt sein wird und Geister sehen kann. David konnte bisher keine Geister sehen, aber der Rest des Romans wird beweisen, ob die erste Hälfte der Vorhersage korrekt war oder nicht. David wird auch mit einer Fruchtblase geboren. Wenn wir bei seiner eigenen Geburt bleiben, erzählt David uns, dass er sechs Monate nach dem Tod seines Vaters geboren wird. Die einzige Person in Davids Familie mit Bargeld ist die Tante seines Vaters, Betsey Trotwood. Fräulein Betsey war verheiratet mit einem echten Trottel, den sie letztendlich in die indischen Kolonien geschickt hat. Ihr Ehemann stirbt nach zehn Jahren in Indien, woraufhin Fräulein Betsey den Titel "Fräulein" zurückerlangt und ein zurückgezogenes Leben in einem Dorf am Meer führt. Davids Vater und Miss Trotwood waren einst eng miteinander, aber Miss Betsey mag nicht, dass Davids Vater Davids Mutter geheiratet hat. Miss Betsey bezeichnet Davids Mutter als "eine Wachspuppe", weil sie nur halb so alt ist wie ihr Ehemann, Mr. Copperfield. Miss Betsey und Davids Vater sehen sich vor seinem Tod nicht mehr. An diesem März-Freitag, als David gerade geboren werden soll, sitzt seine Mutter traurig am Feuer, schwanger, jung und allein in der Welt. Davids Mutter sieht eine Frau auf das Haus zukommen und erkennt, dass es wahrscheinlich Miss Betsey ist. Davids Mutter lädt Miss Betsey herein und ist in Schwarz gekleidet, hochschwanger und ihr Gesicht ist vor Weinen rot. Sie sieht wie ein Kind aus. Miss Betsey kommentiert ihr kindliches Aussehen: "Ach du meine Güte! Du bist ja noch ein Baby!". Miss Betsey fragt dann Davids Mutter, warum sie ihr Haus die "Rookery" genannt hat. Eine Rookery ist ein Nistplatz für Dohlen, einem krähenähnlichen schwarzen Vogel. Aber Miss Trotwood kann keine Vögel sehen. Davids Mutter, Mrs. Copperfield, antwortet, dass der Name von Mr. Copperfield stammt, der Vogelnester gesehen hat und dachte, dass es viele Dohlen in der Nachbarschaft geben muss. Tatsächlich sind die Nester alt, und Mrs. Copperfield hat nie eine Dohle um die Rookery herum gesehen. Miss Betsey denkt, dass dies eine perfekte Illustration von Mr. Copperfields Charakter ist: Er benennt einen Ort die Rookery, in der Annahme, dass es Dohlen geben wird, ohne irgendeinen Beweis, dass sein Haus mit Vögeln ausgestattet ist. Mrs. Copperfield scheint zu fühlen, dass diese Bemerkung eine Beleidigung für Mr. Copperfield ist, und steht auf, offenbar um Miss Betsey anzugreifen. Aber dann fällt Mrs. Copperfield in Ohnmacht. Als sie wieder zu sich kommt, fragt Miss Betsey, wie Mrs. Copperfield "ihr Mädchen" nennt. Mrs. Copperfield antwortet, dass sie sich nicht sicher ist, ob ihr Kind ein Mädchen sein wird. Miss Betsey sagt nein, sie meinte die Dienstmädchen von Mrs. Copperfield. Mrs. Copperfield antwortet: Peggotty. Miss Betsey verlangt von Peggotty, dem Dienstmädchen, Tee für Mrs. Copperfield, die nicht gut aussieht. Miss Betsey sagt dann zu Mrs. Copperfield, dass sie sicher ist, dass das Kind ein Mädchen sein wird. Miss Betsey besteht darauf, dass das Kind Betsey Trotwood Copperfield genannt wird und dass sie ihre Patin sein wird. Sie verspricht, sich um die Ausbildung von Betsey Trotwood Copperfield zu kümmern. Miss Betsey fragt dann Mrs. Copperfield mehr über ihr Leben. Mrs. Copperfield erzählt Miss Betsey, dass sie ein Kindermädchen für eine Familie war, die Mr. Copperfield besuchte. Er hat ihr einen Antrag gemacht und sie wurden bald danach verheiratet. Mrs. Copperfield gibt zu, dass sie nicht viel über das Haushalten weiß. Mr. Copperfield hinterließ seiner Frau und seinem ungeborenen Kind ein Einkommen von 105 Pfund pro Jahr. Miss Betsey stimmt zu, dass er es schlechter hätte machen können. Das Dienstmädchen Peggotty kommt mit dem Tee von Mrs. Copperfield herein und sieht sofort, dass es ihr nicht gut geht. Peggotty schickt ihren Neffen, Ham Peggotty, nach einem Arzt: das Baby ist auf dem Weg. In der Zwischenzeit sitzt Miss Betsey im Salon. Der Arzt kommt. Mr. Chillip geht nach oben, um nach Mrs. Copperfield zu sehen, und kommt dann wieder herunter, um bei Miss Betsey zu sitzen. Miss Betsey ist extrem nervös, schreit Mr. Chillip an und schüttelt Ham Peggotty, den Neffen des Dienstmädchens, in ihrer Aufregung. Schließlich kommt Mr. Chillip, um Miss Betsey mitzuteilen, dass das Baby geboren wurde. Er bringt ihr auch die Nachricht, dass das Baby ein Junge und kein Mädchen ist, wie Miss Betsey angenommen hatte. Daraufhin schlägt Miss Betsey Mr. Chillip mit ihrem Hut und geht ohne ein Wort aus der Tür.

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 first saw the light in the city of Boston in the year 1857. "What!" you say, "eighteen fifty-seven? That is an odd slip. He means nineteen fifty-seven, of course." I beg pardon, but there is no mistake. It was about four in the afternoon of December the 26th, one day after Christmas, in the year 1857, not 1957, that I first breathed the east wind of Boston, which, I assure the reader, was at that remote period marked by the same penetrating quality characterizing it in the present year of grace, 2000. These statements seem so absurd on their face, especially when I add that I am a young man apparently of about thirty years of age, that no person can be blamed for refusing to read another word of what promises to be a mere imposition upon his credulity. Nevertheless I earnestly assure the reader that no imposition is intended, and will undertake, if he shall follow me a few pages, to entirely convince him of this. If I may, then, provisionally assume, with the pledge of justifying the assumption, that I know better than the reader when I was born, I will go on with my narrative. As every schoolboy knows, in the latter part of the nineteenth century the civilization of to-day, or anything like it, did not exist, although the elements which were to develop it were already in ferment. Nothing had, however, occurred to modify the immemorial division of society into the four classes, or nations, as they may be more fitly called, since the differences between them were far greater than those between any nations nowadays, of the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant. I myself was rich and also educated, and possessed, therefore, all the elements of happiness enjoyed by the most fortunate in that age. Living in luxury, and occupied only with the pursuit of the pleasures and refinements of life, I derived the means of my support from the labor of others, rendering no sort of service in return. My parents and grandparents had lived in the same way, and I expected that my descendants, if I had any, would enjoy a like easy existence. But how could I live without service to the world? you ask. Why should the world have supported in utter idleness one who was able to render service? The answer is that my great-grandfather had accumulated a sum of money on which his descendants had ever since lived. The sum, you will naturally infer, must have been very large not to have been exhausted in supporting three generations in idleness. This, however, was not the fact. The sum had been originally by no means large. It was, in fact, much larger now that three generations had been supported upon it in idleness, than it was at first. This mystery of use without consumption, of warmth without combustion, seems like magic, but was merely an ingenious application of the art now happily lost but carried to great perfection by your ancestors, of shifting the burden of one's support on the shoulders of others. The man who had accomplished this, and it was the end all sought, was said to live on the income of his investments. To explain at this point how the ancient methods of industry made this possible would delay us too much. I shall only stop now to say that interest on investments was a species of tax in perpetuity upon the product of those engaged in industry which a person possessing or inheriting money was able to levy. It must not be supposed that an arrangement which seems so unnatural and preposterous according to modern notions was never criticised by your ancestors. It had been the effort of law-givers and prophets from the earliest ages to abolish interest, or at least to limit it to the smallest possible rate. All these efforts had, however, failed, as they necessarily must so long as the ancient social organizations prevailed. At the time of which I write, the latter part of the nineteenth century, governments had generally given up trying to regulate the subject at all. By way of attempting to give the reader some general impression of the way people lived together in those days, and especially of the relations of the rich and poor to one another, perhaps I cannot do better than to compare society as it then was to a prodigious coach which the masses of humanity were harnessed to and dragged toilsomely along a very hilly and sandy road. The driver was hunger, and permitted no lagging, though the pace was necessarily very slow. Despite the difficulty of drawing the coach at all along so hard a road, the top was covered with passengers who never got down, even at the steepest ascents. These seats on top were very breezy and comfortable. Well up out of the dust, their occupants could enjoy the scenery at their leisure, or critically discuss the merits of the straining team. Naturally such places were in great demand and the competition for them was keen, every one seeking as the first end in life to secure a seat on the coach for himself and to leave it to his child after him. By the rule of the coach a man could leave his seat to whom he wished, but on the other hand there were many accidents by which it might at any time be wholly lost. For all that they were so easy, the seats were very insecure, and at every sudden jolt of the coach persons were slipping out of them and falling to the ground, where they were instantly compelled to take hold of the rope and help to drag the coach on which they had before ridden so pleasantly. It was naturally regarded as a terrible misfortune to lose one's seat, and the apprehension that this might happen to them or their friends was a constant cloud upon the happiness of those who rode. But did they think only of themselves? you ask. Was not their very luxury rendered intolerable to them by comparison with the lot of their brothers and sisters in the harness, and the knowledge that their own weight added to their toil? Had they no compassion for fellow beings from whom fortune only distinguished them? Oh, yes; commiseration was frequently expressed by those who rode for those who had to pull the coach, especially when the vehicle came to a bad place in the road, as it was constantly doing, or to a particularly steep hill. At such times, the desperate straining of the team, their agonized leaping and plunging under the pitiless lashing of hunger, the many who fainted at the rope and were trampled in the mire, made a very distressing spectacle, which often called forth highly creditable displays of feeling on the top of the coach. At such times the passengers would call down encouragingly to the toilers of the rope, exhorting them to patience, and holding out hopes of possible compensation in another world for the hardness of their lot, while others contributed to buy salves and liniments for the crippled and injured. It was agreed that it was a great pity that the coach should be so hard to pull, and there was a sense of general relief when the specially bad piece of road was gotten over. This relief was not, indeed, wholly on account of the team, for there was always some danger at these bad places of a general overturn in which all would lose their seats. It must in truth be admitted that the main effect of the spectacle of the misery of the toilers at the rope was to enhance the passengers' sense of the value of their seats upon the coach, and to cause them to hold on to them more desperately than before. If the passengers could only have felt assured that neither they nor their friends would ever fall from the top, it is probable that, beyond contributing to the funds for liniments and bandages, they would have troubled themselves extremely little about those who dragged the coach. I am well aware that this will appear to the men and women of the twentieth century an incredible inhumanity, but there are two facts, both very curious, which partly explain it. In the first place, it was firmly and sincerely believed that there was no other way in which Society could get along, except the many pulled at the rope and the few rode, and not only this, but that no very radical improvement even was possible, either in the harness, the coach, the roadway, or the distribution of the toil. It had always been as it was, and it always would be so. It was a pity, but it could not be helped, and philosophy forbade wasting compassion on what was beyond remedy. The other fact is yet more curious, consisting in a singular hallucination which those on the top of the coach generally shared, that they were not exactly like their brothers and sisters who pulled at the rope, but of finer clay, in some way belonging to a higher order of beings who might justly expect to be drawn. This seems unaccountable, but, as I once rode on this very coach and shared that very hallucination, I ought to be believed. The strangest thing about the hallucination was that those who had but just climbed up from the ground, before they had outgrown the marks of the rope upon their hands, began to fall under its influence. As for those whose parents and grandparents before them had been so fortunate as to keep their seats on the top, the conviction they cherished of the essential difference between their sort of humanity and the common article was absolute. The effect of such a delusion in moderating fellow feeling for the sufferings of the mass of men into a distant and philosophical compassion is obvious. To it I refer as the only extenuation I can offer for the indifference which, at the period I write of, marked my own attitude toward the misery of my brothers. In 1887 I came to my thirtieth year. Although still unmarried, I was engaged to wed Edith Bartlett. She, like myself, rode on the top of the coach. That is to say, not to encumber ourselves further with an illustration which has, I hope, served its purpose of giving the reader some general impression of how we lived then, her family was wealthy. In that age, when money alone commanded all that was agreeable and refined in life, it was enough for a woman to be rich to have suitors; but Edith Bartlett was beautiful and graceful also. My lady readers, I am aware, will protest at this. "Handsome she might have been," I hear them saying, "but graceful never, in the costumes which were the fashion at that period, when the head covering was a dizzy structure a foot tall, and the almost incredible extension of the skirt behind by means of artificial contrivances more thoroughly dehumanized the form than any former device of dressmakers. Fancy any one graceful in such a costume!" The point is certainly well taken, and I can only reply that while the ladies of the twentieth century are lovely demonstrations of the effect of appropriate drapery in accenting feminine graces, my recollection of their great-grandmothers enables me to maintain that no deformity of costume can wholly disguise them. Our marriage only waited on the completion of the house which I was building for our occupancy in one of the most desirable parts of the city, that is to say, a part chiefly inhabited by the rich. For it must be understood that the comparative desirability of different parts of Boston for residence depended then, not on natural features, but on the character of the neighboring population. Each class or nation lived by itself, in quarters of its own. A rich man living among the poor, an educated man among the uneducated, was like one living in isolation among a jealous and alien race. When the house had been begun, its completion by the winter of 1886 had been expected. The spring of the following year found it, however, yet incomplete, and my marriage still a thing of the future. The cause of a delay calculated to be particularly exasperating to an ardent lover was a series of strikes, that is to say, concerted refusals to work on the part of the brick-layers, masons, carpenters, painters, plumbers, and other trades concerned in house building. What the specific causes of these strikes were I do not remember. Strikes had become so common at that period that people had ceased to inquire into their particular grounds. In one department of industry or another, they had been nearly incessant ever since the great business crisis of 1873. In fact it had come to be the exceptional thing to see any class of laborers pursue their avocation steadily for more than a few months at a time. The reader who observes the dates alluded to will of course recognize in these disturbances of industry the first and incoherent phase of the great movement which ended in the establishment of the modern industrial system with all its social consequences. This is all so plain in the retrospect that a child can understand it, but not being prophets, we of that day had no clear idea what was happening to us. What we did see was that industrially the country was in a very queer way. The relation between the workingman and the employer, between labor and capital, appeared in some unaccountable manner to have become dislocated. The working classes had quite suddenly and very generally become infected with a profound discontent with their condition, and an idea that it could be greatly bettered if they only knew how to go about it. On every side, with one accord, they preferred demands for higher pay, shorter hours, better dwellings, better educational advantages, and a share in the refinements and luxuries of life, demands which it was impossible to see the way to granting unless the world were to become a great deal richer than it then was. Though they knew something of what they wanted, they knew nothing of how to accomplish it, and the eager enthusiasm with which they thronged about any one who seemed likely to give them any light on the subject lent sudden reputation to many would-be leaders, some of whom had little enough light to give. However chimerical the aspirations of the laboring classes might be deemed, the devotion with which they supported one another in the strikes, which were their chief weapon, and the sacrifices which they underwent to carry them out left no doubt of their dead earnestness. As to the final outcome of the labor troubles, which was the phrase by which the movement I have described was most commonly referred to, the opinions of the people of my class differed according to individual temperament. The sanguine argued very forcibly that it was in the very nature of things impossible that the new hopes of the workingmen could be satisfied, simply because the world had not the wherewithal to satisfy them. It was only because the masses worked very hard and lived on short commons that the race did not starve outright, and no considerable improvement in their condition was possible while the world, as a whole, remained so poor. It was not the capitalists whom the laboring men were contending with, these maintained, but the iron-bound environment of humanity, and it was merely a question of the thickness of their skulls when they would discover the fact and make up their minds to endure what they could not cure. The less sanguine admitted all this. Of course the workingmen's aspirations were impossible of fulfillment for natural reasons, but there were grounds to fear that they would not discover this fact until they had made a sad mess of society They had the votes and the power to do so if they pleased, and their leaders meant they should. Some of these desponding observers went so far as to predict an impending social cataclysm. Humanity, they argued, having climbed to the top round of the ladder of civilization, was about to take a header into chaos, after which it would doubtless pick itself up, turn round, and begin to climb again. Repeated experiences of this sort in historic and prehistoric times possibly accounted for the puzzling bumps on the human cranium. Human history, like all great movements, was cyclical, and returned to the point of beginning. The idea of indefinite progress in a right line was a chimera of the imagination, with no analogue in nature. The parabola of a comet was perhaps a yet better illustration of the career of humanity. Tending upward and sunward from the aphelion of barbarism, the race attained the perihelion of civilization only to plunge downward once more to its nether goal in the regions of chaos. This, of course, was an extreme opinion, but I remember serious men among my acquaintances who, in discussing the signs of the times, adopted a very similar tone. It was no doubt the common opinion of thoughtful men that society was approaching a critical period which might result in great changes. The labor troubles, their causes, course, and cure, took lead of all other topics in the public prints, and in serious conversation. The nervous tension of the public mind could not have been more strikingly illustrated than it was by the alarm resulting from the talk of a small band of men who called themselves anarchists, and proposed to terrify the American people into adopting their ideas by threats of violence, as if a mighty nation which had but just put down a rebellion of half its own numbers, in order to maintain its political system, were likely to adopt a new social system out of fear. Als einer der Wohlhabenden mit einem großen Interesse am bestehenden Ordnungssystem teilte ich natürlich die Befürchtungen meiner Klasse. Der spezielle Vorwurf, den ich gegenüber der Arbeiterklasse zum Zeitpunkt meiner Niederschrift hegte, aufgrund der Auswirkungen ihrer Streiks auf die Verzögerung meines Eheglücks, verlieh meiner Einstellung gegenüber ihnen ohne Zweifel eine besondere Feindseligkeit. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Erzähler, Julian West, kündigt an, dass er 1857 zum ersten Mal in Boston war. Er ist sich bewusst, dass seine Leser im Jahr 2000 schockiert sein werden, dass er als dreißigjähriger Mann behauptet, dass er 1857 am Leben war. Zu dieser Zeit existierte die Zivilisation von heute nicht. Die Gesellschaft war in vier Klassen oder Nationen eingeteilt, darunter die Reichen und die Armen, die Gebildeten und die Ungebildeten. Er war reich und gebildet, daher "bezog er seine Existenzmittel aus der Arbeit anderer, ohne irgendeine Art von Gegenleistung zu erbringen." Auch seine Vorfahren hatten auf die gleiche Weise gelebt und er erwartete, dass es seine Nachkommen auch tun würden. Sein Großvater hatte etwas Wohlstand angesammelt, von dem seine Familie seitdem gelebt hatte. Die ursprüngliche Summe war nicht so groß, aber Investitionen hatten das Geld vermehrt. Dieses "Rätsel des Verbrauchs ohne Konsum" wird den heutigen Lesern seltsam erscheinen, aber zu Julian Wests Zeit war es üblich. Die Menschen hatten seit Generationen versucht, den Zins zu regulieren, aber Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts hatten sie diese Bemühungen weitgehend aufgegeben. Um seinen Lesern eine Vorstellung von seiner Gesellschaft zu geben, vergleicht Julian West sie mit einem großen Wagen. Die meisten Menschen waren daran angespannt und gezwungen, ihn auf einer holprigen Straße zu ziehen. Einige Menschen saßen auf dem Wagen und stiegen nie ab, trotz der Bemühungen derjenigen unten, ihn über die holprigen Stellen in der Straße zu ziehen. Die Mitreisenden hatten eine schöne Zeit, die sie damit verbrachten, über die Menschen unter ihnen zu diskutieren. Ein Sitzplatz oben war sehr begehrt, aber sehr schwer zu erreichen, weil diejenigen oben ihre Sitze für wen sie wollten, meistens für ihre Kinder, reservieren durften. Aber die Sitze waren instabil und oft wurden die Menschen von ihnen geworfen und mussten ein Seil aufnehmen und den Wagen ziehen. Julian gibt zu, dass der Leser sich fragen wird, wie die Menschen oben so gefühllos gegenüber denen unten sein konnten, besonders wenn ihr eigenes Gewicht die Last ihrer Mitmenschen erhöht hat. Tatsächlich zeigten sie oft großes Mitgefühl für die Arbeiter unten. Wenn es sehr schlimm wurde, riefen sie ermutigende Worte aus oder versprachen Belohnungen im nächsten Leben, und viele von ihnen taten sich zusammen und spendeten Geld, um Salben und Medikamente für die Verletzten zu kaufen. Der Haupteffekt des Anblicks des Leidens derjenigen unten war jedoch, den Wert der Sitze oben zu erhöhen. Während die Menschen des 20. Jahrhunderts all das schwer zu glauben finden werden, müssen sie die beiden Tatsachen berücksichtigen, die diesen Zustand unterstützten. Erstens glaubten die Menschen, dass es keine andere Möglichkeit gibt, die Gesellschaft zu führen, und zweitens glaubten diejenigen oben, dass sie sich von denen, die den Wagen zogen, unterschieden und besser waren, und deshalb ihre Sitze oben verdienten. Im Jahr 1887 ist Julian West dreißig und mit Edith Bartlett verlobt. Ihre Familie ist ebenfalls wohlhabend. Sie sollen heiraten, sobald ihr Haus gebaut ist. Jede Klasse von Menschen, die Julian West Nationen nennt, lebt in separaten Stadtteilen. Die Verzögerung des Hausbaus wird durch Arbeitsstreiks verursacht. Streiks waren seit einer großen Wirtschaftskrise im Jahr 1873 üblich geworden. Julian West weiß, dass seine Leser diese Daten als die ersten Stufen dessen erkennen werden, was das moderne Industriesystem werden sollte. Die Menschen der Zeit waren jedoch verwirrt über das, was mit ihnen geschah. Die Beziehung zwischen Arbeitnehmer und Besitzer war plötzlich problematisch geworden, und die Arbeiter hatten die Vorstellung, dass sie ihre Bedingungen verbessern könnten. Sie fordern höhere Löhne, bessere Wohnungen, kürzere Arbeitszeiten und so weiter. Die Menschen der wohlhabenden Klasse sind sich alle einig, dass es keine Möglichkeit gibt, den Arbeitern das zu geben, was sie wollen, weil es nicht genug Reichtum in der Welt gibt, um sie zufrieden zu stellen. Sie glauben entweder, dass die Arbeiter eines Tages erkennen werden, dass dies der Fall ist und ihr Schicksal akzeptieren werden, oder dass die Arbeiter nachdem sie so viel Macht erlangt haben, alles durcheinander bringen werden. Letzteres ist eine extreme Meinung, aber eine, die Julian West oft in seinem Freundeskreis hört. Die herrschende Klasse ist besonders verängstigt von den Anarchisten. Julian West unterscheidet sich nicht von seinen verängstigten Zeitgenossen, und seine Feindseligkeit gegenüber den Arbeitern nimmt zu, als seine Hochzeitspläne verzögert 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: ALS Phoebe erwachte, hörte sie das frühe Gezwitscher des Ehepaars von Rotkehlchen im Birnbaum und hörte Bewegungen unten im Erdgeschoss. Sie eilte nach unten und fand Hepzibah bereits in der Küche. Sie stand am Fenster und hielt ein Buch ganz nah vor ihrer Nase, als ob sie in der Hoffnung, mit ihrem schlechten Sehvermögen den Inhalt besser lesen zu können, einen olfaktorischen Zugang dazu bekommen könnte. Wenn ein Buch jemals seine essenzielle Weisheit auf die vorgeschlagene Art und Weise gezeigt hätte, dann sicherlich dasjenige, das sich gerade in Hepzibahs Hand befand; und die Küche würde in einem solchen Fall augenblicklich von dem Duft von Hirschfleisch, Truthähnen, Kapuzinern, lardierten Rebhühnern, Puddings, Kuchen und Weihnachtstorten durchzogen sein, alles in einer äußerst aufwendigen Mischung und Zubereitung. Es war ein Kochbuch, voll mit unzähligen alten Varianten englischer Gerichte und illustriert mit Gravuren, die die Tischanordnung bei solchen Banketten zeigten, wie sie ein Adliger in seinem großen Saal eines Schlosses hätte geben können. Und inmitten dieser reichen und beeindruckenden Kreationen der Kochkunst (von denen wahrscheinlich keine innerhalb der Erinnerung eines Mannes getestet wurde, der älter als sein Großvater war), suchte die arme Hepzibah nach einem flinken kleinen Leckerbissen, den sie mit ihrer begrenzten Fähigkeit und den vorhandenen Zutaten zum Frühstück zubereiten könnte. Bald darauf legte sie mit einem tiefen Seufzer das gewürzte Buch beiseite und erkundigte sich bei Phoebe, ob die Henne namens Speckle am Vortag ein Ei gelegt hatte. Phoebe lief nachschauen, kehrte jedoch ohne den erwarteten Schatz in der Hand zurück. In diesem Moment wurde jedoch der Klang der Muschel eines Fischhändlers gehört, der seine Annäherung entlang der Straße ankündigte. Mit energischen Schlägen an das Schaufenster rief Hepzibah den Mann herein und kaufte das, was er als den besten Makrelenfisch in seinem Karren und als fettesten, den er je so früh in der Saison gefühlt hatte, garantierte. Nachdem sie Phoebe gebeten hatte, Kaffee zu rösten - den sie beiläufig als echten Mokka bezeichnete und der so lange aufbewahrt worden war, dass jede der kleinen Beeren so viel wert sein müsste wie ihr Gewicht in Gold - räumte die Jungfrau Holzscheite in den riesigen Rost des alten Kamins, um die verbleibende Dunkelheit aus der Küche zu vertreiben. Das Landmädchen, das bereit war, ihre größtmögliche Hilfe zu leisten, schlug vor, nach der besonderen Methode ihrer Mutter einen Indianerkuchen zu backen, der einfach herzustellen war und den sie als unvergleichlich reichhaltig und, wenn richtig zubereitet, köstlich bezeichnen konnte, im Vergleich zu jeder anderen Art von Frühstückskuchen. Hepzibah stimmte freudig zu und schon bald war die Küche der Ort einer schmackhaften Zubereitung. Vielleicht schauten mitten in ihrem angestammten Element aus dem schlecht gebauten Schornstein die Geister der verstorbenen Küchenmaden erstaunt herab, oder sie stierten die große Weite des Schachtes hinunter, während sie die Einfachheit der geplanten Mahlzeit verachteten und dennoch vergeblich darauf warteten, ihre schattenhaften Hände in jedes angefangene Gericht zu stecken. Die halb verhungerten Ratten jedenfalls kamen sichtbar aus ihren Verstecken und saßen aufrecht auf ihren Hinterbeinen und schnupperten die rauchige Atmosphäre, in Erwartung einer Gelegenheit zum Knabbern. Hepzibah hatte kein natürliches Talent zum Kochen und, um die Wahrheit zu sagen, hatte sie sich ihr gegenwärtiges Magersein redlich verdient, indem sie oft beschloss, lieber auf ihr Mittagessen zu verzichten, anstatt sich der Drehung des Spießes oder dem Kochen im Topf widmen zu müssen. Ihr Eifer am Feuer war daher eine regelrechte Prüfung der Gefühle. Es war berührend und absolut tränenwert (wenn Phoebe, die einzige Zuschauerin, abgesehen von den bereits erwähnten Ratten und Geistern, sie nicht besser hätte beschäftigen können als mit dem Vergießen von Tränen), sie eine Schicht frischer glühender Kohlen ausräumen und beginnen zu brutzeln zu sehen. Ihre normalerweise blassen Wangen glühten vor Hitze und Eile. Sie beobachtete den Fisch mit ebenso liebevoller Sorgfalt und Aufmerksamkeit, als ob – wir wissen nicht, wie wir es anders ausdrücken sollen – als ob ihr eigenes Herz auf dem Grill liegt und ihr Glück in seiner perfekten Garung involviert wäre! Das Leben im Inneren bietet nur wenige angenehmere Aussichten als ein ordentlich gedeckter und gut bestückter Frühstückstisch. Wir kommen frisch, in der taufrischen Jugend des Tages, und wenn unsere geistigen und sinnlichen Elemente in besserer Übereinstimmung sind als zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt; so dass die materiellen Freuden des Morgenmahls voll genossen werden können, ohne allzu schwerwiegende Vorwürfe, sei es gastrischer oder gewissensbegründeter Art, dass wir uns dem tierischen Teil unserer Natur etwas zu sehr hingeben. Auch die Gedanken, die bei der Runde der vertrauten Gäste aufkommen, haben eine Pikanz und Fröhlichkeit und oft eine lebendige Wahrheit, die nicht so häufig in den elaborierten Unterhaltungen beim Abendessen vorkommen. Hepzibahs kleiner und alter Tisch, der auf seinen schlanken und anmutigen Beinen steht und mit einem Tuch aus reichster Damast bedeckt ist, sah so aus, als ob er der Schauplatz und Mittelpunkt einer der fröhlichsten Gesellschaften sein könnte. Der Dampf des gegrillten Fisches stieg wie Weihrauch von einem Barbarenidol auf, während der Duft des Mokkas die Nasen eines göttlichen Lar, oder welcher Macht auch immer über einen modernen Frühstückstisch verfügen mag, erfreut haben könnte. Phoebes Indianerkuchen waren das süßeste aller Geschenke, in ihrer Farbe passend zu den ländlichen Altären des unschuldigen und goldenen Zeitalters, oder so leuchtend gelb, dass sie einigen der Brote ähnelten, die in glänzendes Gold verwandelt wurden, als Midas versuchte, es zu essen. Die Butter darf nicht vergessen werden – Butter, die Phoebe selbst in ihrem ländlichen Zuhause geschlagen hatte und als Friedensangebot ihrem Cousin brachte – der nach Kleeblüten roch und den Charme ländlicher Szenen durch das dunkel getäfelte Wohnzimmer verbreitete. All das zusammen mit dem skurrilen Prunk des alten Porzellangeschirrs und den gekrönten Löffeln und einer silbernen Sahnegießkanne (Hepzibahs einziges anderes Stück aus Silber, das wie ein primitives Töpfchen geformt war), bildete einen Tisch, bei dem selbst der würdigste Gast von Colonel Pyncheon nicht darauf verzichtet hätte, seinen Platz einzunehmen. Aber das Gesicht des Puritaners verzog sich auf dem Bild, als ob ihm nichts auf dem Tisch seinen Appetit befriedigte. Um so viel Anmut wie möglich beizusteuern, sammelte Phoebe einige Rosen und ein paar andere Blumen, die entweder Duft oder Schönheit besaßen, und arrangierte sie in einem Glaskrug, der schon vor langer Zeit seinen Henkel verloren hatte und daher umso besser als Blumenvase geeignet war. Das frühe Sonnenlicht – so frisch wie dasjenige, das in Evas Laube hineinlugte, während sie und Adam dort frühstückten – schimmerte durch die Zweige des Birnbaums und fiel direkt über den Tisch. Alles war nun bereit. Es gab Stühle und Teller für drei. Ein Stuhl und Teller für Hepzibah – dasselbe für Phoebe – aber auf welchen anderen Gast wartete ihre Cousine? Während dieser Vorbereitung hatte es kontinuierlich ein beständiges Zittern in Hepzibahs Körper gegeben; eine Erregung, die so stark war, dass Phoebe das Zittern ihres mageren Schattens sehen konnte, der vom Feuerschein an der Küchenwand geworfen wurde oder vom Sonnenlicht auf dem Parkettboden. Die Erscheinungen waren so vielfältig und stimmten so wenig überein, dass das Mädchen nicht wusste, was sie davon halten sollte. Manchmal schien es eine Ekstase der Freude und des Glücks zu sein. In solchen Momenten würde Hepzibah ihre Arme ausbreiten und Phoebe in sie einschließen und ihre Wange so zärtlich küssen, wie es ihre Mutter früher getan hatte; sie schien dies aus einem unvermeidlichen Impuls heraus zu tun, als ob ihre Brust von Zärtlichkeit bedrängt wäre, von der sie ein wenig ausschütten müsste, um Luft zu holen. Im nächsten Moment, ohne sichtbaren Grund für die Veränderung, wich ihre ungewohnte Freude zurück, erschrocken, sozusagen, und hüllte sich in Trauer; oder sie rannte weg und versteckte sich gewissermaßen im Kerker ihres Herzens, wo sie schon lange gekettet gelegen hatte, während eine kalte, spektrale Trauer den Platz der eingesperrten Freude einnahm, die Angst hatte, befreit zu werden - eine Trauer, so schwarz wie die Freude strahlend war. Oft brach sie in ein kleines, nervöses, hysterisches Lachen aus, das noch ergreifender war als Tränen; und sogleich, als ob sie ausprobieren wollte, was bewegender war, folgte ein Schwall von Tränen; oder vielleicht kamen Lachen und Tränen gleichzeitig und umgaben unsere arme Hepzibah in einem moralischen Sinn mit einer Art blasser, schwacher Regenbogenfarbe. Gegenüber Phoebe war sie, wie wir gesagt haben, liebevoll - viel zärtlicher als je zuvor in ihrer kurzen Bekanntschaft, abgesehen von diesem einen Kuss in der vorherigen Nacht -, aber ständig wiederkehrend mürrisch und gereizt. Sie sprach scharf zu ihr; dann, indem sie alle steife Zurückhaltung ihrer gewöhnlichen Art beiseite warf, bat sie um Verzeihung und erneuerte augenblicklich die gerade verziehene Verletzung. Schließlich nahm sie, als ihre gemeinsame Arbeit beendet war, Phoebes zitternde Hand in ihre eigene. "Hab Geduld mit mir, mein liebes Kind", rief sie. "Denn wahrlich, mein Herz ist bis zum Rand gefüllt! Hab Geduld; denn ich liebe dich, Phoebe, auch wenn ich so grob spreche. Denk nichts weiter davon, mein liebstes Kind! Bald werde ich freundlich und nur freundlich sein!" "Liebste Cousine, kannst du mir nicht sagen, was geschehen ist?", fragte Phoebe mit einer sonnigen und tränenreichen Mitgefühls. "Was bewegt dich nur so?" "Pssst! Pssst! Er kommt!" flüsterte Hepzibah und wischte sich hektisch die Augen. "Lass ihn dich zuerst sehen, Phoebe; denn du bist jung und rosig und kannst nicht anders, als ein Lächeln aufkommen zu lassen. Er mochte schon immer fröhliche Gesichter! Und meins ist jetzt alt und die Tränen darauf sind kaum getrocknet. Er konnte Tränen nie ertragen. Hier; zieh den Vorhang ein wenig zu, damit der Schatten auf seine Seite des Tisches fällt! Aber lass auch viel Sonnenschein herein; denn er mochte keine Dunkelheit, so wie manche Leute. Er hatte in seinem Leben nur wenig Sonnenschein - der arme Clifford - und oh, welcher schwarze Schatten. Der arme, arme Clifford!" Während sie das in einem leisen Ton murmeln, als ob sie eher zu ihrem eigenen Herzen als zu Phoebe spräche, trat die alte Dame auf Zehenspitzen durch das Zimmer und machte die notwendigen Vorkehrungen, die sich ihr in dieser Krise zeigten. In der Zwischenzeit hörte man eine Schritt im Flur, oben auf der Treppe. Phoebe erkannte ihn als denselben, der in der Nacht wie in einem Traum an ihr vorbeigegangen war. Der kommende Gast, wer immer es sein mochte, schien am Kopf der Treppe innezuhalten; er hielt zwei- oder dreimal beim Abstieg inne; er hielt wieder am Fuß der Treppe. Jedes Mal schien die Verzögerung zwecklos zu sein, sondern vielmehr auf einem Vergessen des Zwecks zu beruhen, der ihn in Bewegung gesetzt hatte, oder als ob die Füße der Person unfreiwillig stehenbleiben würden, weil die Antriebskraft zu schwach war, um ihren Fortschritt aufrechtzuerhalten. Schließlich machte er eine lange Pause an der Türschwelle des Salons. Er ergriff den Türknauf und ließ ihn dann locker, ohne die Tür zu öffnen. Hepzibah, ihre Hände krampfhaft verschränkt, stand da und starrte den Eingang an. "Liebe Cousine Hepzibah, bitte sieh nicht so aus!" sagte Phoebe, zitternd; denn die Bewegung ihrer Cousine und dieser mysteriöse zögerliche Schritt machten sie das Gefühl haben, als würde ein Geist in den Raum kommen. "Du erschreckst mich wirklich! Geht irgendetwas Schreckliches passieren?" "Pssst!" flüsterte Hepzibah. "Sei fröhlich! Was auch immer passieren mag, sei bloß fröhlich!" Die endgültige Pause an der Türschwelle dauerte so lange, dass Hepzibah, die die Spannung nicht ertragen konnte, vorstürmte, die Tür aufschlug und den Fremden an der Hand herein führte. Beim ersten Blick sah Phoebe eine ältere Person in einem altmodischen, verblichenen Damast-Morgenmantel, der sein graues oder fast weißes Haar außergewöhnlich lang trug. Es verdeckte fast seine Stirn, außer wenn er es zurückwarf und verwirrt in den Raum starrte. Nach einer sehr kurzen Inspektion seines Gesichts war es leicht vorstellbar, dass sein Schritt zwangsläufig so sein musste, wie derjenige, der ihn mit einer so unbestimmten Absicht langsam und mit einem Ziel so undefiniert wie der erste Schritt eines Kindes über den Boden hierher geführt hatte. Doch es gab keine Anzeichen dafür, dass seine körperliche Stärke nicht ausgereicht haben könnte, um einen freien und entschlossenen Gang auszuführen. Es war der Geist des Mannes, der nicht gehen konnte. Der Ausdruck in seinem Gesicht - obwohl er trotz des vernünftigen Lichts darin zu schwanken und zu flackern schien und fast verlosch und schwach abnahm und schwach wiedererlangte - schien wie eine Flamme, die wir sehen, die unter halbausgelöschter Glut flackert; wir starrten intensiver darauf als wenn es eine leuchtende Flamme wäre, die lebhaft emporsteigt - intensiver, aber mit einer gewissen Ungeduld, als ob es sich entweder selbst entzünden und in ausreichender Pracht aufgehen oder sofort erlöschen sollte. Einen Augenblick nachdem er den Raum betreten hatte, blieb der Gast stehen und hielt instinktiv Hepzibahs Hand fest, wie ein Kind die Hand einer erwachsenen Person, die es führt. Aber er sah Phoebe und ließ sich von ihrem jugendlichen und angenehmen Aussehen erleuchten, was tatsächlich eine Fröhlichkeit um den Salon herum verbreitete, wie der Reflex der Helligkeit um die Glasschale mit Blumen, die im Sonnenschein stand. Er verbeugte sich, oder um genauer zu sein, machte er einen undeutlichen, misslungenen Versuch, einen Knicks zu machen. Obwohl er unvollkommen war, vermittelte er doch eine Idee oder zumindest eine Andeutung einer unaussprechlichen Anmut, wie sie keine geübte äußerliche Höflichkeit erreichen konnte. Es war zu wenig, um es im Moment zu erfassen; aber später erinnerte man sich daran, dass es den ganzen Mann zu verwandeln schien. "Liebe Clifford", sagte Hepzibah in dem Ton, mit dem man ein eigenwilliges Kind beruhigt, "das ist unsere Cousine Phoebe Der Gast setzte sich an den zugewiesenen Platz und sah sich seltsam um. Offensichtlich versuchte er, mit der gegenwärtigen Szene zu ringen und sie mit einer zufriedenstellenderen Genauigkeit zu erfassen. Er wollte zumindest sicher sein, dass er hier war, im niedrigen, balkenverzierten, mit Eichenholz verkleideten Salon, und nicht an einem anderen Ort, der sich in seinen Sinnen eingeprägt hatte. Aber der Versuch war zu groß, um mit mehr als einem bruchstückhaften Erfolg aufrechterhalten zu werden. Fortwährend, wie wir es ausdrücken können, löste er sich aus seiner Position auf; oder mit anderen Worten, sein Verstand und Bewusstsein brachen auf und ließen seine verbrauchte, graue und melancholische Gestalt – eine substantielle Leere, ein materielles Geisterwesen – an seinem Tischplatz zurück. Wieder gab es nach einem kurzen Moment einen flackernden Funken in seinen Augen. Es deutete darauf hin, dass sein spiritueller Teil zurückgekehrt war und sein Bestes tat, um das häusliche Feuer des Herzens zu entfachen und intellektuelle Lichter in der dunklen und heruntergekommenen Wohnung anzuzünden, in der es dazu verdammt war, ein verlassener Bewohner zu sein. In einem dieser weniger träge, aber immer noch unvollkommenen Momente wurde Phoebe von dem übertriebenen und aufregenden Gedanken überzeugt, den sie zuerst zurückgewiesen hatte. Sie erkannte, dass die Person vor ihr das Original des schönen Miniaturporträts sein musste, das in Besitz ihrer Cousine Hepzibah war. Tatsächlich hatte sie mit ihrem weiblichen Blick für Kostüme sofort den Damast-Bademantel identifiziert, in den er gehüllt war, als denselben in Figur, Material und Mode, der so aufwendig auf dem Bild dargestellt war. Dieses alte, verblasste Kleidungsstück, dessen ursprünglicher Glanz erloschen war, schien auf unbeschreibliche Weise das unermessliche Unglück des Trägers zu verdeutlichen und es dem Auge des Betrachters sichtbar zu machen. Es wurde durch diesen äußeren Ausdruck umso besser erkannt, wie abgenutzt und alt die unmittelbaren Kleider der Seele waren; die Form und das Gesicht, dessen Schönheit und Anmut fast die Fähigkeiten der raffiniertesten Künstler überstiegen hatten. Es konnte umso besser erkannt werden, dass die Seele des Mannes von seinen irdischen Erfahrungen irgendein elendes Unrecht erlitten haben musste. Dort schien er zu sitzen, mit einem düsteren Schleier von Verfall und Ruin zwischen ihm und der Welt, aber durch den, in flüchtigen Momenten, derselbe Ausdruck eingefangen werden konnte, so raffiniert, so weich imaginiert, den Malbone - mit angehaltenem Atem ein glücklicher Pinselstrich - dem Porträt verliehen hatte! Es war etwas so angeboren Charakteristisches an diesem Blick, dass alle dunklen Jahre und die Last der ungeeigneten Katastrophe, die auf ihn gefallen war, nicht ausreichten, um ihn vollständig zu zerstören. Hepzibah hatte nun eine Tasse köstlich duftenden Kaffees eingeschenkt und sie ihrem Gast überreicht. Als sich ihre Blicke trafen, schien er verwirrt und beunruhigt zu sein. "Bist du das, Hepzibah?", murmelte er traurig, dann, mehr für sich allein und vielleicht unbemerkt, dass man ihn belauschte, "Wie verändert! Wie verändert! Und ist sie wütend auf mich? Warum runzelt sie die Stirn?" Arme Hepzibah! Es war diese verhasste Stirnrunzeln, die sich durch die Zeit, ihre Kurzsichtigkeit und den Ärger des innerlichen Unbehagens so zur Gewohnheit geworden waren, dass jede Stimmungsausbruch es hervorrief. Aber bei den undeutlichen Worten wurde ihr ganzes Gesicht zart und sogar liebenswert, von einer betrübenden Zuneigung durchströmt; die Rauheit ihrer Gesichtszüge verschwand gewissermaßen hinter dem warmen und nebligen Schein. "Wütend!" wiederholte sie. "Wütend auf dich, Clifford!" Ihr Ton hatte eine klagende und wirklich exquisit klingende Melodie, ohne jedoch etwas zu mildern, was ein stumpfer Hörer immer noch für Schärfe hätte halten können. Es war, als würde ein transzendenter Musiker eine seelenberührende Süße aus einem beschädigten Instrument ziehen, das seine physische Unvollkommenheit inmitten ätherischer Harmonie hörbar macht - so tief war die Empfindsamkeit, die in Hepzibahs Stimme einen Klangkörper fand! "Es ist hier nur Liebe, Clifford", fügte sie hinzu. "Nur Liebe! Du bist zu Hause!" Der Gast reagierte auf ihren Ton mit einem Lächeln, das sein Gesicht nicht ganz erhellte. Schwach wie es war, und in einem Moment verschwunden, hatte es einen wunderbaren Charme. Es wurde von einem groberen Ausdruck gefolgt oder einem, der auf den feinen Guss und die Kontur seines Gesichts die Wirkung von Rohheit hatte, weil ihm nichts Intellektuelles entgegenwirkte. Es war ein Ausdruck des Appetits. Er aß das Essen mit fast schon Gier und schien sich selbst, Hepzibah, das junge Mädchen und alles andere um ihn herum in der sinnlichen Freude zu vergessen, die der üppig gedeckte Tisch bot. In seinem natürlichen Wesen, obwohl hoch entwickelt und fein raffiniert, war wahrscheinlich eine Empfindlichkeit für die Freuden des Gaumens angeboren. Es wäre jedoch in Schach gehalten worden und hätte sogar in eine Fähigkeit umgewandelt werden können, eine von tausend Arten der geistigen Kultivierung, hätten seine ätherischen Eigenschaften ihre Kraft behalten. Aber wie es jetzt existierte, war der Effekt schmerzhaft und ließ Phoebe ihre Augen senken. Nach einer Weile wurde der Gast sich des Dufts des noch unberührten Kaffees bewusst. Er trank es gierig. Die subtile Essenz wirkte auf ihn wie ein verzauberter Schluck und ließ die trübe Substanz seines tierischen Wesens transparent oder zumindest durchscheinend werden, so dass ein spiritueller Glanz hindurchschien mit einem klareren Glanz als zuvor. "Mehr, mehr!" rief er hastig mit nervöser Eile in seiner Sprache, als ob er bestrebt wäre, seinen Griff auf das zu behalten, was zu entkommen drohte. "Das ist es, was ich brauche! Gib mir mehr!" Unter diesem subtilen und kraftvollen Einfluss saß er aufrechter und schaute aus seinen Augen mit einem Blick, der darauf achtete, worauf er sich richtete. Es war nicht so sehr, dass sein Ausdruck intelligenter wurde; auch wenn dies seinen Anteil hatte, war es nicht der eigentümlichste Effekt. Auch erwachte das, was wir die moralische Natur nennen, nicht so kraftvoll, dass es sich in bemerkenswerter Klarheit zeigte. Aber ein bestimmtes Feingefühl des Wesens wurde jetzt nicht vollständig und einheitlich offenbart, sondern wechselhaft und unvollkommen, von dem es die Aufgabe war, mit allem Schönen und Genießbaren umzugehen. In einem Charakter, in dem es als die Hauptmerkmal vorhanden sein sollte, würde es seinem Besitzer einen exquisiten Geschmack und eine beneidenswerte Empfänglichkeit für Glück verleihen. Schönheit wäre sein Leben; all seine Bestrebungen würden sich darauf richten; und wenn sein Körper und seine körperlichen Organe in Übereinstimmung wären, würden auch seine eigenen Entwicklungen schön sein. Ein solcher Mann sollte nichts mit Kummer zu tun haben; nichts mit Streit; nichts mit dem Martyrium, das in unendlicher Vielfalt auf diejenigen wartet, die das Herz, den Willen und das Gewissen haben, einen Kampf mit der Welt auszufechten. Für solche heroischen Tempos ist dieses Martyrium der reichste Lohn, den die Welt zu bieten hat. Für den Einzelnen vor uns konnte es nur eine Trauer sein, die in angemessenem Verhältnis zur Schwere der Bestrafung lag. Er hatte kein Recht, ein Märtyrer zu sein; und wenn man ihn so glücklich und für alle anderen Zwecke so schwach betrachtet, wäre ein großzügiger, starker und edler Geist, denke ich, bereit gewesen, auf das Nicht, um es rau oder verächtlich auszusprechen, schien es Clifford's Natur, ein Sybaris zu sein. Es war wahrnehmbar, selbst dort, im dunklen alten Wohnzimmer, in der unvermeidlichen Polarität, mit der seine Augen von den zitternden Sonnenstrahlen durch das schattige Laub angezogen wurden. Es zeigte sich in seiner wertschätzenden Beachtung der Blumenvase, deren Duft er mit einer fast eigentümlichen Begeisterung einatmete, die einer körperlichen Organisation eigen ist, die so verfeinert ist, dass spirituelle Bestandteile damit verbunden sind. Es wurde verraten durch das unbewusste Lächeln, mit dem er Phoebe betrachtete, deren frische und mädchenhafte Gestalt sowohl Sonnenschein als auch Blumen war – deren Essenz, in einer hübscheren und angenehmeren Art und Weise der Manifestation. Nicht minder evident war diese Liebe und das Bedürfnis nach Schönheit in der instinktiven Vorsicht, mit der seine Augen bereits so früh von der Gastgeberin abwanderten und sichlieber in eine andere Richtung richteten. Es war Hepzibah's Unglück – nicht Clifford's Schuld. Wie konnte er, so wie sie aussah – so gelb, so faltig, so traurig in ihrem Ausdruck, mit dieser seltsamen Unbeholfenheit eines Turbans auf dem Kopf und dieser am meisten verdrehten Stirnfalte – wie konnte er es lieben, sie anzusehen? Aber verdankte er ihr keine Zuneigung für das, was sie schweigend gegeben hatte? Er schuldete ihr nichts. Eine Natur wie Clifford's kann keine Schulden dieser Art eingehen. Es ist – wir sagen es ohne Kritik, noch in Verkleinerung des Anspruchs, den sie unbestreitbar gegenüber Wesen anderer Art besitzt – in seinem Wesen immer egoistisch; und wir müssen ihm erlauben, dies zu sein und unsere heldenhafte und selbstlose Liebe umso mehr darauf anzuhäufen, ohne eine Belohnung zu erwarten. Arme Hepzibah wusste diese Wahrheit, oder handelte zumindest instinktiv danach. So lange von dem Schönen entfremdet wie Clifford war, freute sie sich – freute sich, wenn auch mit einem seufzenden Blick und einem geheimen Vorhaben, in ihrem eigenen Zimmer Tränen zu vergießen, dass er jetzt schönere Objekte vor seinen Augen hatte als ihre gealterten und hässlichen Züge. Sie besaßen niemals einen Reiz; und wenn sie es hätten, hätte der Krebs ihres Kummers um ihn sie längst zerstört. Der Gast lehnte sich in seinem Stuhl zurück. Vermischt mit einem träumerischen Vergnügen zeigte sein Gesicht einen besorgten Ausdruck von Anstrengung und Unruhe. Er versuchte, sich die Szene um ihn herum noch bewusster zu machen; oder vielleicht, in der Sorge, dass es ein Traum oder ein Spiel der Einbildungskraft sei, störte er den schönen Moment mit einem Kampf um zusätzlichen Glanz und eine beständigere Illusion. "Wie angenehm! Wie delightful!" murmelte er, aber nicht, als spräche er zu jemandem. "Wird es anhalten? Wie mild die Atmosphäre durch das offene Fenster! Ein offenes Fenster! Wie schön dieses Spiel der Sonne! Diese Blumen, wie sehr sie duften! Das Gesicht des jungen Mädchens, wie fröhlich, wie blühend! – wie eine Blume mit Tau darauf und Sonnenstrahlen in den Wassertropfen! Ah, das muss alles ein Traum sein! Ein Traum! Ein Traum! Aber er hat die vier Steinwände ganz verdeckt!" Dann verdunkelte sich sein Gesicht, als ob der Schatten einer Höhle oder eines Verlieses darauf gekommen wäre; die Ausdruckskraft verlor sich darin ebenso sehr, wie es durch die Gitterstäbe des Gefängnisfensters kommen könnte – noch mehr abnehmend, als ob er tiefer in die Tiefen sank. Phoebe (von jener Schnelligkeit und Aktivität im Temperament, dass sie sich selten lange davon abhielt, eine Rolle, und im Allgemeinen eine gute, bei dem, was vor sich ging, einzunehmen) fühlte sich nun dazu bewegt, den Fremden anzusprechen. "Hier ist eine neue Sorte Rose, die ich heute Morgen im Garten gefunden habe", sagte sie und wählte eine kleine rote aus den Blumen in der Vase aus. "Es werden nur fünf oder sechs an dem Busch sein in dieser Saison. Diese hier ist die vollkommenste von allen; kein Fleck von Schimmel oder Mehltau darauf. Und wie süß sie ist – süß wie keine andere Rose! Man kann diesen Duft nie vergessen!" "Oh! - lass mich sehen! - lass mich sie halten!" rief der Gast und ergriff gierig die Blume, die durch den Zauber der in Erinnerung gebliebenen Gerüche zahlreiche Assoziationen mit dem Duft mitbrachte, den sie verströmte. "Danke! Das hat mir gut getan. Ich erinnere mich, wie ich diese Blume früher geschätzt habe, - vor langer Zeit, nehme ich an, sehr lange her! - oder war es nur gestern? Sie lässt mich mich wieder jung fühlen! Bin ich jung? Entweder ist diese Erinnerung außergewöhnlich klar, oder dieses Bewusstsein seltsam schwach! Aber wie nett von dem jungen Mädchen! Danke! Danke!" Die positive Erregung, die dieser kleine rote Rosenstrauß Clifford verschaffte, war der hellste Moment, den er am Frühstückstisch genoss. Es hätte länger anhalten können, wenn seine Augen kurz darauf nicht zufällig auf das Gesicht des alten Puritaners gefallen wären, der aus seinem schmutzigen Rahmen und der stumpfen Leinwand auf die Szene hinunterblickte wie ein Geist, und zwar ein sehr missmutiger und ungeselliger. Der Gast machte eine ungeduldige Handbewegung und wandte sich skeptisch an Hepzibah, mit dem ihm eigenen gereizten Verhalten, das er als herangezogenes Mitglied der Familie besaß. "Hepzibah! - Hepzibah!" rief er mit einiger Kraft und Deutlichkeit. "Warum behältst du dieses abscheuliche Bild an der Wand? Ja, ja! - das ist genau dein Geschmack! Ich habe dir tausendmal gesagt, dass es der böse Genius des Hauses ist! - Mein böser Genius im Speziellen! Nimm es sofort ab!" "Lieber Clifford", sagte Hepzibah traurig, "du weißt, dass das nicht möglich ist!" "Dann wenigstens", fuhr er fort, immer noch mit einiger Energie sprechend, "bitte es mit einem roten Vorhang zu verdecken, der breit genug ist, um in Falten zu hängen, und mit einem goldenen Rand und Quasten. Ich ertrage es nicht! Es darf mir nicht ins Gesicht starren!" "Ja, lieber Clifford, das Bild wird verdeckt sein", sagte Hepzibah beschwichtigend. "Es gibt einen roten Vorhang in einer Truhe oben auf dem Dachboden - ein wenig verblasst und vom Mottenfraß betroffen, fürchte ich, aber Phoebe und ich werden Wunder damit vollbringen." "Heute noch", sagte er und fügte dann in einer leisen, mit sich selbst sprechenden Stimme hinzu: "Warum sollten wir überhaupt in diesem düsteren Haus wohnen? Warum nicht in den Süden von Frankreich gehen? - nach Italien? - Paris, Neapel, Venedig, Rom? Hepzibah wird sagen, dass wir nicht die Mittel dazu haben. Eine komische Idee!" Er lächelte vor sich hin und warf Hepzibah einen Blick von feinem, sarkastischem Sinn zu. Aber die verschiedenen Gefühlsstimmungen, so zart sie auch markiert waren, durch die er in so kurzer Zeit ging, hatten den Fremden offenbar ermüdet. Er war wahrscheinlich an eine traurige Eintönigkeit des Lebens gewöhnt, die sich nicht so sehr in einem Fluss bewegte, wie auch immer träge er sein mochte, sondern in einem Pool Es war sehr bemerkenswert, mit welcher herausragenden Klarheit - als ob ein schwaches Bild plötzlich von der Leinwand springen würde - Cliffords Charakter durch diese scheinbar nebensächliche Ärgernis gezeigt wurde. Das Geheimnis war, dass eine Person seines Temperaments immer stärker durch sein Empfinden für Schönheit und Harmonie verletzt werden kann als durch sein Herz. Es ist sogar möglich - ähnliche Fälle sind schon oft passiert -, dass, wenn Clifford in seinem vorherigen Leben die Möglichkeit gehabt hätte, seinen Geschmack bis zur Vollendung zu entwickeln, diese subtile Eigenschaft seine Gefühle bereits vollständig ausgelöscht oder abgefeilt haben könnte. Sollten wir also wagen zu behaupten, dass seine lange und tiefe Tragödie am Ende vielleicht doch einen winzigen Tropfen Gnade enthält? "Lieber Clifford, ich wünschte, ich könnte das Geräusch aus deinen Ohren fernhalten", sagte Hepzibah geduldig, aber mit einem schmerzhaften Schamgefühl, das ihr die Wangen rötete. "Es ist sogar mir sehr unangenehm. Aber weißt du, Clifford, ich habe etwas zu sagen. Dieses hässliche Geräusch - bitte, lauf, Phoebe, und schau, wer da ist! - dieses böse kleine Klingeln ist nichts anderes als unsere Ladenglocke!" "Ladenglocke!", wiederholte Clifford mit einem verwirrten Blick. "Ja, unsere Ladenglocke", sagte Hepzibah, wobei sich nun eine gewisse natürliche Würde mit tiefer Emotion in ihrer Art zu sprechen zeigte. "Denn du musst wissen, liebster Clifford, dass wir sehr arm sind. Und es gab keine andere Möglichkeit, außer entweder Hilfe von einer Hand anzunehmen, die ich beiseite schieben würde (und du auch!), wenn sie uns Brot anbieten würde, wenn wir darum am Verhungern wären - keine Hilfe außer von ihm, oder aber unseren Lebensunterhalt mit eigenen Händen zu verdienen! Allein hätte ich es in Kauf genommen zu hungern. Aber du solltest zu mir zurückgebracht werden! Glaubst du also, lieber Clifford", fügte sie mit einem elenden Lächeln hinzu, "dass ich dem alten Haus eine unwiederbringliche Schande bereitet habe, indem ich einen kleinen Laden im vorderen Giebel eröffnet habe? Unser Ururgroßvater hat das auch gemacht, damals, als es viel weniger nötig war! Schämst du dich meiner?" "Scham! Schande! Sprichst du diese Worte zu mir, Hepzibah?", sagte Clifford - aber nicht ärgerlich. Denn wenn der Geist eines Menschen vollständig gebrochen ist, mag er über kleine Vergehen ungehalten sein, aber niemals über große. So sprach er nur mit betrübter Emotion. "Es war nicht nett, das zu sagen, Hepzibah! Welche Schande kann mich jetzt noch treffen?" Dann brach der erschütterte Mann - er, der zur Freude geboren, aber einem so elenden Schicksal begegnet war - in eine frauenhafte Leidenschaftsträne aus. Sie dauerte jedoch nur kurz an und ließ ihn bald in einem ruhigen Zustand zurück, der, seinem Gesichtsausdruck nach zu urteilen, nicht unangenehm war. Aus dieser Stimmung heraus nahm er für einen Moment teilweise wieder seine Haltung ein und lächelte Hepzibah an, dessen scharfer, halb spöttischer Sinn ihr ein Rätsel war. "Sind wir denn so arm, Hepzibah?", sagte er. Schließlich schlief Clifford ein, da sein Sessel tief und weich gepolstert war. Während sie das regelmäßigere Auf und Ab seines Atems hörte (der jedoch auch damals, anstatt stark und kräftig zu sein, eine schwache Art von Zittern hatte, das seiner mangelnden Energie entsprach) - während sie diese Zeichen des festen Schlafs hörte, ergriff Hepzibah die Gelegenheit, sein Gesicht aufmerksamer zu betrachten, als sie es bisher gewagt hatte. Ihr Herz zerging in Tränen; ihr tiefstes Wesen sendete eine klagende Stimme aus, leise, sanft, aber unaussprechlich traurig. In diesem tiefen Schmerz und Mitleid fühlte sie, dass es keine Respektlosigkeit war, seinen veränderten, gealterten, verblassten, zerstörten Gesicht anzuschauen. Doch kaum hatte sie ein wenig Erleichterung empfunden, plagte sie ihr Gewissen dafür, dass sie neugierig auf ihn starrte, jetzt da er so verändert war; und sie ließ schnell den Vorhang über dem sonnigen Fenster herunter und ließ Clifford dort schlummern. Könnt ihr eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Gastgeberin Phoebe wacht auf und findet Hepzibah unten, tief in ein Kochbuch vertieft. Hepzibah beschließt, einen Makrelenfisch von einem auf der Straße entlanggehenden Fischhändler zu kaufen und sofort mit dem Kochen zu beginnen. Phoebe, überrascht von Hepzibahs plötzlicher Energie, hilft beim Zubereiten des großen Frühstücks. Während des Kochens befindet sich Hepzibah auf einer emotionalen Achterbahnfahrt und umarmt Phoebe in einer Minute freudig und bricht in der nächsten in Tränen aus. Phoebe ist überrascht, drei gedeckte Plätze für die Mahlzeit zu sehen, und als sie die Geräusche ihres lang erwarteten Gastes hören, bittet Hepzibah sie, egal was passiert, fröhlich zu sein. Schließlich, mit Hepzibahs Unterstützung, tritt ihr Gast, Hepzibahs lange abwesender Bruder Clifford, herein. Er wandelt verwirrt herum, spricht seine Schwester in der dritten Person an und obwohl er von Phoebe sehr angetan ist, kann er sie kaum in der Familie einordnen. Phoebe erkennt ihn schließlich als den Mann wieder, dessen Miniaturporträt Hepzibah in ihrer Schublade aufbewahrt. Clifford isst gierig sein Essen, aber er kann seiner Schwester nicht ins Gesicht sehen und wirft immer wieder einen Blick umher, um nicht auf die Hässlichkeit von Hepzibahs Stirnrunzeln schauen zu müssen. Nach dem Frühstück beginnt Clifford, den Raum zu erkunden. Es wird offensichtlich, dass er trotz seiner Gebrechlichkeit im Herzen ein Genussmensch ist, der sein Leben den sinnlichen Freuden von Anblick, Klang und Berührung widmet. Clifford erfreut sich besonders an dem alten Haus und dem angenehmen Anblick von Phoebe. Als er jedoch das alte Porträt von Colonel Pyncheon entdeckt, schreckt Clifford vor Schreck zurück und bittet darum, es zu entfernen. Hepzibah antwortet, dass sie, wie Clifford sehr wohl weiß, so etwas nicht tun kann, aber sie erklärt sich stattdessen bereit, es mit einem Tuch zu bedecken. Das plötzliche Klingeln der Ladenglocke beunruhigt Clifford sehr. Hepzibah erklärt ihm, dass sich die Zeiten geändert haben und sie jetzt so arm sind, dass sie zum Betreiben eines Ladens gezwungen wurde. Sie sorgt sich, dass sie damit Schande über die Familie gebracht hat, aber Clifford antwortet, dass er nicht weiter beschämt werden kann und sich nicht von Hepzibahs Beruf stören lässt. Er weint jedoch über die Trümmer seines Lebens. Schließlich schläft er in seinem Stuhl ein, während Hepzibah sein Gesicht betrachtet und stille Tränen vergießt.

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. Adam kniete sich wieder hin, um Arthurs Kopf zu heben. Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more--he was too painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to wish for any further explanation to-night. And yet it was a relief to him that Adam reopened the subject in a way the least difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the wretched position of an open, generous man who has committed an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The native impulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with frank confession, must be suppressed, and duty was becoming a question of tactics. His deed was reacting upon him--was already governing him tyrannously and forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitual feelings. The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to deceive Adam to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved. And when he heard the words of honest retractation--when he heard the sad appeal with which Adam ended--he was obliged to rejoice in the remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answer immediately, for he had to be judicious and not truthful. "Say no more about our anger, Adam," he said, at last, very languidly, for the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; "I forgive your momentary injustice--it was quite natural, with the exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall be none the worse friends in future, I hope, because we've fought. You had the best of it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I've been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shake hands." Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still. "I don't like to say 'No' to that, sir," he said, "but I can't shake hands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was wrong when I spoke as if you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong in what I said before, about your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't shake hands with you as if I held you my friend the same as ever till you've cleared that up better." Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his hand. He was silent for some moments, and then said, as indifferently as he could, "I don't know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I've told you already that you think too seriously of a little flirtation. But if you are right in supposing there is any danger in it--I'm going away on Saturday, and there will be an end of it. As for the pain it has given you, I'm heartily sorry for it. I can say no more." Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his face towards one of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of the moonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but the conflict within him. It was of no use now--his resolution not to speak till to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it was several minutes before he turned round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing and looking down on him as he lay. "It'll be better for me to speak plain," he said, with evident effort, "though it's hard work. You see, sir, this isn't a trifle to me, whatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go making love first to one woman and then t' another, and don't think it much odds which of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a different sort o' love, such as I believe nobody can know much about but them as feel it and God as has given it to 'em. She's more nor everything else to me, all but my conscience and my good name. And if it's true what you've been saying all along--and if it's only been trifling and flirting as you call it, as 'll be put an end to by your going away--why, then, I'd wait, and hope her heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speak false to me, and I'll believe your word, however things may look." "You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it," said Arthur, almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving away. But he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying, more feebly, "You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputations upon her." "Nay, sir," Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were half-relieved--for he was too straightforward to make a distinction between a direct falsehood and an indirect one--"Nay, sir, things don't lie level between Hetty and you. You're acting with your eyes open, whatever you may do; but how do you know what's been in her mind? She's all but a child--as any man with a conscience in him ought to feel bound to take care on. And whatever you may think, I know you've disturbed her mind. I know she's been fixing her heart on you, for there's a many things clear to me now as I didn't understand before. But you seem to make light o' what she may feel--you don't think o' that." "Good God, Adam, let me alone!" Arthur burst out impetuously; "I feel it enough without your worrying me." He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped him. "Well, then, if you feel it," Adam rejoined, eagerly; "if you feel as you may ha' put false notions into her mind, and made her believe as you loved her, when all the while you meant nothing, I've this demand to make of you--I'm not speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t' undeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't going away for ever, and if you leave her behind with a notion in her head o' your feeling about her the same as she feels about you, she'll be hankering after you, and the mischief may get worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save her pain i' th' end. I ask you to write a letter--you may trust to my seeing as she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself for behaving as you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't your equal. I speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way. There's nobody can take care o' Hetty in this thing but me." "I can do what I think needful in the matter," said Arthur, more and more irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, "without giving promises to you. I shall take what measures I think proper." "No," said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, "that won't do. I must know what ground I'm treading on. I must be safe as you've put an end to what ought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget what's owing to you as a gentleman, but in this thing we're man and man, and I can't give up." There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, "I'll see you to-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm ill." He rose as he spoke, and reached his cap, as if intending to go. "You won't see her again!" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurring anger and suspicion, moving towards the door and placing his back against it. "Either tell me she can never be my wife--tell me you've been lying--or else promise me what I've said." Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate before Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and now stopped, faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of them--that inward struggle of Arthur's--before he said, feebly, "I promise; let me go." Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached the step, he stopped again and leaned against the door-post. "You're not well enough to walk alone, sir," said Adam. "Take my arm again." Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following. But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, "I believe I must trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may be an alarm set up about me at home." Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till they came where the basket and the tools lay. "I must pick up the tools, sir," Adam said. "They're my brother's. I doubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to wait a minute." Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed between them till they were at the side entrance, where he hoped to get in without being seen by any one. He said then, "Thank you; I needn't trouble you any further." "Um wie viel Uhr wäre es morgen für mich passend, Sie zu sehen, Herr?", sagte Adam. "Sie können mir Bescheid geben, dass Sie um fünf Uhr hier sind", sagte Arthur, "nicht früher." "Gute Nacht, Herr", sagte Adam. Aber er hörte keine Antwort; Arthur hatte sich ins Haus zurückgezogen. 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.

Nachdem er in qualvoller Spannung gewartet hatte, "bemerkte Adam ein Funkeln des Bewusstseins in Arthurs Gesicht". Arthur ist nicht in bester Verfassung. Adam überprüft, wie es ihm geht, bietet ihm Wasser an und überprüft dann noch einmal, wie es ihm geht. Besser ist es. Wie Arthur ihm sagt, "muss dieser Schlag von dir wie eine Rammbock auf mich eingewirkt haben". Bald hat sich Arthur genug erholt, um sich zu bewegen. Er und Adam ziehen in Arthurs Versteckhütte namens Hermitage um. Adam eilt hin und her, besorgt Arthur Brandy und andere Vorräte und ist im Allgemeinen "erleichtert, eine aktive Aufgabe zu haben". Die beiden Männer sind noch nicht freundlich zueinander, aber ihre schlimmsten Gefühle lassen nach. Adam fühlt, dass er "in seinen eigenen Worten ungerecht war". All diese Sachen darüber, wie Arthur ein Schurke ist. Arthur seinerseits möchte nach Hause gehen, bevor alles noch schlimmer wird – bevor seine schlimmsten Instinkte ihn "verleiten, Adam bis zum Äußersten zu täuschen". Aber Arthur versucht, eine Versöhnung zu erzwingen. Adam will davon nichts wissen. Er entscheidet, dass Arthur für einen Tag genug klare Worte gehört hat, und erzählt ihm, wie verletzt er ist. Er liebt Hetty, verdammt noch mal! Und hier ist Arthur mit seinem "Flirten und Herumalbern", das alles durcheinander bringt. Adam sagt Arthur, dass er Hetty einen Brief schreiben und die ganze Sache beenden soll. Die beiden Männer verlassen die Hermitage nicht im besten Zustand, aber nicht mehr in der Stimmung für den Kampf zwischen Rocky und Apollo Creed aus dem letzten Kapitel. Mit Adams Hilfe geht Arthur zittrig nach Hause.

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 ALL the way home from Maine, Babbitt was certain that he was a changed man. He was converted to serenity. He was going to cease worrying about business. He was going to have more "interests"--theaters, public affairs, reading. And suddenly, as he finished an especially heavy cigar, he was going to stop smoking. He invented a new and perfect method. He would buy no tobacco; he would depend on borrowing it; and, of course, he would be ashamed to borrow often. In a spasm of righteousness he flung his cigar-case out of the smoking-compartment window. He went back and was kind to his wife about nothing in particular; he admired his own purity, and decided, "Absolutely simple. Just a matter of will-power." He started a magazine serial about a scientific detective. Ten miles on, he was conscious that he desired to smoke. He ducked his head, like a turtle going into its shell; he appeared uneasy; he skipped two pages in his story and didn't know it. Five miles later, he leaped up and sought the porter. "Say, uh, George, have you got a--" The porter looked patient. "Have you got a time-table?" Babbitt finished. At the next stop he went out and bought a cigar. Since it was to be his last before he reached Zenith, he finished it down to an inch stub. Four days later he again remembered that he had stopped smoking, but he was too busy catching up with his office-work to keep it remembered. II Baseball, he determined, would be an excellent hobby. "No sense a man's working his fool head off. I'm going out to the Game three times a week. Besides, fellow ought to support the home team." He did go and support the team, and enhance the glory of Zenith, by yelling "Attaboy!" and "Rotten!" He performed the rite scrupulously. He wore a cotton handkerchief about his collar; he became sweaty; he opened his mouth in a wide loose grin; and drank lemon soda out of a bottle. He went to the Game three times a week, for one week. Then he compromised on watching the Advocate-Times bulletin-board. He stood in the thickest and steamiest of the crowd, and as the boy up on the lofty platform recorded the achievements of Big Bill Bostwick, the pitcher, Babbitt remarked to complete strangers, "Pretty nice! Good work!" and hastened back to the office. He honestly believed that he loved baseball. It is true that he hadn't, in twenty-five years, himself played any baseball except back-lot catch with Ted--very gentle, and strictly limited to ten minutes. But the game was a custom of his clan, and it gave outlet for the homicidal and sides-taking instincts which Babbitt called "patriotism" and "love of sport." As he approached the office he walked faster and faster, muttering, "Guess better hustle." All about him the city was hustling, for hustling's sake. Men in motors were hustling to pass one another in the hustling traffic. Men were hustling to catch trolleys, with another trolley a minute behind, and to leap from the trolleys, to gallop across the sidewalk, to hurl themselves into buildings, into hustling express elevators. Men in dairy lunches were hustling to gulp down the food which cooks had hustled to fry. Men in barber shops were snapping, "Jus' shave me once over. Gotta hustle." Men were feverishly getting rid of visitors in offices adorned with the signs, "This Is My Busy Day" and "The Lord Created the World in Six Days--You Can Spiel All You Got to Say in Six Minutes." Men who had made five thousand, year before last, and ten thousand last year, were urging on nerve-yelping bodies and parched brains so that they might make twenty thousand this year; and the men who had broken down immediately after making their twenty thousand dollars were hustling to catch trains, to hustle through the vacations which the hustling doctors had ordered. Among them Babbitt hustled back to his office, to sit down with nothing much to do except see that the staff looked as though they were hustling. III Every Saturday afternoon he hustled out to his country club and hustled through nine holes of golf as a rest after the week's hustle. In Zenith it was as necessary for a Successful Man to belong to a country club as it was to wear a linen collar. Babbitt's was the Outing Golf and Country Club, a pleasant gray-shingled building with a broad porch, on a daisy-starred cliff above Lake Kennepoose. There was another, the Tonawanda Country Club, to which belonged Charles McKelvey, Horace Updike, and the other rich men who lunched not at the Athletic but at the Union Club. Babbitt explained with frequency, "You couldn't hire me to join the Tonawanda, even if I did have a hundred and eighty bucks to throw away on the initiation fee. At the Outing we've got a bunch of real human fellows, and the finest lot of little women in town--just as good at joshing as the men--but at the Tonawanda there's nothing but these would-be's in New York get-ups, drinking tea! Too much dog altogether. Why, I wouldn't join the Tonawanda even if they--I wouldn't join it on a bet!" When he had played four or five holes, he relaxed a bit, his tobacco-fluttering heart beat more normally, and his voice slowed to the drawling of his hundred generations of peasant ancestors. IV At least once a week Mr. and Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went to the movies. Their favorite motion-picture theater was the Chateau, which held three thousand spectators and had an orchestra of fifty pieces which played Arrangements from the Operas and suites portraying a Day on the Farm, or a Four-alarm Fire. In the stone rotunda, decorated with crown-embroidered velvet chairs and almost medieval tapestries, parrakeets sat on gilded lotos columns. With exclamations of "Well, by golly!" and "You got to go some to beat this dump!" Babbitt admired the Chateau. As he stared across the thousands of heads, a gray plain in the dimness, as he smelled good clothes and mild perfume and chewing-gum, he felt as when he had first seen a mountain and realized how very, very much earth and rock there was in it. He liked three kinds of films: pretty bathing girls with bare legs; policemen or cowboys and an industrious shooting of revolvers; and funny fat men who ate spaghetti. He chuckled with immense, moist-eyed sentimentality at interludes portraying puppies, kittens, and chubby babies; and he wept at deathbeds and old mothers being patient in mortgaged cottages. Mrs. Babbitt preferred the pictures in which handsome young women in elaborate frocks moved through sets ticketed as the drawing-rooms of New York millionaires. As for Tinka, she preferred, or was believed to prefer, whatever her parents told her to. All his relaxations--baseball, golf, movies, bridge, motoring, long talks with Paul at the Athletic Club, or at the Good Red Beef and Old English Chop House--were necessary to Babbitt, for he was entering a year of such activity as he had never known. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Nach seiner Rückkehr aus Maine nimmt sich Babbitt erneut vor, mit dem Rauchen aufzuhören. Allerdings scheitert er erneut, weil er sich immer wieder Ausreden ausdenkt, um "noch eine letzte Zigarette" zu rauchen. Als Nächstes beschließt er, mehr Zeit von der Arbeit zu nehmen, um das örtliche Baseballteam anzuschauen. Doch auch das hält nicht lange an, denn er wird zu nervös, wenn er nicht im Büro ist, falls etwas Wichtiges passiert. Wie sein Versuch, das Rauchen einzuschränken, scheitert auch sein Versuch, seine Arbeitszeit zu reduzieren. Er versucht, mehr Golf zu spielen als sonst, um fit zu bleiben. Doch auch das lässt ihn unzufrieden zurück. Schließlich verbringt Babbitt mehr Zeit damit, Myra und seine jüngste Tochter Tinka ins Kino zu begleiten. Sie scheinen ihn mehr aufzumuntern als alles andere. Aber wie der Erzähler nahelegt, sind dies alles nur Ablenkungen von größeren Problemen in Babbitts Leben.

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: Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be soon made good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother, who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been started a fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence from home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for his being so, they would neither authorise the liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not. Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns, had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth. "The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our two dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer for his being most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you know." Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at home, could only be sorry. "The loss of her ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and it was a pity she should not see the place." "You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam," cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her." "Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny." Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies. On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on which _one_ might go with him. "But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage, or his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family." "What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do." "Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise." "And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off." "That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant," said Edmund, "in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her." "Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected." "You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home?" "To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her." "You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do." There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now?" "Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection." Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say, "Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it." "It seems very odd," said Maria, "that you should be staying at home instead of Fanny." "I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you," added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at home herself. "Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires," was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt. Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would be nothing without him. The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke. Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped from the carriage, "As there are five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as you were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson." Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification; and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies, and the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms. Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and women, her talents for the light and lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were united, and a "there he is" broke at the same moment from them both, more than once. For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort: her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense of propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in the highest spirits: "her view of the country was charming, she wished they could all see it," etc.; but her only offer of exchange was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill, and was not more inviting than this: "Here is a fine burst of country. I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it, let me press you ever so much;" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they were moving again at a good pace. When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in the vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that "those woods belonged to Sotherton," she could not carelessly observe that "she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the road," without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of court-leet and court-baron. "Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village. Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach." Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; and even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing that "it was a sort of building which she could not look at but with respect," she added, "Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front." "Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see something of it here--something of the more distant trees. It is oak entirely." Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish, when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Edmund fühlt sich schlecht, dass er Fanny ignoriert hat, und er stellt sicher, dass sie am nächsten Tag wieder reitet. Herr Rushworth und seine Mutter tauchen auf und alle beginnen mit der Planung der Reise nach Sotherton. Die Planung wird zum Fiasko, da sich niemand darauf einigen kann, welchen Wagen sie nehmen sollen oder wer tatsächlich mitkommt. Lady Bertram ist zu faul, um zu gehen, aber Mrs. Rushworth denkt, dass sie wirklich kommen will, bis Mrs. Norris sie vom Gegenteil überzeugt. Lady Bertram sagt, dass Fanny zu Hause bleiben muss. Die Rushworths laden auch die Crawfords ein, aber das führt zu noch mehr Transportproblemen, da so viele Leute mitkommen. Edmund besteht darauf, dass sie auch Platz haben, um Fanny mitzunehmen, denn Henry Crawford nimmt seinen eigenen Wagen. Alle sagen "nein", aber dann sagt Edmund, dass er einfach zu Hause bleibt und Fanny an seiner Stelle geht. Maria und Mrs. Norris sind mit diesem Plan auch nicht zufrieden. Fanny ist übermäßig aufgeregt, dass sie gehen kann, aber sie ist enttäuscht, dass Edmund nicht mitkommt. jedoch sagt Mrs. Grant, dass sie diejenige sein wird, die bei Lady Bertram bleibt, damit Edmund gehen kann. Mittwoch kommt und es ist Zeit für die Reise. Aber zunächst entsteht Drama um die Sitzordnung. Julia schnappt sich einen Platz neben Henry, aber nicht indem sie "shot-gun" ruft, und Maria ist sauer. Fanny sitzt in einem Wagen mit Mary, Maria und Mrs. Norris. Fanny hat Spaß, da sie noch nie wirklich irgendwohin gekommen ist. Julia ruft ihnen allen immer wieder zu, wie viel Spaß sie hat und wie toll ihre Aussicht ist, während Maria heimlich Wege plant, um sie umzubringen. Sie kommen in Sotherton an und Maria kommt in bessere Stimmung, da sie zeigen kann, wie fabelhaft reich sie sein wird, wenn sie Herrn Rushworth heiratet. Mary versteht es, Menschen zu lesen, und fängt schnell an, von dem Haus zu schwärmen, um Maria in bessere Stimmung zu bringen.

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: DAY after day wore on, and still there was no perceptible change in the conduct of the islanders towards me. Gradually I lost all knowledge of the regular recurrence of the days of the week, and sunk insensibly into that kind of apathy which ensues after some violent outburst of despair. My limb suddenly healed, the swelling went down, the pain subsided, and I had every reason to suppose I should soon completely recover from the affliction that had so long tormented me. As soon as I was enabled to ramble about the valley in company with the natives, troops of whom followed me whenever I sallied out of the house, I began to experience an elasticity of mind which placed me beyond the reach of those dismal forebodings to which I had so lately been a prey. Received wherever I went with the most deferential kindness; regaled perpetually with the most delightful fruits; ministered to by dark-eyed nymphs, and enjoying besides all the services of the devoted Kory-Kory, I thought that, for a sojourn among cannibals, no man could have well made a more agreeable one. To be sure there were limits set to my wanderings. Toward the sea my progress was barred by an express prohibition of the savages; and after having made two or three ineffectual attempts to reach it, as much to gratify my curiosity as anything else, I gave up the idea. It was in vain to think of reaching it by stealth, since the natives escorted me in numbers wherever I went, and not for one single moment that I can recall to mind was I ever permitted to be alone. The green and precipitous elevations that stood ranged around the head of the vale where Marheyo's habitation was situated effectually precluded all hope of escape in that quarter, even if I could have stolen away from the thousand eyes of the savages. But these reflections now seldom obtruded upon me; I gave myself up to the passing hour, and if ever disagreeable thoughts arose in my mind, I drove them away. When I looked around the verdant recess in which I was buried, and gazed up to the summits of the lofty eminence that hemmed me in, I was well disposed to think that I was in the 'Happy Valley', and that beyond those heights there was naught but a world of care and anxiety. As I extended my wanderings in the valley and grew more familiar with the habits of its inmates, I was fain to confess that, despite the disadvantages of his condition, the Polynesian savage, surrounded by all the luxurious provisions of nature, enjoyed an infinitely happier, though certainly a less intellectual existence than the self-complacent European. The naked wretch who shivers beneath the bleak skies, and starves among the inhospitable wilds of Tierra-del-Fuego, might indeed be made happier by civilization, for it would alleviate his physical wants. But the voluptuous Indian, with every desire supplied, whom Providence has bountifully provided with all the sources of pure and natural enjoyment, and from whom are removed so many of the ills and pains of life--what has he to desire at the hands of Civilization? She may 'cultivate his mind--may elevate his thoughts,'--these I believe are the established phrases--but will he be the happier? Let the once smiling and populous Hawaiian islands, with their now diseased, starving, and dying natives, answer the question. The missionaries may seek to disguise the matter as they will, but the facts are incontrovertible; and the devoutest Christian who visits that group with an unbiased mind, must go away mournfully asking--'Are these, alas! the fruits of twenty-five years of enlightening?' In a primitive state of society, the enjoyments of life, though few and simple, are spread over a great extent, and are unalloyed; but Civilization, for every advantage she imparts, holds a hundred evils in reserve;--the heart-burnings, the jealousies, the social rivalries, the family dissentions, and the thousand self-inflicted discomforts of refined life, which make up in units the swelling aggregate of human misery, are unknown among these unsophisticated people. But it will be urged that these shocking unprincipled wretches are cannibals. Very true; and a rather bad trait in their character it must be allowed. But they are such only when they seek to gratify the passion of revenge upon their enemies; and I ask whether the mere eating of human flesh so very far exceeds in barbarity that custom which only a few years since was practised in enlightened England:--a convicted traitor, perhaps a man found guilty of honesty, patriotism, and suchlike heinous crimes, had his head lopped off with a huge axe, his bowels dragged out and thrown into a fire; while his body, carved into four quarters, was with his head exposed upon pikes, and permitted to rot and fester among the public haunts of men! The fiend-like skill we display in the invention of all manner of death-dealing engines, the vindictiveness with which we carry on our wars, and the misery and desolation that follow in their train, are enough of themselves to distinguish the white civilized man as the most ferocious animal on the face of the earth. His remorseless cruelty is seen in many of the institutions of our own favoured land. There is one in particular lately adopted in one of the States of the Union, which purports to have been dictated by the most merciful considerations. To destroy our malefactors piece-meal, drying up in their veins, drop by drop, the blood we are too chicken-hearted to shed by a single blow which would at once put a period to their sufferings, is deemed to be infinitely preferable to the old-fashioned punishment of gibbeting--much less annoying to the victim, and more in accordance with the refined spirit of the age; and yet how feeble is all language to describe the horrors we inflict upon these wretches, whom we mason up in the cells of our prisons, and condemn to perpetual solitude in the very heart of our population. But it is needless to multiply the examples of civilized barbarity; they far exceed in the amount of misery they cause the crimes which we regard with such abhorrence in our less enlightened fellow-creatures. The term 'Savage' is, I conceive, often misapplied, and indeed, when I consider the vices, cruelties, and enormities of every kind that spring up in the tainted atmosphere of a feverish civilization, I am inclined to think that so far as the relative wickedness of the parties is concerned, four or five Marquesan Islanders sent to the United States as Missionaries might be quite as useful as an equal number of Americans despatched to the Islands in a similar capacity. I once heard it given as an instance of the frightful depravity of a certain tribe in the Pacific that they had no word in their language to express the idea of virtue. The assertion was unfounded; but were it otherwise, it might be met by stating that their language is almost entirely destitute of terms to express the delightful ideas conveyed by our endless catalogue of civilized crimes. In the altered frame of mind to which I have referred, every object that presented itself to my notice in the valley struck me in a new light, and the opportunities I now enjoyed of observing the manners of its inmates, tended to strengthen my favourable impressions. One peculiarity that fixed my admiration was the perpetual hilarity reigning through the whole extent of the vale. There seemed to be no cares, griefs, troubles, or vexations, in all Typee. The hours tripped along as gaily as the laughing couples down a country dance. There were none of those thousand sources of irritation that the ingenuity of civilized man has created to mar his own felicity. There were no foreclosures of mortgages, no protested notes, no bills payable, no debts of honour in Typee; no unreasonable tailors and shoemakers perversely bent on being paid; no duns of any description and battery attorneys, to foment discord, backing their clients up to a quarrel, and then knocking their heads together; no poor relations, everlastingly occupying the spare bed-chamber, and diminishing the elbow room at the family table; no destitute widows with their children starving on the cold charities of the world; no beggars; no debtors' prisons; no proud and hard-hearted nabobs in Typee; or to sum up all in one word--no Money! 'That root of all evil' was not to be found in the valley. In this secluded abode of happiness there were no cross old women, no cruel step-dames, no withered spinsters, no lovesick maidens, no sour old bachelors, no inattentive husbands, no melancholy young men, no blubbering youngsters, and no squalling brats. All was mirth, fun and high good humour. Blue devils, hypochondria, and doleful dumps, went and hid themselves among the nooks and crannies of the rocks. Here you would see a parcel of children frolicking together the live-long day, and no quarrelling, no contention, among them. The same number in our own land could not have played together for the space of an hour without biting or scratching one another. There you might have seen a throng of young females, not filled with envyings of each other's charms, nor displaying the ridiculous affectations of gentility, nor yet moving in whalebone corsets, like so many automatons, but free, inartificially happy, and unconstrained. There were some spots in that sunny vale where they would frequently resort to decorate themselves with garlands of flowers. To have seen them reclining beneath the shadows of one of the beautiful groves; the ground about them strewn with freshly gathered buds and blossoms, employed in weaving chaplets and necklaces, one would have thought that all the train of Flora had gathered together to keep a festival in honour of their mistress. With the young men there seemed almost always some matter of diversion or business on hand that afforded a constant variety of enjoyment. But whether fishing, or carving canoes, or polishing their ornaments, never was there exhibited the least sign of strife or contention among them. As for the warriors, they maintained a tranquil dignity of demeanour, journeying occasionally from house to house, where they were always sure to be received with the attention bestowed upon distinguished guests. The old men, of whom there were many in the vale, seldom stirred from their mats, where they would recline for hours and hours, smoking and talking to one another with all the garrulity of age. But the continual happiness, which so far as I was able to judge appeared to prevail in the valley, sprang principally from that all-pervading sensation which Rousseau has told us be at one time experienced, the mere buoyant sense of a healthful physical existence. And indeed in this particular the Typees had ample reason to felicitate themselves, for sickness was almost unknown. During the whole period of my stay I saw but one invalid among them; and on their smooth skins you observed no blemish or mark of disease. The general repose, however, upon which I have just been descanting, was broken in upon about this time by an event which proved that the islanders were not entirely exempt from those occurrences which disturb the quiet of more civilized communities. Having now been a considerable time in the valley, I began to feel surprised that the violent hostility subsisting between its inhabitants, and those of the adjoining bay of Happar, should never have manifested itself in any warlike encounter. Although the valiant Typees would often by gesticulations declare their undying hatred against their enemies, and the disgust they felt at their cannibal propensities; although they dilated upon the manifold injuries they had received at their hands, yet with a forbearance truly commendable, they appeared to sit down under their grievances, and to refrain from making any reprisals. The Happars, entrenched behind their mountains, and never even showing themselves on their summits, did not appear to me to furnish adequate cause for that excess of animosity evinced towards them by the heroic tenants of our vale, and I was inclined to believe that the deeds of blood attributed to them had been greatly exaggerated. On the other hand, as the clamours of war had not up to this period disturbed the serenity of the tribe, I began to distrust the truth of those reports which ascribed so fierce and belligerent a character to the Typee nation. Surely, thought I, all these terrible stories I have heard about the inveteracy with which they carried on the feud, their deadly intensity, of hatred and the diabolical malice with which they glutted their revenge upon the inanimate forms of the slain, are nothing more than fables, and I must confess that I experienced something like a sense of regret at having my hideous anticipations thus disappointed. I felt in some sort like a 'prentice boy who, going to the play in the expectation of being delighted with a cut-and-thrust tragedy, is almost moved to tears of disappointment at the exhibition of a genteel comedy. I could not avoid thinking that I had fallen in with a greatly traduced people, and I moralized not a little upon the disadvantage of having a bad name, which in this instance had given a tribe of savages, who were as pacific as so many lambkins, the reputation of a confederacy of giant-killers. But subsequent events proved that I had been a little too premature in coming to this conclusion. One, day about noon, happening to be at the Ti, I had lain down on the mats with several of the chiefs, and had gradually sunk into a most luxurious siesta, when I was awakened by a tremendous outcry, and starting up beheld the natives seizing their spears and hurrying out, while the most puissant of the chiefs, grasping the six muskets which were ranged against the bamboos, followed after, and soon disappeared in the groves. These movements were accompanied by wild shouts, in which 'Happar, Happar,' greatly predominated. The islanders were now seen running past the Ti, and striking across the valley to the Happar side. Presently I heard the sharp report of a musket from the adjoining hills, and then a burst of voices in the same direction. At this the women who had congregated in the groves, set up the most violent clamours, as they invariably do here as elsewhere on every occasion of excitement and alarm, with a view of tranquillizing their own minds and disturbing other people. On this particular occasion they made such an outrageous noise, and continued it with such perseverance, that for awhile, had entire volleys of musketry been fired off in the neighbouring mountains, I should not have been able to have heard them. When this female commotion had a little subsided I listened eagerly for further information. At last bang went another shot, and then a second volley of yells from the hills. Again all was quiet, and continued so for such a length of time that I began to think the contending armies had agreed upon a suspension of hostilities; when pop went a third gun, followed as before with a yell. After this, for nearly two hours nothing occurred worthy of comment, save some straggling shouts from the hillside, sounding like the halloos of a parcel of truant boys who had lost themselves in the woods. During this interval I had remained standing on the piazza of the 'Ti,' which directly fronted the Happar mountain, and with no one near me but Kory-Kory and the old superannuated savages I have described. These latter never stirred from their mats, and seemed altogether unconscious that anything unusual was going on. As for Kory-Kory, he appeared to think that we were in the midst of great events, and sought most zealously to impress me with a due sense of their importance. Every sound that reached us conveyed some momentous item of intelligence to him. At such times, as if he were gifted with second sight, he would go through a variety of pantomimic illustrations, showing me the precise manner in which the redoubtable Typees were at that very moment chastising the insolence of the enemy. 'Mehevi hanna pippee nuee Happar,' he exclaimed every five minutes, giving me to understand that under that distinguished captain the warriors of his nation were performing prodigies of valour. Having heard only four reports from the muskets, I was led to believe that they were worked by the islanders in the same manner as the Sultan Solyman's ponderous artillery at the siege of Byzantium, one of them taking an hour or two to load and train. At last, no sound whatever proceeding from the mountains, I concluded that the contest had been determined one way or the other. Such appeared, indeed, to be the case, for in a little while a courier arrived at the 'Ti', almost breathless with his exertions, and communicated the news of a great victory having been achieved by his countrymen: 'Happar poo arva!--Happar poo arva!' (the cowards had fled). Kory-Kory was in ecstasies, and commenced a vehement harangue, which, so far as I understood it, implied that the result exactly agreed with his expectations, and which, moreover, was intended to convince me that it would be a perfectly useless undertaking, even for an army of fire-eaters, to offer battle to the irresistible heroes of our valley. In all this I of course acquiesced, and looked forward with no little interest to the return of the conquerors, whose victory I feared might not have been purchased without cost to themselves. But here I was again mistaken; for Mehevi, in conducting his warlike operations, rather inclined to the Fabian than to the Bonapartean tactics, husbanding his resources and exposing his troops to no unnecessary hazards. The total loss of the victors in this obstinately contested affair was, in killed, wounded, and missing--one forefinger and part of a thumb-nail (which the late proprietor brought along with him in his hand), a severely contused arm, and a considerable effusion of blood flowing from the thigh of a chief, who had received an ugly thrust from a Happar spear. What the enemy had suffered I could not discover, but I presume they had succeeded in taking off with them the bodies of their slain. Such was the issue of the battle, as far as its results came under my observation: and as it appeared to be considered an event of prodigious importance, I reasonably concluded that the wars of the natives were marked by no very sanguinary traits. I afterwards learned how the skirmish had originated. A number of the Happars had been discovered prowling for no good purpose on the Typee side of the mountain; the alarm sounded, and the invaders, after a protracted resistance, had been chased over the frontier. But why had not the intrepid Mehevi carried the war into Happar? Why had he not made a descent into the hostile vale, and brought away some trophy of his victory--some materials for the cannibal entertainment which I had heard usually terminated every engagement? After all, I was much inclined to believe that these shocking festivals must occur very rarely among the islanders, if, indeed, they ever take place. For two or three days the late event was the theme of general comment; after which the excitement gradually wore away, and the valley resumed its accustomed tranquility. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im Laufe der Tage wird Tommos Bein viel besser. Mit dem verbesserten Verletzungszustand kann er mehr im Tal herumspazieren als zuvor. Aber er darf nie alleine irgendwohin gehen. Kory-Kory begleitet ihn immer und Fayaway meistens auch. Er möchte das Meer sehen, aber die Typees werden es ihm nicht erlauben. Als er in den höheren Abschnitten des Tals umherwandert, kommt er zu dem Schluss, dass die polynesischen Eingeborenen trotz gewisser Nachteile ein unendlich glücklicheres Leben führen als die Europäer. Auch wenn das Leben weniger intellektuell sein mag, bietet die Natur alles, was man braucht. Die Zivilisation mag Segnungen zu bieten haben, aber für jeden Segen bringt sie mehr Übel. Darüber hinaus suggeriert der Erzähler, dass selbst der Akt des Kannibalismus, der abscheulich erscheint, mit bestimmten barbarischen europäischen Akten verglichen werden könnte, wie zum Beispiel das Ausweiden - das Herausreißen und Verbrennen der Eingeweide einer Person vor ihren Augen, eine Praxis, die früher in England üblich war. Aus diesem Grund ist es unfair, polynesische Eingeborene "Wilde" zu nennen. Die Typee-Eingeborenen handeln im Allgemeinen ehrlicher und gerechter als Amerikaner. Der Erzähler sieht nie jemanden streiten in der Gemeinschaft. Tatsächlich wäre es angesichts ihres hohen Maßes an Menschlichkeit vielleicht sinnvoller, wenn Missionare aus den Marquesas Amerika besuchten als andersherum. Eines Tages schlummert Tommo auf "Ti", als er einen lauten Tumult hört, einschließlich eines abgefeuerten Musketenschusses. Alle verlassen sofort das Gebiet, außer Tommo und Kory-Kory. Die Typees geraten in eine kleine Auseinandersetzung mit den benachbarten Happars. Die Typees sind siegreich, abgesehen von einigen kleinen Verletzungen, und sie kehren glücklich in ihre Heimat 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: For two days after the _dejeune _at Mrs. Hunter's, the Pickwickians remained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in compliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Pott's house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the _Independent_, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of Mr. Pickwick's, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be one of them. Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice-- 'Serpent!' 'Sir!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair. 'Serpent, Sir,' repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly depressing it: 'I said, serpent, sir--make the most of it.' When you have parted with a man at two o'clock in the morning, on terms of the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past nine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Pott's gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentleman's request, proceeded to make the most he could of the 'serpent.' The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a profound silence of some minutes' duration, he said,-- 'Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?--this is pleasantry.' 'Pleasantry, sir!' exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative of a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of the visitor. 'Pleasantry, sir!--But--no, I will be calm; I will be calm, Sir;' in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and foamed at the mouth. 'My dear sir,' interposed Mr. Winkle. '_DEAR _Sir!' replied Pott. 'How dare you address me, as dear Sir, Sir? How dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?' 'Well, Sir, if you come to that,' responded Mr. Winkle, 'how dare you look me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?' 'Because you are one,' replied Mr. Pott. 'Prove it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle warmly. 'Prove it.' A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he drew from his pocket the _Independent_ of that morning; and laying his finger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle. That gentleman took it up, and read as follows:-- 'Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on the recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer in a manner not to be misunderstood, to the personal affairs of our late candidate--aye, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of social intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals _His_ private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration? What, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and circumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one but our mole-eyed contemporary--what if we were to print the following effusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement of this article, from a talented fellow-townsman and correspondent? '"LINES TO A BRASS POT '"Oh Pott! if you'd known How false she'd have grown, When you heard the marriage bells tinkle; You'd have done then, I vow, What you cannot help now, 'What,' said Mr. Pott solemnly--'what rhymes to "tinkle," villain?' 'What rhymes to tinkle?' said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment forestalled the reply. 'What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should conceive.' Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian, and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it, in his confusion, had not Pott indignantly interposed. 'Back, ma'am--back!' said the editor. 'Take his hand before my very face!' 'Mr. P.!' said his astonished lady. 'Wretched woman, look here,' exclaimed the husband. 'Look here, ma'am-- "Lines to a Brass Pot." "Brass Pot"; that's me, ma'am. "False _she'd_ have grown"; that's you, ma'am--you.' With this ebullition of rage, which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the expression of his wife's face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the Eatanswill _Independent_ at her feet. 'Upon my word, Sir,' said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up the paper. 'Upon my word, Sir!' Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again. There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, 'Upon my word, sir,' when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of Pott, produced their effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment. Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion. 'My dear,' said the terrified Pott, 'I didn't say I believed it;--I--' but the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner. 'Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself,' said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more frequent than ever. 'My dear,' said Mr. Pott, 'I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house.' But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth. Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott's person was a bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams reached this young lady's ears in due course, and brought her into the room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets. 'Oh, my dear, dear mistress!' exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. 'Oh, my dear mistress, what is the matter?' 'Your master--your brutal master,' murmured the patient. Pott was evidently giving way. 'It's a shame,' said the bodyguard reproachfully. 'I know he'll be the death on you, ma'am. Poor dear thing!' He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack. 'Oh, don't leave me--don't leave me, Goodwin,' murmured Mrs. Pott, clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. 'You're the only person that's kind to me, Goodwin.' At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her own, and shed tears copiously. 'Never, ma'am--never,' said Goodwin. 'Oh, sir, you should be careful-- you should indeed; you don't know what harm you may do missis; you'll be sorry for it one day, I know--I've always said so.' The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing. 'Goodwin,' said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice. 'Ma'am,' said Goodwin. 'If you only knew how I have loved that man--' Don't distress yourself by recollecting it, ma'am,' said the bodyguard. Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him. 'And now,' sobbed Mrs. Pott, 'now, after all, to be treated in this way; to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,' continued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, 'my brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I'll be separated, Goodwin!' 'It would certainly serve him right, ma'am,' said Goodwin. Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pott's mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself by saying, with great humility:-- 'My dear, will you hear me?' A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces of information of a similar description. 'My dear,' remonstrated Mr. Pott, 'do not give way to these sensitive feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear--impossible. I was only angry, my dear--I may say outrageous--with the _Independent_ people for daring to insert it; that's all.' Mr. Pott cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to say nothing about the serpent. 'And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?' inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it. 'Oh, Goodwin,' observed Mrs. Pott, 'does he mean to horsewhip the editor of the _Independent_--does he, Goodwin?' 'Hush, hush, ma'am; pray keep yourself quiet,' replied the bodyguard. 'I dare say he will, if you wish it, ma'am.' 'Certainly,' said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going off again. 'Of course I shall.' 'When, Goodwin--when?' said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off. 'Immediately, of course,' said Mr. Pott; 'before the day is out.' 'Oh, Goodwin,' resumed Mrs. Pott, 'it's the only way of meeting the slander, and setting me right with the world.' 'Certainly, ma'am,' replied Goodwin. 'No man as is a man, ma'am, could refuse to do it.' So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast. 'You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle?' said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears. 'I hope not,' said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay effectually. 'I hope not.' 'You are very good,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick--so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to my bedroom door, this morning--in which he requests us to join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.' 'But you will come back?' said Mrs. Pott. 'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'You are quite sure?' said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor. 'Quite,' responded Mr. Winkle. The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the _Independent_; Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away. 'If he ever comes back, I'll poison him,' thought Mr. Pott, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts. 'If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,' thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, 'I shall deserve to be horsewhipped myself--that's all.' His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful description. Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle. 'How are you?' said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman's hand. 'Don't hang back, or look sentimental about it; it can't be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you'd had her; for your own, I'm very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?' With this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily. 'Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?' said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. 'I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We're going to have a wedding--a real wedding this time.' 'A wedding!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale. 'Yes, a wedding. But don't be frightened,' said the good-humoured old man; 'it's only Trundle there, and Bella.' 'Oh, is that all?' said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. 'Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?' 'Very well,' replied the old gentleman. 'Sleepy as ever.' 'And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of 'em?' 'Quite well.' 'Where,' said Mr. Tupman, with an effort--'where is--_she_, Sir?' and he turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand. '_She_!' said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. 'Do you mean my single relative--eh?' Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachael. 'Oh, she's gone away,' said the old gentleman. 'She's living at a relation's, far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come! Here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.' Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle. 'And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,' said Mr. Pickwick, in conclusion, 'renders me lame at this moment.' 'I, too, have had something of an adventure,' said Mr. Winkle, with a smile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious libel of the Eatanswill _Independent_, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the editor. Mr. Pickwick's brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows:-- 'Is it not a wonderful circumstance,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that we seem destined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the blackness of heart--that I should say so!--of my followers, that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say--' Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said-- 'What have you there, Sam?' 'Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's sealed vith a vafer, and directed in round hand.' 'I don't know this hand,' said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. 'Mercy on us! what's this? It must be a jest; it--it--can't be true.' 'What's the matter?' was the general inquiry. 'Nobody dead, is there?' said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick's countenance. Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold. Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy:-- Freeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827. Bardell against Pickwick. Sir, Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof. We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg. Mr. Samuel Pickwick. There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman. 'Dodson and Fogg,' he repeated mechanically. 'Bardell and Pickwick,' said Mr. Snodgrass, musing. 'Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,' murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction. 'It's a conspiracy,' said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; 'a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;--she hasn't the heart to do it;--she hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous--ridiculous.' Of her heart,' said Wardle, with a smile, 'you should certainly be the best judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.' 'It's a vile attempt to extort money,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I hope it is,' said Wardle, with a short, dry cough. 'Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?' continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. 'Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here--' 'Except on one occasion,' said Mr. Tupman. Mr. Pickwick changed colour. 'Ah,' said Mr. Wardle. 'Well, that's important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?' Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. 'Why,' said he, 'there was nothing suspicious; but--I don't know how it happened, mind--she certainly was reclining in his arms.' 'Gracious powers!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; 'what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was--so she was.' 'And our friend was soothing her anguish,' said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously. 'So I was,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I don't deny it. So I was.' 'Hollo!' said Wardle; 'for a case in which there's nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer--eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog--sly dog!' and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again. 'What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. 'Winkle--Tupman--I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.' With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company. 'I'll have it explained, though,' said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. 'I'll see this Dodson and Fogg! I'll go to London to-morrow.' 'Not to-morrow,' said Wardle; 'you're too lame.' 'Well, then, next day.' 'Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don't take the field.' 'Well, then, the day after,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'Thursday.--Sam!' 'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.' 'Wery well, Sir.' Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground. 'Rum feller, the hemperor,' said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. 'Think o' his makin' up to that 'ere Mrs. Bardell--vith a little boy, too! Always the vay vith these here old 'uns howsoever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd ha' done it, though--I didn't think he'd ha' done it!' Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office. The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting: let us proceed. In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning--so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, the hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded from the die. Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw- boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers. 'I say,' whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, 'they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?' 'Fill them!' exclaimed old Wardle. 'Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.' Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads. 'Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,' said Wardle, caressing the dogs. 'Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?' The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it--as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was. 'My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,' said Wardle, noticing the look. 'Live and learn, you know. They'll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though; he has had some practice.' Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot. 'You mustn't handle your piece in that 'ere way, when you come to have the charge in it, Sir,' said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; 'or I'm damned if you won't make cold meat of some on us.' Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr. Weller's head. 'Hollo!' said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. 'Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fill one o' them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.' Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically. 'Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?' inquired Wardle. 'Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o'clock, Sir.' 'That's not Sir Geoffrey's land, is it?' 'No, Sir; but it's close by it. It's Captain Boldwig's land; but there'll be nobody to interrupt us, and there's a fine bit of turf there.' 'Very well,' said old Wardle. 'Now the sooner we're off the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?' Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle's life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied-- 'Why, I suppose I must.' 'Ain't the gentleman a shot, Sir?' inquired the long gamekeeper. 'No,' replied Wardle; 'and he's lame besides.' 'I should very much like to go,' said Mr. Pickwick--'very much.' There was a short pause of commiseration. 'There's a barrow t'other side the hedge,' said the boy. 'If the gentleman's servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it over the stiles, and that.' 'The wery thing,' said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch as he ardently longed to see the sport. 'The wery thing. Well said, Smallcheek; I'll have it out in a minute.' But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents. It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper having been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by 'punching' the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear. 'Stop, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first field. 'What's the matter now?' said Wardle. 'I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another step,' said Mr. Pickwick, resolutely, 'unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a different manner.' 'How _am_ I to carry it?' said the wretched Winkle. 'Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'It's so unsportsmanlike,' reasoned Winkle. 'I don't care whether it's unsportsmanlike or not,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'I am not going to be shot in a wheel-barrow, for the sake of appearances, to please anybody.' 'I know the gentleman'll put that 'ere charge into somebody afore he's done,' growled the long man. 'Well, well--I don't mind,' said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock uppermost--'there.' 'Anythin' for a quiet life,' said Mr. Weller; and on they went again. 'Stop!' said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther. 'What now?' said Wardle. 'That gun of Tupman's is not safe: I know it isn't,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Eh? What! not safe?' said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm. 'Not as you are carrying it,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle does his.' 'I think you had better, sir,' said the long gamekeeper, 'or you're quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.' Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral. The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too. 'What's the matter with the dogs' legs?' whispered Mr. Winkle. 'How queer they're standing.' 'Hush, can't you?' replied Wardle softly. 'Don't you see, they're making a point?' 'Making a point!' said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. 'Making a point! What are they pointing at?' 'Keep your eyes open,' said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. 'Now then.' There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns--the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air. 'Where are they!' said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. 'Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they--where are they?' 'Where are they!' said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. 'Why, here they are.' 'No, no; I mean the others,' said the bewildered Winkle. 'Far enough off, by this time,' replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun. 'We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,' said the long gamekeeper. 'If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he'll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.' 'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Mr. Weller. 'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower's confusion and embarrassment. 'Sir.' 'Don't laugh.' 'Certainly not, Sir.' So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheel-barrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment. 'Bravo, old fellow!' said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; 'you fired that time, at all events.' 'Oh, yes,' replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. 'I let it off.' 'Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, ain't it?' 'Yes, it's very easy,' said Mr. Tupman. 'How it hurts one's shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small firearms kicked so.' 'Ah,' said the old gentleman, smiling, 'you'll get used to it in time. Now then--all ready--all right with the barrow there?' 'All right, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Come along, then.' 'Hold hard, Sir,' said Sam, raising the barrow. 'Aye, aye,' replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be. 'Keep that barrow back now,' cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more. 'All right, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, pausing. 'Now, Winkle,' said the old gentleman, 'follow me softly, and don't be too late this time.' 'Never fear,' said Mr. Winkle. 'Are they pointing?' 'No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.' On they crept, and very quietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy's head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man's brain would have been, had he been there instead. 'Why, what on earth did you do that for?' said old Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away. 'I never saw such a gun in my life,' replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. 'It goes off of its own accord. It _will _do it.' 'Will do it!' echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. 'I wish it would kill something of its own accord.' 'It'll do that afore long, Sir,' observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic voice. 'What do you mean by that observation, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily. 'Never mind, Sir, never mind,' replied the long gamekeeper; 'I've no family myself, sir; and this here boy's mother will get something handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land. Load again, Sir, load again.' 'Take away his gun,' cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man's dark insinuations. 'Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody?' Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded onwards with the rest. We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that Mr. Tupman's mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all matters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lights of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them to practice. Mr. Tupman's process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had at once observed that the two great points to be attained were-- first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without danger to the bystanders--obviously, the best thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air. On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling, wounded, to the ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his invariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand. 'Tupman,' said the old gentleman, 'you singled out that particular bird?' 'No,' said Mr. Tupman--'no.' 'You did,' said Wardle. 'I saw you do it--I observed you pick him out--I noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this, that the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older hand at this than I thought you, Tupman; you have been out before.' It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial, that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that time forth his reputation was established. It is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting. Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without producing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes expending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy- shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom, that 'every bullet has its billet.' If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the world, and billeted nowhere. 'Well,' said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; 'smoking day, isn't it?' 'It is, indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously hot, even to me. I don't know how you must feel it.' 'Why,' said the old gentleman, 'pretty hot. It's past twelve, though. You see that green hill there?' 'Certainly.' 'That's the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there's the boy with the basket, punctual as clockwork!' 'So he is,' said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. 'Good boy, that. I'll give him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.' 'Hold on, sir,' said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of refreshments. 'Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious life don't upset me, as the gen'l'm'n said to the driver when they was a-carryin' him to Tyburn.' And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost despatch. 'Weal pie,' said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the grass. 'Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it ain't kittens; and arter all though, where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don't know the difference?' 'Don't they, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Not they, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. 'I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was--reg'lar clever chap, too--make pies out o' anything, he could. "What a number o' cats you keep, Mr. Brooks," says I, when I'd got intimate with him. "Ah," says he, "I do--a good many," says he, "You must be wery fond o' cats," says I. "Other people is," says he, a-winkin' at me; "they ain't in season till the winter though," says he. "Not in season!" says I. "No," says he, "fruits is in, cats is out." "Why, what do you mean?" says I. "Mean!" says he. "That I'll never be a party to the combination o' the butchers, to keep up the price o' meat," says he. "Mr. Weller," says he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear--"don't mention this here agin--but it's the seasonin' as does it. They're all made o' them noble animals," says he, a-pointin' to a wery nice little tabby kitten, "and I seasons 'em for beefsteak, weal or kidney, 'cording to the demand. And more than that," says he, "I can make a weal a beef- steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!"' 'He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder. 'Just was, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, 'and the pies was beautiful. Tongue--, well that's a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's. Bread--knuckle o' ham, reg'lar picter--cold beef in slices, wery good. What's in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?' 'Beer in this one,' replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap--'cold punch in t'other.' 'And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,' said Mr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. 'Now, gen'l'm'n, "fall on," as the English said to the French when they fixed bagginets.' It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice to the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller, the long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the grass, at a little distance, and do good execution upon a decent proportion of the viands. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the group, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow land, intersected with luxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay spread out before them. 'This is delightful--thoroughly delightful!' said Mr. Pickwick; the skin of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure to the sun. 'So it is--so it is, old fellow,' replied Wardle. 'Come; a glass of punch!' 'With great pleasure,' said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose countenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the reply. 'Good,' said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. 'Very good. I'll take another. Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen,' continued Mr. Pickwick, still retaining his hold upon the jar, 'a toast. Our friends at Dingley Dell.' The toast was drunk with loud acclamations. 'I'll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,' said Mr. Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. 'I'll put a stuffed partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning at a short distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it's capital practice.' 'I know a gen'l'man, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, 'as did that, and begun at two yards; but he never tried it on agin; for he blowed the bird right clean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him arterwards.' 'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for.' 'Cert'nly, sir.' Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can he was raising to his lips, with such exquisite facetiousness, that the two boys went into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man condescended to smile. 'Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly at the stone bottle; 'and the day is extremely warm, and--Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?' 'With the greatest delight,' replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank that glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him; and finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder, unknown. This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep, simultaneously. The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible to awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place whether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back again, or to leave him where he was, until they should all be ready to return. The latter course was at length decided on; and as the further expedition was not to exceed an hour's duration, and as Mr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was determined to leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on their return. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the shade. That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his friends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening had fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt; always supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace. But he was _not _suffered to remain there in peace. And this was what prevented him. Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and blue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in company with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a gardener and sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not the stick) Captain Boldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and ferocity; for Captain Boldwig's wife's sister had married a marquis, and the captain's house was a villa, and his land 'grounds,' and it was all very high, and mighty, and great. Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain Boldwig, followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his size and importance would let him; and when he came near the oak tree, Captain Boldwig paused and drew a long breath, and looked at the prospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratified at having him to take notice of it; and then he struck the ground emphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener. 'Hunt,' said Captain Boldwig. 'Yes, Sir,' said the gardener. 'Roll this place to-morrow morning--do you hear, Hunt?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'And take care that you keep this place in good order--do you hear, Hunt?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns, and all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear, Hunt; do you hear?' 'I'll not forget it, Sir.' 'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said the other man, advancing, with his hand to his hat. 'Well, Wilkins, what's the matter with you?' said Captain Boldwig. 'I beg your pardon, sir--but I think there have been trespassers here to-day.' 'Ha!' said the captain, scowling around him. 'Yes, sir--they have been dining here, I think, sir.' 'Why, damn their audacity, so they have,' said Captain Boldwig, as the crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. 'They have actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds here!' said the captain, clenching the thick stick. 'I wish I had the vagabonds here,' said the captain wrathfully. 'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Wilkins, 'but--' 'But what? Eh?' roared the captain; and following the timid glance of Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheel-barrow and Mr. Pickwick. 'Who are you, you rascal?' said the captain, administering several pokes to Mr. Pickwick's body with the thick stick. 'What's your name?' 'Cold punch,' murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sank to sleep again. 'What?' demanded Captain Boldwig. No reply. 'What did he say his name was?' asked the captain. 'Punch, I think, sir,' replied Wilkins. 'That's his impudence--that's his confounded impudence,' said Captain Boldwig. 'He's only feigning to be asleep now,' said the captain, in a high passion. 'He's drunk; he's a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away, Wilkins, wheel him away directly.' Where shall I wheel him to, sir?' inquired Wilkins, with great timidity. 'Wheel him to the devil,' replied Captain Boldwig. 'Very well, sir,' said Wilkins. 'Stay,' said the captain. Wilkins stopped accordingly. 'Wheel him,' said the captain--'wheel him to the pound; and let us see whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not bully me--he shall not bully me. Wheel him away.' Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate; and the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on his walk. Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they returned, to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the wheel-barrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountable thing that was ever heard of. For a lame man to have got upon his legs without any previous notice, and walked off, would have been most extraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrow before him, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searched every nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted, whistled, laughed, called--and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick was not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived at the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him. Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safely deposited therein, fast asleep in the wheel-barrow, to the immeasurable delight and satisfaction not only of all the boys in the village, but three-fourths of the whole population, who had gathered round, in expectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had been awakened by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joy increased when, after a few indistinct cries of 'Sam!' he sat up in the barrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces before him. A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and his involuntary inquiry of 'What's the matter?' occasioned another, louder than the first, if possible. 'Here's a game!' roared the populace. 'Where am I?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'In the pound,' replied the mob. 'How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?' Boldwig! Captain Boldwig!' was the only reply. 'Let me out,' cried Mr. Pickwick. 'Where's my servant? Where are my friends?' 'You ain't got no friends. Hurrah!' Then there came a turnip, then a potato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of the many-headed. How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving swiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick's side, and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle. 'Run to the justice's!' cried a dozen voices. 'Ah, run avay,' said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. 'Give my compliments--Mr. Veller's compliments--to the justice, and tell him I've spiled his beadle, and that, if he'll swear in a new 'un, I'll come back again to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller.' 'I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for false imprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,' said Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town. 'We were trespassing, it seems,' said Wardle. 'I don't care,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I'll bring the action.' 'No, you won't,' said Wardle. 'I will, by--' But as there was a humorous expression in Wardle's face, Mr. Pickwick checked himself, and said, 'Why not?' 'Because,' said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, 'because they might turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.' Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face; the smile extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general. So, to keep up their good-humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller. 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Winkle, der ein paar Tage bei den Potts geblieben ist, wird eines Morgens mit einem wütenden Mr. Pott konfrontiert. In der oppositionellen Zeitung ist ein Gedicht erschienen, das Winkle beschuldigt, Mr. Pott betrogen zu haben. Mrs. Pott bekommt einen hysterischen Anfall und setzt ihren Mann unter Druck, den Chefredakteur Mr. Slurk zu verprügeln. Angesichts der Umstände findet Winkle es angebracht, zu gehen, und er geht mit Tupman und Snodgrass zu Mr. Pickwick nach Bury St. Edmunds. Als sie ankommen, treffen sie auf Mr. Wardle, der die Pickwickier einlädt, ihn über Weihnachten auf Manor Farm zu besuchen, wenn sie die Hochzeit von Trundle und Isabella Wardle feiern werden. Nachdem er von Winkles Schwierigkeiten bei den Potts erfahren hat, hält Mr. Pickwick einen Vortrag an Tupman und Winkle über die Unangemessenheit, romantische Turbulenzen zu verursachen, wenn man ein Gast ist. Der Vortrag wird unterbrochen, als Mr. Pickwick einen Brief erhält, in dem ihn Mrs. Bardell wegen Vertragsbruchs verklagt. Seine Begleiter erinnern ihn vergnügt an die Zeit, als sie ihn mit ihr in den Armen erwischt haben, und er ist entsetzt. Mr. Pickwick beschließt, bald nach London zurückzukehren, um rechtlichen Beistand zu bekommen. Am nächsten Tag gehen die Pickwickier, Wardle und Trundle auf die Jagd. Da Mr. Pickwick immer noch stark von Rheumatismus behindert wird, muss er in eine Schubkarre gelegt werden. Sowohl Winkle als auch Tupman sind unerfahren und gefährlich im Umgang mit einer Waffe, wofür sie von Mr. Pickwick getadelt werden. Tupman schießt jedoch versehentlich einen Rebhuhn ab, wodurch ihm der Ruf eines treffsicheren Schützen eingebracht wird. Schließlich essen sie alle zu Mittag, währenddessen trinkt Mr. Pickwick zu viel und schläft ein. Die anderen beschließen, ihn zu verlassen und später wiederzukommen. Etwas später stößt der Besitzer des Landes, ein wilder, kampflustiger Mann namens Captain Boldwig, auf den schlafenden Pickwick und lässt ihn in den Tierpfund schaffen. Dort versammelt sich eine Menge und fängt an, Dinge auf Mr. Pickwick zu werfen, aber er wird von Mr. Wardle und Sam Weller gerettet. Sein Gefühl der Demütigung wird nach und nach von seinem natürlichen Humor überwunden.

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 offender's sorrow brings but small relief To him who wears the strong offence's cross." --SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets. I am sorry to say that only the third day after the propitious events at Houndsley Fred Vincy had fallen into worse spirits than he had known in his life before. Not that he had been disappointed as to the possible market for his horse, but that before the bargain could be concluded with Lord Medlicote's man, this Diamond, in which hope to the amount of eighty pounds had been invested, had without the slightest warning exhibited in the stable a most vicious energy in kicking, had just missed killing the groom, and had ended in laming himself severely by catching his leg in a rope that overhung the stable-board. There was no more redress for this than for the discovery of bad temper after marriage--which of course old companions were aware of before the ceremony. For some reason or other, Fred had none of his usual elasticity under this stroke of ill-fortune: he was simply aware that he had only fifty pounds, that there was no chance of his getting any more at present, and that the bill for a hundred and sixty would be presented in five days. Even if he had applied to his father on the plea that Mr. Garth should be saved from loss, Fred felt smartingly that his father would angrily refuse to rescue Mr. Garth from the consequence of what he would call encouraging extravagance and deceit. He was so utterly downcast that he could frame no other project than to go straight to Mr. Garth and tell him the sad truth, carrying with him the fifty pounds, and getting that sum at least safely out of his own hands. His father, being at the warehouse, did not yet know of the accident: when he did, he would storm about the vicious brute being brought into his stable; and before meeting that lesser annoyance Fred wanted to get away with all his courage to face the greater. He took his father's nag, for he had made up his mind that when he had told Mr. Garth, he would ride to Stone Court and confess all to Mary. In fact, it is probable that but for Mary's existence and Fred's love for her, his conscience would have been much less active both in previously urging the debt on his thought and impelling him not to spare himself after his usual fashion by deferring an unpleasant task, but to act as directly and simply as he could. Even much stronger mortals than Fred Vincy hold half their rectitude in the mind of the being they love best. "The theatre of all my actions is fallen," said an antique personage when his chief friend was dead; and they are fortunate who get a theatre where the audience demands their best. Certainly it would have made a considerable difference to Fred at that time if Mary Garth had had no decided notions as to what was admirable in character. Mr. Garth was not at the office, and Fred rode on to his house, which was a little way outside the town--a homely place with an orchard in front of it, a rambling, old-fashioned, half-timbered building, which before the town had spread had been a farm-house, but was now surrounded with the private gardens of the townsmen. We get the fonder of our houses if they have a physiognomy of their own, as our friends have. The Garth family, which was rather a large one, for Mary had four brothers and one sister, were very fond of their old house, from which all the best furniture had long been sold. Fred liked it too, knowing it by heart even to the attic which smelt deliciously of apples and quinces, and until to-day he had never come to it without pleasant expectations; but his heart beat uneasily now with the sense that he should probably have to make his confession before Mrs. Garth, of whom he was rather more in awe than of her husband. Not that she was inclined to sarcasm and to impulsive sallies, as Mary was. In her present matronly age at least, Mrs. Garth never committed herself by over-hasty speech; having, as she said, borne the yoke in her youth, and learned self-control. She had that rare sense which discerns what is unalterable, and submits to it without murmuring. Adoring her husband's virtues, she had very early made up her mind to his incapacity of minding his own interests, and had met the consequences cheerfully. She had been magnanimous enough to renounce all pride in teapots or children's frilling, and had never poured any pathetic confidences into the ears of her feminine neighbors concerning Mr. Garth's want of prudence and the sums he might have had if he had been like other men. Hence these fair neighbors thought her either proud or eccentric, and sometimes spoke of her to their husbands as "your fine Mrs. Garth." She was not without her criticism of them in return, being more accurately instructed than most matrons in Middlemarch, and--where is the blameless woman?--apt to be a little severe towards her own sex, which in her opinion was framed to be entirely subordinate. On the other hand, she was disproportionately indulgent towards the failings of men, and was often heard to say that these were natural. Also, it must be admitted that Mrs. Garth was a trifle too emphatic in her resistance to what she held to be follies: the passage from governess into housewife had wrought itself a little too strongly into her consciousness, and she rarely forgot that while her grammar and accent were above the town standard, she wore a plain cap, cooked the family dinner, and darned all the stockings. She had sometimes taken pupils in a peripatetic fashion, making them follow her about in the kitchen with their book or slate. She thought it good for them to see that she could make an excellent lather while she corrected their blunders "without looking,"--that a woman with her sleeves tucked up above her elbows might know all about the Subjunctive Mood or the Torrid Zone--that, in short, she might possess "education" and other good things ending in "tion," and worthy to be pronounced emphatically, without being a useless doll. When she made remarks to this edifying effect, she had a firm little frown on her brow, which yet did not hinder her face from looking benevolent, and her words which came forth like a procession were uttered in a fervid agreeable contralto. Certainly, the exemplary Mrs. Garth had her droll aspects, but her character sustained her oddities, as a very fine wine sustains a flavor of skin. Towards Fred Vincy she had a motherly feeling, and had always been disposed to excuse his errors, though she would probably not have excused Mary for engaging herself to him, her daughter being included in that more rigorous judgment which she applied to her own sex. But this very fact of her exceptional indulgence towards him made it the harder to Fred that he must now inevitably sink in her opinion. And the circumstances of his visit turned out to be still more unpleasant than he had expected; for Caleb Garth had gone out early to look at some repairs not far off. Mrs. Garth at certain hours was always in the kitchen, and this morning she was carrying on several occupations at once there--making her pies at the well-scoured deal table on one side of that airy room, observing Sally's movements at the oven and dough-tub through an open door, and giving lessons to her youngest boy and girl, who were standing opposite to her at the table with their books and slates before them. A tub and a clothes-horse at the other end of the kitchen indicated an intermittent wash of small things also going on. Mrs. Garth, with her sleeves turned above her elbows, deftly handling her pastry--applying her rolling-pin and giving ornamental pinches, while she expounded with grammatical fervor what were the right views about the concord of verbs and pronouns with "nouns of multitude or signifying many," was a sight agreeably amusing. She was of the same curly-haired, square-faced type as Mary, but handsomer, with more delicacy of feature, a pale skin, a solid matronly figure, and a remarkable firmness of glance. In her snowy-frilled cap she reminded one of that delightful Frenchwoman whom we have all seen marketing, basket on arm. Looking at the mother, you might hope that the daughter would become like her, which is a prospective advantage equal to a dowry--the mother too often standing behind the daughter like a malignant prophecy--"Such as I am, she will shortly be." "Now let us go through that once more," said Mrs. Garth, pinching an apple-puff which seemed to distract Ben, an energetic young male with a heavy brow, from due attention to the lesson. "'Not without regard to the import of the word as conveying unity or plurality of idea'--tell me again what that means, Ben." (Mrs. Garth, like more celebrated educators, had her favorite ancient paths, and in a general wreck of society would have tried to hold her "Lindley Murray" above the waves.) "Oh--it means--you must think what you mean," said Ben, rather peevishly. "I hate grammar. What's the use of it?" "To teach you to speak and write correctly, so that you can be understood," said Mrs. Garth, with severe precision. "Should you like to speak as old Job does?" "Yes," said Ben, stoutly; "it's funnier. He says, 'Yo goo'--that's just as good as 'You go.'" "But he says, 'A ship's in the garden,' instead of 'a sheep,'" said Letty, with an air of superiority. "You might think he meant a ship off the sea." "No, you mightn't, if you weren't silly," said Ben. "How could a ship off the sea come there?" "These things belong only to pronunciation, which is the least part of grammar," said Mrs. Garth. "That apple-peel is to be eaten by the pigs, Ben; if you eat it, I must give them your piece of pasty. Job has only to speak about very plain things. How do you think you would write or speak about anything more difficult, if you knew no more of grammar than he does? You would use wrong words, and put words in the wrong places, and instead of making people understand you, they would turn away from you as a tiresome person. What would you do then?" "I shouldn't care, I should leave off," said Ben, with a sense that this was an agreeable issue where grammar was concerned. "I see you are getting tired and stupid, Ben," said Mrs. Garth, accustomed to these obstructive arguments from her male offspring. Having finished her pies, she moved towards the clothes-horse, and said, "Come here and tell me the story I told you on Wednesday, about Cincinnatus." "I know! he was a farmer," said Ben. "Now, Ben, he was a Roman--let _me_ tell," said Letty, using her elbow contentiously. "You silly thing, he was a Roman farmer, and he was ploughing." "Yes, but before that--that didn't come first--people wanted him," said Letty. "Well, but you must say what sort of a man he was first," insisted Ben. "He was a wise man, like my father, and that made the people want his advice. And he was a brave man, and could fight. And so could my father--couldn't he, mother?" "Now, Ben, let me tell the story straight on, as mother told it us," said Letty, frowning. "Please, mother, tell Ben not to speak." "Letty, I am ashamed of you," said her mother, wringing out the caps from the tub. "When your brother began, you ought to have waited to see if he could not tell the story. How rude you look, pushing and frowning, as if you wanted to conquer with your elbows! Cincinnatus, I am sure, would have been sorry to see his daughter behave so." (Mrs. Garth delivered this awful sentence with much majesty of enunciation, and Letty felt that between repressed volubility and general disesteem, that of the Romans inclusive, life was already a painful affair.) "Now, Ben." "Well--oh--well--why, there was a great deal of fighting, and they were all blockheads, and--I can't tell it just how you told it--but they wanted a man to be captain and king and everything--" "Dictator, now," said Letty, with injured looks, and not without a wish to make her mother repent. "Very well, dictator!" said Ben, contemptuously. "But that isn't a good word: he didn't tell them to write on slates." "Come, come, Ben, you are not so ignorant as that," said Mrs. Garth, carefully serious. "Hark, there is a knock at the door! Run, Letty, and open it." The knock was Fred's; and when Letty said that her father was not in yet, but that her mother was in the kitchen, Fred had no alternative. He could not depart from his usual practice of going to see Mrs. Garth in the kitchen if she happened to be at work there. He put his arm round Letty's neck silently, and led her into the kitchen without his usual jokes and caresses. Mrs. Garth was surprised to see Fred at this hour, but surprise was not a feeling that she was given to express, and she only said, quietly continuing her work-- "You, Fred, so early in the day? You look quite pale. Has anything happened?" "I want to speak to Mr. Garth," said Fred, not yet ready to say more--"and to you also," he added, after a little pause, for he had no doubt that Mrs. Garth knew everything about the bill, and he must in the end speak of it before her, if not to her solely. "Caleb will be in again in a few minutes," said Mrs. Garth, who imagined some trouble between Fred and his father. "He is sure not to be long, because he has some work at his desk that must be done this morning. Do you mind staying with me, while I finish my matters here?" "But we needn't go on about Cincinnatus, need we?" said Ben, who had taken Fred's whip out of his hand, and was trying its efficiency on the cat. "No, go out now. But put that whip down. How very mean of you to whip poor old Tortoise! Pray take the whip from him, Fred." "Come, old boy, give it me," said Fred, putting out his hand. "Will you let me ride on your horse to-day?" said Ben, rendering up the whip, with an air of not being obliged to do it. "Not to-day--another time. I am not riding my own horse." "Shall you see Mary to-day?" "Yes, I think so," said Fred, with an unpleasant twinge. "Tell her to come home soon, and play at forfeits, and make fun." "Enough, enough, Ben! run away," said Mrs. Garth, seeing that Fred was teased. . . "Are Letty and Ben your only pupils now, Mrs. Garth?" said Fred, when the children were gone and it was needful to say something that would pass the time. He was not yet sure whether he should wait for Mr. Garth, or use any good opportunity in conversation to confess to Mrs. Garth herself, give her the money and ride away. "One--only one. Fanny Hackbutt comes at half past eleven. I am not getting a great income now," said Mrs. Garth, smiling. "I am at a low ebb with pupils. But I have saved my little purse for Alfred's premium: I have ninety-two pounds. He can go to Mr. Hanmer's now; he is just at the right age." This did not lead well towards the news that Mr. Garth was on the brink of losing ninety-two pounds and more. Fred was silent. "Young gentlemen who go to college are rather more costly than that," Mrs. Garth innocently continued, pulling out the edging on a cap-border. "And Caleb thinks that Alfred will turn out a distinguished engineer: he wants to give the boy a good chance. There he is! I hear him coming in. We will go to him in the parlor, shall we?" When they entered the parlor Caleb had thrown down his hat and was seated at his desk. "What! Fred, my boy!" he said, in a tone of mild surprise, holding his pen still undipped; "you are here betimes." But missing the usual expression of cheerful greeting in Fred's face, he immediately added, "Is there anything up at home?--anything the matter?" "Yes, Mr. Garth, I am come to tell something that I am afraid will give you a bad opinion of me. I am come to tell you and Mrs. Garth that I can't keep my word. I can't find the money to meet the bill after all. I have been unfortunate; I have only got these fifty pounds towards the hundred and sixty." While Fred was speaking, he had taken out the notes and laid them on the desk before Mr. Garth. He had burst forth at once with the plain fact, feeling boyishly miserable and without verbal resources. Mrs. Garth was mutely astonished, and looked at her husband for an explanation. Caleb blushed, and after a little pause said-- "Oh, I didn't tell you, Susan: I put my name to a bill for Fred; it was for a hundred and sixty pounds. He made sure he could meet it himself." There was an evident change in Mrs. Garth's face, but it was like a change below the surface of water which remains smooth. She fixed her eyes on Fred, saying-- "I suppose you have asked your father for the rest of the money and he has refused you." "No," said Fred, biting his lip, and speaking with more difficulty; "but I know it will be of no use to ask him; and unless it were of use, I should not like to mention Mr. Garth's name in the matter." "It has come at an unfortunate time," said Caleb, in his hesitating way, looking down at the notes and nervously fingering the paper, "Christmas upon us--I'm rather hard up just now. You see, I have to cut out everything like a tailor with short measure. What can we do, Susan? I shall want every farthing we have in the bank. It's a hundred and ten pounds, the deuce take it!" "I must give you the ninety-two pounds that I have put by for Alfred's premium," said Mrs. Garth, gravely and decisively, though a nice ear might have discerned a slight tremor in some of the words. "And I have no doubt that Mary has twenty pounds saved from her salary by this time. She will advance it." Mrs. Garth had not again looked at Fred, and was not in the least calculating what words she should use to cut him the most effectively. Like the eccentric woman she was, she was at present absorbed in considering what was to be done, and did not fancy that the end could be better achieved by bitter remarks or explosions. But she had made Fred feel for the first time something like the tooth of remorse. Curiously enough, his pain in the affair beforehand had consisted almost entirely in the sense that he must seem dishonorable, and sink in the opinion of the Garths: he had not occupied himself with the inconvenience and possible injury that his breach might occasion them, for this exercise of the imagination on other people's needs is not common with hopeful young gentlemen. Indeed we are most of us brought up in the notion that the highest motive for not doing a wrong is something irrespective of the beings who would suffer the wrong. But at this moment he suddenly saw himself as a pitiful rascal who was robbing two women of their savings. "I shall certainly pay it all, Mrs. Garth--ultimately," he stammered out. "Yes, ultimately," said Mrs. Garth, who having a special dislike to fine words on ugly occasions, could not now repress an epigram. "But boys cannot well be apprenticed ultimately: they should be apprenticed at fifteen." She had never been so little inclined to make excuses for Fred. "I was the most in the wrong, Susan," said Caleb. "Fred made sure of finding the money. But I'd no business to be fingering bills. I suppose you have looked all round and tried all honest means?" he added, fixing his merciful gray eyes on Fred. Caleb was too delicate, to specify Mr. Featherstone. "Yes, I have tried everything--I really have. I should have had a hundred and thirty pounds ready but for a misfortune with a horse which I was about to sell. My uncle had given me eighty pounds, and I paid away thirty with my old horse in order to get another which I was going to sell for eighty or more--I meant to go without a horse--but now it has turned out vicious and lamed itself. I wish I and the horses too had been at the devil, before I had brought this on you. There's no one else I care so much for: you and Mrs. Garth have always been so kind to me. However, it's no use saying that. You will always think me a rascal now." Fred turned round and hurried out of the room, conscious that he was getting rather womanish, and feeling confusedly that his being sorry was not of much use to the Garths. They could see him mount, and quickly pass through the gate. "I am disappointed in Fred Vincy," said Mrs. Garth. "I would not have believed beforehand that he would have drawn you into his debts. I knew he was extravagant, but I did not think that he would be so mean as to hang his risks on his oldest friend, who could the least afford to lose." "I was a fool, Susan:" "That you were," said the wife, nodding and smiling. "But I should not have gone to publish it in the market-place. Why should you keep such things from me? It is just so with your buttons: you let them burst off without telling me, and go out with your wristband hanging. If I had only known I might have been ready with some better plan." "You are sadly cut up, I know, Susan," said Caleb, looking feelingly at her. "I can't abide your losing the money you've scraped together for Alfred." "It is very well that I _had_ scraped it together; and it is you who will have to suffer, for you must teach the boy yourself. You must give up your bad habits. Some men take to drinking, and you have taken to working without pay. You must indulge yourself a little less in that. And you must ride over to Mary, and ask the child what money she has." Caleb had pushed his chair back, and was leaning forward, shaking his head slowly, and fitting his finger-tips together with much nicety. "Poor Mary!" he said. "Susan," he went on in a lowered tone, "I'm afraid she may be fond of Fred." "Oh no! She always laughs at him; and he is not likely to think of her in any other than a brotherly way." Caleb made no rejoinder, but presently lowered his spectacles, drew up his chair to the desk, and said, "Deuce take the bill--I wish it was at Hanover! These things are a sad interruption to business!" The first part of this speech comprised his whole store of maledictory expression, and was uttered with a slight snarl easy to imagine. But it would be difficult to convey to those who never heard him utter the word "business," the peculiar tone of fervid veneration, of religious regard, in which he wrapped it, as a consecrated symbol is wrapped in its gold-fringed linen. Caleb Garth often shook his head in meditation on the value, the indispensable might of that myriad-headed, myriad-handed labor by which the social body is fed, clothed, and housed. It had laid hold of his imagination in boyhood. The echoes of the great hammer where roof or keel were a-making, the signal-shouts of the workmen, the roar of the furnace, the thunder and plash of the engine, were a sublime music to him; the felling and lading of timber, and the huge trunk vibrating star-like in the distance along the highway, the crane at work on the wharf, the piled-up produce in warehouses, the precision and variety of muscular effort wherever exact work had to be turned out,--all these sights of his youth had acted on him as poetry without the aid of the poets, had made a philosophy for him without the aid of philosophers, a religion without the aid of theology. His early ambition had been to have as effective a share as possible in this sublime labor, which was peculiarly dignified by him with the name of "business;" and though he had only been a short time under a surveyor, and had been chiefly his own teacher, he knew more of land, building, and mining than most of the special men in the county. Seine Einteilung der menschlichen Tätigkeiten war ziemlich grob und wäre, wie bei berühmteren Männern, in diesen fortgeschrittenen Zeiten nicht akzeptabel. Er teilte sie in "Geschäft, Politik, Predigt, Lernen und Unterhaltung" ein. Gegen die letzten vier hatte er nichts einzuwenden, aber er betrachtete sie so, wie ein frommer Heide andere Götter als die seinen betrachtet. Auf die gleiche Weise hielt er alle Ränge für sehr gut, aber er selbst wäre nicht gerne in einem Rang gewesen, in dem er nicht einen so engen Kontakt zum "Geschäft" hatte, dass er oft ehrenvoll mit Spuren von Staub und Mörtel, der Feuchtigkeit der Maschine oder der süßen Erde der Wälder und Felder dekoriert wurde. Obwohl er sich nie für etwas anderes als einen orthodoxen Christen hielt und über vorausgehende Gnade argumentieren würde, wenn das Thema ihm vorgeschlagen würde, denke ich, waren seine wirklichen Gottheiten gute praktische Pläne, genaue Arbeit und die zuverlässige Vollendung von Vorhaben: sein Teufel war ein schlampiger Arbeiter. Aber bei Caleb gab es keinen Geist der Verweigerung, und die Welt schien ihm so wunderbar, dass er bereit war, jede Anzahl von Systemen zu akzeptieren, wie jede Anzahl von Weltall Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Unvermeidbarerweise zeigt sich das neue Pferd von einer aggressiven Natur, es verletzt den Stallknecht und lahmte sein Bein durch wildes Treten im Stall. Freds einzige Hoffnung, die Schuld rechtzeitig zu begleichen, ist dahin. Er geht ins Büro von Caleb Garth, um seine Torheit zu gestehen. Da Garth nicht da ist, geht er zu seinem Haus. Dort arbeitet Susan Garth, eine ältere Version von Mary, hart, sie beaufsichtigt das Backen, unterrichtet ihre beiden jüngsten Kinder und wäscht gleichzeitig Kleidung. Sie hat keine Diener und kämpft darum, ihr Haus in Ordnung zu halten. Die anderen "angesehenen" Ehefrauen in der Stadt sehen auf sie herab, weil sie keine Diener hat und früher als Lehrerin gearbeitet hat, um ihren Lebensunterhalt zu verdienen. Sie ist streng und direkt wie ihre Tochter Mary, aber zwischen Susan und Caleb besteht eine tiefe Liebe und Sympathie. Es gibt eine amüsante Szene zwischen ihren Kindern und ihr, bei der sie versucht, dem gelangweilten Ben Englische Grammatik beizubringen. Fred betritt das Haus und fühlt sich unwohl. Sie begrüßt ihn herzlich, bemerkt aber seine Blässe. Unbewusst von seinem Problem erhöht sie seine Schuld, indem sie sagt, dass sie zuerst genug gespart habe, um ihren ältesten Sohn Alfred in eine Ausbildung zu schicken. Als Caleb nach Hause zurückkehrt, platzt Fred mit dem Problem heraus. Caleb ist aufgebracht und entschuldigt sich bei seiner Frau, als wäre es seine Schuld. Sie diskutieren sofort, wie sie den fälligen Betrag untereinander einsammeln können. Freds Beitrag beträgt nur fünfzig Pfund. Mrs. Garth bittet ihren Mann, zu gehen und Marys Ersparnisse von zwanzig Pfund zu leihen. Bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt hatte Fred nur Selbstmitleid und Schmerz über den Verlust ihrer guten Meinung. Jetzt betrachtet er sich selbst "als jämmerlicher Schurke, der zwei Frauen ihre Ersparnisse raubt". Überwältigt von Scham, flieht er praktisch von der Garth Familie.

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 have mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint's family, and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is, as far as slaves _can_ marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint's chamber door, that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry floor. Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be a mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint's babe needed her attentions. She kept her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature birth to six children; and all the while she was employed as night-nurse to Mrs. Flint's children. Finally, toiling all day, and being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a servant by death, now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little room in the out-house, except when there was sickness in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she held the last dead baby in her arms. "I wish it could have lived," she said; "it is not the will of God that any of my children should live. But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven." Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint's family. Indeed, she was the _factotum_ of the household. Nothing went on well without her. She was my mother's twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she supplied a mother's place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master's house, and the bond between us was very strong. When my friends tried to discourage me from running away; she always encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and ask my master's pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield. She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life. After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack! "I am old, and have not long to live," she used to say; "and I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness." I would beg her not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only. The whole family relied upon her judgement, and were guided by her advice. I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint's house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child. They had always been devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other's eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance, she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she would try to hold up her hand; to let her know that all was well with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side. His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her. "Martha," said he, "aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for her sake." She replied, "Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children." "I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it," said he; "and that Linda would come to supply her aunt's place. She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age." He knew he was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, "It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!" To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one inquire, "How is she?" and he answered, "She is dead." My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered, "Linda, she died happy." I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him. "Don't look _so_" he said. "Don't add to my poor mother's trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her." Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms of a slave-mother's life. She did indeed need consolation! Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor's family burial-place. No colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people's burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of your family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves. He therefore replied, "I have no objection to complying with your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy's _mother_ may have some choice as to where her remains shall be deposited." It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings. When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from _her_. She might have added with touching pathos, "I was so long _used_ to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor." My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint's minister read the funeral service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond and free, and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our family. Dr. Flint's carriage was in the procession; and when the body was deposited in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly. It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the "patriarchal institution;" a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them a different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they _had_ any hearts to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor old slave-mother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip's right to his own earnings; and how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much credit to the master. We could also have told them of a poor, blighted young creature, shut up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the face of her departed friend. All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living. It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to knock for me to come to the trapdoor, and each place had a different meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me of her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It bent under it, but did not break. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Tante Nancy Harriet's geliebte Großtante Nancy, die Zwillingschwester ihrer Mutter, wurde im Alter von zwanzig Jahren mit einem Seemann verheiratet, aber diese Art von Vereinbarung konnte jederzeit nach Belieben eines Sklavenhalters annulliert werden. Tante Nancy war die Sklavin von Mrs. Flint und schlief auf dem Boden ihres Schlafzimmers. Sie gebar mehrere vorzeitige Kinder und wurde schließlich so krank, dass sie keine Kinder mehr bekommen konnte. Sie hatte eine wichtige Stellung im Haushalt inne. Harriet und Nancy hatten eine starke Bindung zueinander und als Harriet klein war, schlief sie oft im selben Bett wie ihre Tante. Ihre Tante würde ihr an ihrem Versteck zuflüstern, dass sie ihr ganzes Leben lang gerne eine Sklavin wäre, wenn nur Harriet und ihre Kinder frei wären. Harriet war sechs Jahre lang an ihrem Versteck gewesen, als ihre Großmutter zum Sterbebett von Tante Nancy gerufen wurde. Nach zwei Tagen starb Tante Nancy schließlich und ihre Großmutter war voller Trauer. Auch Harriet empfand "den Tod dieser lieben Verwandten als unbeschreiblichen Kummer. Ich wusste, dass sie langsam umgebracht worden war, und ich hatte das Gefühl, dass meine Probleme dazu beigetragen hatten, das Werk zu vollenden." Mrs. Flint wurde beim Tod von Tante Nancy sentimental und schlug vor, dass die Sklavin auf dem Familiengrab der Flints begraben werden solle, aber Harriets Großmutter lehnte ab. Dies überraschte Mrs. Flint, denn "es hatte ihr nie in den Sinn gekommen, dass Sklaven Gefühle haben könnten", aber sie stimmte trotzdem zu. Die Beerdigung fand statt und zahlreiche Menschen nahmen daran teil. Für Reisende von außen mochte es wie eine "Huldigung an den bescheidenen Toten als schönes Merkmal der 'patriarchalischen Institution'; ein berührender Beweis für die Verbundenheit zwischen Sklavenhaltern und ihren Dienstboten" ausgesehen haben, aber die Sklaven hätten eine andere Geschichte erzählen können. Harriet war am meisten von der Auswirkung von Tante Nancys Tod auf ihre Großmutter erschüttert, deren Gesicht Zeugnis von den Jahren des Kummers und Leidens ablegte.

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 sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the daemon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I a right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats: but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price perhaps of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the daemon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and, trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew. I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries. Several hours past, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice-- "You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?" "Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness." "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master;--obey!" "The hour of my weakness is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they confirm me in a resolution of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight is in death and wretchedness. Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage." The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you may hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions; but revenge remains--revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict." "Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable." "It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night." I started forward, and exclaimed, "Villain! before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe." I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with precipitation: in a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the main land. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words--"_I will be with you on your wedding-night._" That then was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth,--of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her,--tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join him. He said that nearly a year had elapsed since we had quitted Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth, in a week from that time, when we might arrange the plan of our future proceedings. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect: I must pack my chemical instruments; and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at day-break, I summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the mean time I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness; and I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, every thing was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but quickly found that if I again made the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was so little acquainted with the geography of this part of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind only to be replaced by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be my grave. "Fiend," I exclaimed, "your task is already fulfilled!" I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; and sunk into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes. How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance; but as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilized man. I eagerly traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed very much surprised at my appearance; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that language: "My good friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town, and inform me where I am?" "You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a gruff voice. "May be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste; but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you." I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied: "surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably." "I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn; but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Come, Sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to give an account of yourself." "Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free country?" "Aye, Sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate; and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night." This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my recollection. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist Nacht. Frankenstein sitzt in seinem Laboratorium und denkt über mögliche Auswirkungen dieses zweiten Experiments nach. Er wird immer mehr von seiner Aufgabe entsetzt und findet sich von einer Reihe von Fragen gequält: Wird diese zweite Kreatur noch bösartiger sein als die erste? Wird sie im Gegensatz zu ihrem Partner die Gesellschaft der Menschen ablehnen? Werden sie letztendlich die Hässlichkeit des anderen verachten, als Spiegel ihrer eigenen? Frankenstein ist angewidert von dem Gedanken, dass die beiden Monster Kinder zeugen könnten und damit eine neue Rasse erschaffen könnten, die letztendlich die gesamte Menschheit zerstören könnte. Victor entscheidet, dass die Entfesselung einer solchen Plage auf die Menschheit von höchster Selbstsucht wäre. Er schaut zum Fenster hinauf und sieht das Wesen, das ihm hinter dem Glas zulächelt. Während das Monster zuschaut, zerstört Frankenstein die halbfertige Kreation. Das Wesen heult vor Wut und Verzweiflung und verschwindet dann. Mehrere Stunden später besucht das Wesen Victor, während er in seinem Laboratorium in trüber Betrachtung versunken ist. Das Wesen wirft ihm vor, sein Versprechen gebrochen zu haben, und fragt, ob all seine Mühen und Leiden umsonst waren. Als Frankenstein schwört, nie wieder ein solches Wesen zu erschaffen, nennt ihn das Wesen seinen "Sklaven" und erinnert ihn daran: "Du bist mein Schöpfer, aber ich bin dein Meister". Da Frankenstein sich nicht von Drohungen beeindrucken lässt, schwört das Wesen, Rache an seinem Schöpfer zu nehmen, und verlässt ihn mit einer unheilvollen Drohung: "Ich werde bei dir in deiner Hochzeitsnacht sein." Frankenstein verbringt eine schlaflose Nacht. Er weint bei dem Gedanken, wie groß Elizabeths Trauer wäre, wenn ihr Geliebter ermordet würde. Er beschließt, nicht ohne Kampf vor seinem Feind zu fallen. Ein Brief von Henry trifft ein und bittet ihn, sich ihm in Perth anzuschließen, damit sie gemeinsam gen Süden weiterreisen können. Victor beschließt, ihn in zwei Tagen zu treffen. Beim Beseitigen der Überreste seiner zweiten Schöpfung überkommt Victor Ekel; er fühlt, als habe er lebendiges menschliches Fleisch entweiht. Er beschließt, die Überreste im Meer zu entsorgen. Gegen zwei Uhr morgens steigt Victor in ein kleines Boot und rudert weit weg von der Küste. Er beseitigt die Überreste und segelt weiter; er wird jedoch bald müde und schläft im Boot ein. Als Victor aufwacht, ist er entsetzt festzustellen, dass sein zerbrechliches Schiff in gefährliche Gewässer getrieben ist. Er denkt daran, wie sein Tod seine Familie dem Wesen ausliefern würde; der Gedanke ist eine Qual für ihn, und er wird fast verrückt davon. Trotz seines Elends klammert sich Victor immer noch an das Leben: Er freut sich, wenn er in Sicherheit ist, und schafft es, sicher an irländischen Küsten anzukommen. Eine Menschenmenge beobachtet misstrauisch seine Annäherung; sie überschütten ihn mit verbalen Beschimpfungen und rufen, dass er ein Schurke sei. Ein verwirrter Frankenstein wird aufgefordert, den Magistrat aufzusuchen, da er verdächtigt wird, für den Tod eines Mannes verantwortlich zu sein, der in der vergangenen Nacht ermordet aufgefunden wurde.

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: Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself. Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house--it commands the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have shown that they were unfounded. But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected. "I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name." "Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window," I suggested. "Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he were here." "I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I. "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did." "Then we shall do it together." "But surely he would hear us." "The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of that. We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor. The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance. After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the same. "What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious way. "That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I. "Yes, I am." "Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor." Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile. "My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone." It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and was gone. But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House. I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them and that they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do. Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." "Did he say so?" "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me, and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he has never let us get together and it was only today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman. He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than ever I can hope to pay." I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the lady's own wishes and that the lady should accept the situation without protest is very amazing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it. "I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has done." "Did he give any explanation of his conduct?" "His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have always been together, and according to his account he has been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him and it would take him some time before he could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests." So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared. I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before. We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me. "What are you doing here, Barrymore?" "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened." "On the second floor?" "Yes, sir, all the windows." "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at that window?" The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery. "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window." "And why were you holding a candle to the window?" "Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you." A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling hand of the butler. "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the window. "There it is!" I cried. "No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I assure you, sir--" "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?" The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell." "Then you leave my employment right away." "Very good, sir. If I must I must." "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me." "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face. "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things," said the butler. "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I asked him." "Speak out, then! What does it mean?" "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it." "Then your brother is--" "The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal." "That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against you." This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the country? "Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way in everything until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and lower until it is only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose sake he has done all that he has." The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried conviction with them. "Is this true, Barrymore?" "Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it." "Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about this matter in the morning." When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow light. "I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry. "It may be so placed as to be only visible from here." "Very likely. How far do you think it is?" "Out by the Cleft Tor, I think." "Not more than a mile or two off." "Hardly that." "Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it. And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!" The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure. "I will come," said I. "Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off." In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front. "Are you armed?" I asked. "I have a hunting-crop." "We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before he can resist." "I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?" As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "My God, what's that, Watson?" "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before." It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came. "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound." My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him. "What do they call this sound?" he asked. "Who?" "The folk on the countryside." "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?" "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?" I hesitated but could not escape the question. "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles." He groaned and was silent for a few moments. "A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I think." "It was hard to say whence it came." "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?" "Yes, it is." "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth." "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the calling of a strange bird." "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?" "No, no." "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!" It was as cold as a block of marble. "You'll be all right tomorrow." "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do now?" "Shall we turn back?" "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor." We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it. "What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry. "Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him." The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure. I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next few days. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Morgen schaut Watson aus Barrymores geheimem Fenster. Er sieht, dass dieses Fenster die beste Aussicht auf das Moor bietet. Watson erwähnt Barrymores nächtliche Aktivitäten gegenüber Sir Henry, der nicht überrascht ist. Tatsächlich hat Sir Henry Barrymore auch schon spät in der Nacht herumgehen gehört. Sie entscheiden sich dafür, in dieser Nacht wach zu bleiben und Barrymore zu folgen. Sir Henry bereitet sich darauf vor, einen Spaziergang auf dem Moor zu machen, und Watson macht sich bereit, mit ihm zu gehen. Sir Henry mag keine Gesellschaft zu dritt, Mann. Dräng dich nicht, ich habe Geschäfte auf dem Moor. Watson ist peinlich berührt, ein "drittes Rad am Wagen" zu sein, da es klar ist, dass Sir Henry versucht, ein Date zu haben. Aber Holmes hat darauf bestanden, dass Watson Sir Henry nicht alleine das Haus verlassen lassen soll. Also folgt Watson heimlich, einige Entfernung hinter ihm. Er sieht, wie Sir Henry sich mit Beryl Stapleton trifft. Während Watson aufpasst, sieht er, wie sich die beiden Liebenden voneinander trennen. Er beobachtet, wie Stapleton wütend auf Sir Henry zustürmt. Stapleton geht Sir Henry an und schleift dann Beryl weg. Watson erscheint von seinem Versteck auf einem nahe gelegenen Hügel. Sir Henry ist genervt von Watsons Spionage. Aber er ist mehr von Stapletons bizarrem Verhalten schockiert. Warum würde Stapleton ausrasten, weil Sir Henry Beryl einen Heiratsantrag macht? An diesem Nachmittag kommt Stapleton nach Baskerville Hall, um sich für sein Verhalten zu entschuldigen. Er lädt Sir Henry und Watson zum Abendessen in das Merripit House ein, um sich zu versöhnen. Stapleton erklärt, warum er bei der Vorstellung, dass sich Beryl und Sir Henry treffen, ausgetickt ist. Offenbar ist er ein einsamer Mann, der darauf angewiesen ist, in der Gesellschaft seiner Schwester zu bleiben, um nicht zu isoliert zu sein. Ihm war entgangen, dass Beryl und Sir Henry sich immer näher gekommen waren, und er war überrascht, von ihrem potenziellen Verlobung zu hören. Er hat keine echte Einwendung, bittet aber Sir Henry, ihm drei Monate Zeit zu geben, um sich an die Idee zu gewöhnen. Sir Henry stimmt zu, und so sind er und Beryl nun verlobt... um sich zu verloben. Sir Henry und Watson wenden sich nun wieder Barrymore zu. Zwei Nächte später erwischen sie ihn wieder dabei, wie er am Fenster mit seiner Lampe steht. Barrymore behauptet, dass es nicht seine Aufgabe sei, zu sagen, warum er eine Kerze ans Fenster hält. Als Barrymore spricht, entdecken sie ein weiteres Licht auf dem Moor. Wenn Barrymore seine Kerze bewegt, bewegt sich auch das andere Licht. Ein Signal. Sir Henry entlässt Barrymore auf der Stelle und beschuldigt ihn, gegen ihn zu intrigieren. Plötzlich taucht Mrs. Barrymore auf: Sie schwört, dass sie nicht vorhaben, Sir Henry zu schaden. Barrymore versucht, sie zu beruhigen, aber sie besteht darauf zu erklären: das Signal ist für ihren Bruder. Mrs. Barrymores Bruder ist niemand anderer als - Selden, der geisteskranke entflohene Sträfling. Mrs. Barrymore erklärt, dass sie selbst nach allem, was Selden getan hat, als er an ihrer Türschwelle zitternd und alleine auftauchte, ihn nicht auf dem Moor sterben lassen konnte. Sir Henry vergibt Barrymore, dass er zu seiner Frau steht, und stellt ihn wieder als Butler ein. Er schickt die Barrymores ins Bett und verspricht, dass sie am Morgen über alles reden werden. Nachdem die Barrymores gegangen sind, schauen Watson und Sir Henry aus dem Fenster. Sie können immer noch Seldens Kerze auf dem Moor brennen sehen. Watson vermutet, dass er sich etwa eine Meile oder zwei entfernt versteckt. Sir Henry und Watson beschließen, Selden einzufangen, da ein psychotischer Mörder eine Gefahr für die Gemeinschaft sein könnte. Was meinst du? Watson nimmt seine Waffe mit, und sie machen sich in Richtung des Lichts auf. Plötzlich hören sie diesen niedrigen, stöhrenden Heulton, den Watson an diesem Nachmittag mit Stapleton auf dem Moor gehört hat. Sir Henry klingt ängstlich, als er Watson fragt, was die Einheimischen über diesen Klang sagen. Watson versucht, es als nicht so wichtig abzutun, aber schließlich muss er zugeben: es ist das Heulen des Hundes von Baskerville. Sir Henry wird jetzt sehr abergläubisch wegen dieser Hunde-Angelegenheit. Sie entdecken Selden, als er zu erkennen scheint, dass man ihn gefunden hat. Er rennt über das Moor. Sir Henry und Watson jagen ihm nach, aber er hatte zu viel Vorsprung. Als sie auf dem Moor stehen, sieht Watson die Umrisse einer großen Gestalt eines anderen Mannes vor dem Mond. Eine Splittersekunde später ist der Mann verschwunden.

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. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Imogen liegt im Bett und liest. In einer Ecke des Raumes steht der Koffer, den Iachimo gebeten hat, für die Nacht aufzubewahren. Als die Szene beginnt, bittet Imogen ihre Begleiterin, das Buch wegzulegen, da es fast Mitternacht ist. Allerdings bittet sie die Frau, das Licht brennen zu lassen, während sie schläft. Kurze Zeit später kommt Iachimo aus dem Koffer. Nachdem er festgestellt hat, dass Imogen tatsächlich schläft, macht er sich Notizen über ihr Schlafzimmer, die Bilder an der Wand, die Position des Fensters, das Buch, das sie gelesen hat, und so weiter. Um seine Erzählung glaubhafter zu machen, macht er Aufzeichnungen über ihre körperlichen Merkmale und bemerkt insbesondere einen kleinen Leberfleck auf ihrer linken Brust, der sichtbar ist, während sie schläft. Iachimo ist von Lust ergriffen, belästigt Imogen jedoch nicht, da er weiß, dass er keinen Erfolg haben wird. Er ist jedoch sicher, dass dieses eine Detail ausreichen wird, um Posthumus zu überzeugen, dass er sie verführt hat. Vorsichtig legt er das Armband ab, das Posthumus ihr gegeben hat, und kehrt in den Koffer zurück, bevor Imogen erwacht.

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. Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, Declares His Resolution about Tom "What I want, you know," said Mr. Tulliver,--"what I want is to give Tom a good eddication; an eddication as'll be a bread to him. That was what I was thinking of when I gave notice for him to leave the academy at Lady-day. I mean to put him to a downright good school at Midsummer. The two years at th' academy 'ud ha' done well enough, if I'd meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he's had a fine sight more schoolin' nor _I_ ever got. All the learnin' _my_ father ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at th' other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and write with a flourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldn't make a downright lawyer o' the lad,--I should be sorry for him to be a raskill,--but a sort o' engineer, or a surveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o' them smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a high stool. They're pretty nigh all one, and they're not far off being even wi' the law, _I_ believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i' the face as hard as one cat looks another. _He's_ none frightened at him." Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely woman in a fan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it is since fan-shaped caps were worn, they must be so near coming in again. At that time, when Mrs. Tulliver was nearly forty, they were new at St. Ogg's, and considered sweet things). "Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best: _I've_ no objections. But hadn't I better kill a couple o' fowl, and have th' aunts and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what sister Glegg and sister Pullet have got to say about it? There's a couple o' fowl _wants_ killing!" "You may kill every fowl i' the yard if you like, Bessy; but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what I'm to do wi' my own lad," said Mr. Tulliver, defiantly. "Dear heart!" said Mrs. Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric, "how can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? But it's your way to speak disrespectful o' my family; and sister Glegg throws all the blame upo' me, though I'm sure I'm as innocent as the babe unborn. For nobody's ever heard me say as it wasn't lucky for my children to have aunts and uncles as can live independent. Howiver, if Tom's to go to a new school, I should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him; else he might as well have calico as linen, for they'd be one as yallow as th' other before they'd been washed half-a-dozen times. And then, when the box is goin' back'ard and forrard, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry bit, bless him! whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children can eat as much victuals as most, thank God!" "Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's cart, if other things fit in," said Mr. Tulliver. "But you mustn't put a spoke i' the wheel about the washin,' if we can't get a school near enough. That's the fault I have to find wi' you, Bessy; if you see a stick i' the road, you're allays thinkin' you can't step over it. You'd want me not to hire a good wagoner, 'cause he'd got a mole on his face." "Dear heart!" said Mrs. Tulliver, in mild surprise, "when did I iver make objections to a man because he'd got a mole on his face? I'm sure I'm rether fond o' the moles; for my brother, as is dead an' gone, had a mole on his brow. But I can't remember your iver offering to hire a wagoner with a mole, Mr. Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadn't a mole on his face no more nor you have, an' I was all for having you hire _him_; an' so you did hire him, an' if he hadn't died o' th' inflammation, as we paid Dr. Turnbull for attending him, he'd very like ha' been drivin' the wagon now. He might have a mole somewhere out o' sight, but how was I to know that, Mr. Tulliver?" "No, no, Bessy; I didn't mean justly the mole; I meant it to stand for summat else; but niver mind--it's puzzling work, talking is. What I'm thinking on, is how to find the right sort o' school to send Tom to, for I might be ta'en in again, as I've been wi' th' academy. I'll have nothing to do wi' a 'cademy again: whativer school I send Tom to, it sha'n't be a 'cademy; it shall be a place where the lads spend their time i' summat else besides blacking the family's shoes, and getting up the potatoes. It's an uncommon puzzling thing to know what school to pick." Mr. Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both hands into his breeches pockets as if he hoped to find some suggestion there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for he presently said, "I know what I'll do: I'll talk it over wi' Riley; he's coming to-morrow, t' arbitrate about the dam." "Well, Mr. Tulliver, I've put the sheets out for the best bed, and Kezia's got 'em hanging at the fire. They aren't the best sheets, but they're good enough for anybody to sleep in, be he who he will; for as for them best Holland sheets, I should repent buying 'em, only they'll do to lay us out in. An' if you was to die to-morrow, Mr. Tulliver, they're mangled beautiful, an' all ready, an' smell o' lavender as it 'ud be a pleasure to lay 'em out; an' they lie at the left-hand corner o' the big oak linen-chest at the back: not as I should trust anybody to look 'em out but myself." As Mrs. Tulliver uttered the last sentence, she drew a bright bunch of keys from her pocket, and singled out one, rubbing her thumb and finger up and down it with a placid smile while she looked at the clear fire. If Mr. Tulliver had been a susceptible man in his conjugal relation, he might have supposed that she drew out the key to aid her imagination in anticipating the moment when he would be in a state to justify the production of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was not so; he was only susceptible in respect of his right to water-power; moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, and since his mention of Mr. Riley, had been apparently occupied in a tactile examination of his woollen stockings. "I think I've hit it, Bessy," was his first remark after a short silence. "Riley's as likely a man as any to know o' some school; he's had schooling himself, an' goes about to all sorts o' places, arbitratin' and vallyin' and that. And we shall have time to talk it over to-morrow night when the business is done. I want Tom to be such a sort o' man as Riley, you know,--as can talk pretty nigh as well as if it was all wrote out for him, and knows a good lot o' words as don't mean much, so as you can't lay hold of 'em i' law; and a good solid knowledge o' business too." "Well," said Mrs. Tulliver, "so far as talking proper, and knowing everything, and walking with a bend in his back, and setting his hair up, I shouldn't mind the lad being brought up to that. But them fine-talking men from the big towns mostly wear the false shirt-fronts; they wear a frill till it's all a mess, and then hide it with a bib; I know Riley does. And then, if Tom's to go and live at Mudport, like Riley, he'll have a house with a kitchen hardly big enough to turn in, an' niver get a fresh egg for his breakfast, an' sleep up three pair o' stairs,--or four, for what I know,--and be burnt to death before he can get down." "No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, "I've no thoughts of his going to Mudport: I mean him to set up his office at St. Ogg's, close by us, an' live at home. But," continued Mr. Tulliver after a pause, "what I'm a bit afraid on is, as Tom hasn't got the right sort o' brains for a smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit slowish. He takes after your family, Bessy." "Yes, that he does," said Mrs. Tulliver, accepting the last proposition entirely on its own merits; "he's wonderful for liking a deal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way, and my father's before him." "It seems a bit a pity, though," said Mr. Tulliver, "as the lad should take after the mother's side instead o' the little wench. That's the worst on't wi' crossing o' breeds: you can never justly calkilate what'll come on't. The little un takes after my side, now: she's twice as 'cute as Tom. Too 'cute for a woman, I'm afraid," continued Mr. Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first on one side and then on the other. "It's no mischief much while she's a little un; but an over-'cute woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep,--she'll fetch none the bigger price for that." "Yes, it _is_ a mischief while she's a little un, Mr. Tulliver, for it runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean pinafore two hours together passes my cunning. An' now you put me i' mind," continued Mrs. Tulliver, rising and going to the window, "I don't know where she is now, an' it's pretty nigh tea-time. Ah, I thought so,--wanderin' up an' down by the water, like a wild thing: She'll tumble in some day." Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and shook her head,--a process which she repeated more than once before she returned to her chair. "You talk o' 'cuteness, Mr. Tulliver," she observed as she sat down, "but I'm sure the child's half an idiot i' some things; for if I send her upstairs to fetch anything, she forgets what she's gone for, an' perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor i' the sunshine an' plait her hair an' sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur', all the while I'm waiting for her downstairs. That niver run i' my family, thank God! no more nor a brown skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I don't like to fly i' the face o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have but one gell, an' her so comical." "Pooh, nonsense!" said Mr. Tulliver; "she's a straight, black-eyed wench as anybody need wish to see. I don't know i' what she's behind other folks's children; and she can read almost as well as the parson." "But her hair won't curl all I can do with it, and she's so franzy about having it put i' paper, and I've such work as never was to make her stand and have it pinched with th' irons." "Cut it off--cut it off short," said the father, rashly. "How can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? She's too big a gell--gone nine, and tall of her age--to have her hair cut short; an' there's her cousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her head, an' not a hair out o' place. It seems hard as my sister Deane should have that pretty child; I'm sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie," continued the mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature entered the room, "where's the use o' my telling you to keep away from the water? You'll tumble in and be drownded some day, an' then you'll be sorry you didn't do as mother told you." Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed her mother's accusation. Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her daughter to have a curled crop, "like other folks's children," had had it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the ears; and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep the dark, heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes,--an action which gave her very much the air of a small Shetland pony. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, to throw your bonnet down there? Take it upstairs, there's a good gell, an' let your hair be brushed, an' put your other pinafore on, an' change your shoes, do, for shame; an' come an' go on with your patchwork, like a little lady." "Oh, mother," said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, "I don't _want_ to do my patchwork." "What! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane for your aunt Glegg?" "It's foolish work," said Maggie, with a toss of her mane,--"tearing things to pieces to sew 'em together again. And I don't want to do anything for my aunt Glegg. I don't like her." Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr. Tulliver laughs audibly. "I wonder at you, as you'll laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver," said the mother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. "You encourage her i' naughtiness. An' her aunts will have it as it's me spoils her." Mrs. Tulliver was what is called a good-tempered person,--never cried, when she was a baby, on any slighter ground than hunger and pins; and from the cradle upward had been healthy, fair, plump, and dull-witted; in short, the flower of her family for beauty and amiability. But milk and mildness are not the best things for keeping, and when they turn only a little sour, they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expression, kept their placidity undisturbed when their strong-limbed, strong-willed boys got a little too old to do without clothing. I think they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it became more and more ineffectual. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Herr Tulliver verkündet seine Absicht, Tom auf eine andere Schule zu schicken, wo er lernen kann, "eine Art Ingenieur, oder Vermessungsingenieur, oder Versteigerer und Schätzer, wie Riley, oder eine dieser cleveren Jobs, die nur Gewinne bringen und keine Ausgaben haben . . . ." Frau Tulliver wünscht sich, die Tanten und Onkel zur Diskussion des Vorschlags hinzuzuziehen. Herr Tulliver sagt, er werde tun, was er will. Seine Frau ist schockiert über seine Unabhängigkeit von seinen wohlhabenderen Verwandten, und Tulliver selbst weiß nicht genau, wohin er Tom schicken sollte. Er beschließt, Rat von Herrn Riley, einem gebildeten Mann, einzuholen. Frau Tulliver macht sich Sorgen darüber, wie Tom leben wird, wer seine Wäsche macht und ob er genug zu essen bekommt. Das Gespräch dreht sich um Maggie, die heißt, sie ähnle ihrem Vater. Sie ist klug, aber "es zeigt sich alles in Boshaftigkeit." Ihr Aussehen ist ihr nicht wichtig und sie ist in anderer Hinsicht vergesslich. Dies bewahrheitet sich, als Maggie spät zum Tee kommt und ihre Haare in Unordnung sind. Frau Tulliver versucht, sie zu überreden, ihre Patchwork-Arbeit für Tante Glegg zu machen, aber Maggie äußert eine starke Abneigung gegen Patchwork und ihre Tante. Das amüsiert Herrn Tulliver. Frau Tulliver sorgt sich, weil Maggie so anders ist als sie selbst als Kind.

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 visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father--could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged. Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable. Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use. The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it so particularly strange! For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had written it himself. "'Tis only from James, however," as she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose: "Dear Catherine, "Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly given--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart. "Believe me," &c. Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father's entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort to her. After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantly hint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it, looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they are none of them ill?" "No, I thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "they are all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford." Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through her tears, she added, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!" "I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; "if I had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings." "It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know why." "To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister," replied Henry warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress." "I have one favour to beg," said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go away." "Our brother! Frederick!" "Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney." Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips. "How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you have guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?" "I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story." "It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself. Stay--There is one part--" recollecting with a blush the last line. "Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern my brother?" "No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were clearer. "I do not know what I was thinking of" (blushing again that she had blushed before); "James only means to give me good advice." He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son." Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune. "Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was Catherine's answer. "What was her father?" "A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney." "Are they a wealthy family?" "No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!" "That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise." "Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said Eleanor with a smile. "But perhaps," observed Catherine, "though she has behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant." "Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry; "I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is Frederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals." "You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in my life before." "Among all the great variety that you have known and studied." "My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it." "Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?" "No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, "I do not--ought I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have thought." Du fühlst, wie du es immer tust, was am meisten dem guten Wesen der Menschen zuzuschreiben ist. Solche Gefühle sollten untersucht werden, damit sie sich selbst kennen. Catherine fand auf irgendeine Weise ihre Stimmung durch dieses Gespräch sehr erleichtert, sodass sie es nicht bereuen konnte, darauf hingeführt worden zu sein, wenn auch auf so unerklärliche Weise, den Umstand zu erwähnen, der dies verursacht hatte. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Catherine hat eine Offenbarung gehabt und erkennt, wie sie ihre romantische Vorstellungskraft hat mit ihr durchgehen lassen. Catherine ist sehr peinlich berührt, aber Henry ist an diesem Abend aufmerksamer als sonst zu ihr, da er bemerkt, dass sie aufgebracht und sich schämt. Catherine fängt an, sich zu erholen und beschließt, dass sie eine wertvolle Lektion gelernt hat, nämlich auf gesunden Menschenverstand und Vernunft zu setzen anstatt auf romantische Vorstellungskraft. Sie führt ihre Probleme auf die gotische Literatur zurück, die sie in Bath gelesen hat, und beschließt, dass sie einen negativen Einfluss auf sie hatte. Sie kommt zu dem Schluss, dass England ein zivilisiertes Land ist, in dem keine gotischen Schrecken passieren. Die anderen europäischen Länder hingegen sind noch immer verdächtig. Catherine kehrt in die reale Welt zurück und beginnt sich Sorgen um James und Isabella zu machen, da sie keine Nachricht von ihnen hat. Neun Tage vergehen. Catherine erhält endlich einen Brief von James. James schreibt, dass er und Isabella sich getrennt haben und Andeutungen macht, dass Isabella mit Hauptmann Tilney durchgebrannt ist. James warnt Catherine davor, ihr Herz zu leichtsinnig zu verschenken, da er es auf die harte Tour mit der hinterlistigen Isabella gelernt hat. Catherine ist entsetzt über diese Nachricht und fängt am Frühstückstisch an zu weinen. Der General liest die Zeitung und bemerkt nichts. Henry und Eleanor sind besorgt, geben Catherine jedoch etwas Zeit für sich, bevor sie sie fragen, was los ist. Catherine erzählt ihnen, was passiert ist, nachdem Henry eine Vermutung anstellt und ihn den Brief lesen lässt. Henry und Eleanor sind total verwirrt und können nicht glauben, dass ihr Bruder sich tatsächlich auf Isabella eingelassen hat. Henry sagt, dass Hauptmann Tilney sich wie ein Dummkopf benommen hat und erst einmal erledigt ist. Beide Tilney-Geschwister sind besorgt über die Reaktion ihres Vaters auf diesen Skandal. Catherine ruft aus, dass sie nicht glauben kann, wie sehr sie von Isabella getäuscht wurde, doch sie wird von den Tilneys getröstet und nimmt diese Nachrichten gelassen auf.

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 Mrs. Higgins's at-home day. Nobody has yet arrived. Her drawing-room, in a flat on Chelsea embankment, has three windows looking on the river; and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would be in an older house of the same pretension. The windows are open, giving access to a balcony with flowers in pots. If you stand with your face to the windows, you have the fireplace on your left and the door in the right-hand wall close to the corner nearest the windows. Mrs. Higgins was brought up on Morris and Burne Jones; and her room, which is very unlike her son's room in Wimpole Street, is not crowded with furniture and little tables and nicknacks. In the middle of the room there is a big ottoman; and this, with the carpet, the Morris wall-papers, and the Morris chintz window curtains and brocade covers of the ottoman and its cushions, supply all the ornament, and are much too handsome to be hidden by odds and ends of useless things. A few good oil-paintings from the exhibitions in the Grosvenor Gallery thirty years ago (the Burne Jones, not the Whistler side of them) are on the walls. The only landscape is a Cecil Lawson on the scale of a Rubens. There is a portrait of Mrs. Higgins as she was when she defied fashion in her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettian costumes which, when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism in the eighteen-seventies. In the corner diagonally opposite the door Mrs. Higgins, now over sixty and long past taking the trouble to dress out of the fashion, sits writing at an elegantly simple writing-table with a bell button within reach of her hand. There is a Chippendale chair further back in the room between her and the window nearest her side. At the other side of the room, further forward, is an Elizabethan chair roughly carved in the taste of Inigo Jones. On the same side a piano in a decorated case. The corner between the fireplace and the window is occupied by a divan cushioned in Morris chintz. It is between four and five in the afternoon. The door is opened violently; and Higgins enters with his hat on. MRS. HIGGINS [dismayed] Henry [scolding him]! What are you doing here to-day? It is my at home day: you promised not to come. [As he bends to kiss her, she takes his hat off, and presents it to him]. HIGGINS. Oh bother! [He throws the hat down on the table]. MRS. HIGGINS. Go home at once. HIGGINS [kissing her] I know, mother. I came on purpose. MRS. HIGGINS. But you mustn't. I'm serious, Henry. You offend all my friends: they stop coming whenever they meet you. HIGGINS. Nonsense! I know I have no small talk; but people don't mind. [He sits on the settee]. MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! don't they? Small talk indeed! What about your large talk? Really, dear, you mustn't stay. HIGGINS. I must. I've a job for you. A phonetic job. MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. I'm sorry; but I can't get round your vowels; and though I like to get pretty postcards in your patent shorthand, I always have to read the copies in ordinary writing you so thoughtfully send me. HIGGINS. Well, this isn't a phonetic job. MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was. HIGGINS. Not your part of it. I've picked up a girl. MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl has picked you up? HIGGINS. Not at all. I don't mean a love affair. MRS. HIGGINS. What a pity! HIGGINS. Why? MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you never fall in love with anyone under forty-five. When will you discover that there are some rather nice-looking young women about? HIGGINS. Oh, I can't be bothered with young women. My idea of a loveable woman is something as like you as possible. I shall never get into the way of seriously liking young women: some habits lie too deep to be changed. [Rising abruptly and walking about, jingling his money and his keys in his trouser pockets] Besides, they're all idiots. MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know what you would do if you really loved me, Henry? HIGGINS. Oh bother! What? Marry, I suppose? MRS. HIGGINS. No. Stop fidgeting and take your hands out of your pockets. [With a gesture of despair, he obeys and sits down again]. That's a good boy. Now tell me about the girl. HIGGINS. She's coming to see you. MRS. HIGGINS. I don't remember asking her. HIGGINS. You didn't. I asked her. If you'd known her you wouldn't have asked her. MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why? HIGGINS. Well, it's like this. She's a common flower girl. I picked her off the kerbstone. MRS. HIGGINS. And invited her to my at-home! HIGGINS [rising and coming to her to coax her] Oh, that'll be all right. I've taught her to speak properly; and she has strict orders as to her behavior. She's to keep to two subjects: the weather and everybody's health--Fine day and How do you do, you know--and not to let herself go on things in general. That will be safe. MRS. HIGGINS. Safe! To talk about our health! about our insides! perhaps about our outsides! How could you be so silly, Henry? HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, she must talk about something. [He controls himself and sits down again]. Oh, she'll be all right: don't you fuss. Pickering is in it with me. I've a sort of bet on that I'll pass her off as a duchess in six months. I started on her some months ago; and she's getting on like a house on fire. I shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; and she's been easier to teach than my middle-class pupils because she's had to learn a complete new language. She talks English almost as you talk French. MRS. HIGGINS. That's satisfactory, at all events. HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isn't. MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean? HIGGINS. You see, I've got her pronunciation all right; but you have to consider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she pronounces; and that's where-- They are interrupted by the parlor-maid, announcing guests. THE PARLOR-MAID. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill. [She withdraws]. HIGGINS. Oh Lord! [He rises; snatches his hat from the table; and makes for the door; but before he reaches it his mother introduces him]. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill are the mother and daughter who sheltered from the rain in Covent Garden. The mother is well bred, quiet, and has the habitual anxiety of straitened means. The daughter has acquired a gay air of being very much at home in society: the bravado of genteel poverty. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] How do you do? [They shake hands]. MISS EYNSFORD HILL. How d'you do? [She shakes]. MRS. HIGGINS [introducing] My son Henry. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Your celebrated son! I have so longed to meet you, Professor Higgins. HIGGINS [glumly, making no movement in her direction] Delighted. [He backs against the piano and bows brusquely]. Miss EYNSFORD HILL [going to him with confident familiarity] How do you do? HIGGINS [staring at her] I've seen you before somewhere. I haven't the ghost of a notion where; but I've heard your voice. [Drearily] It doesn't matter. You'd better sit down. MRS. HIGGINS. I'm sorry to say that my celebrated son has no manners. You mustn't mind him. MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] I don't. [She sits in the Elizabethan chair]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [a little bewildered] Not at all. [She sits on the ottoman between her daughter and Mrs. Higgins, who has turned her chair away from the writing-table]. HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didn't mean to be. [He goes to the central window, through which, with his back to the company, he contemplates the river and the flowers in Battersea Park on the opposite bank as if they were a frozen dessert.] The parlor-maid returns, ushering in Pickering. THE PARLOR-MAID. Colonel Pickering [She withdraws]. PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? MRS. HIGGINS. So glad you've come. Do you know Mrs. Eynsford Hill--Miss Eynsford Hill? [Exchange of bows. The Colonel brings the Chippendale chair a little forward between Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Higgins, and sits down]. PICKERING. Has Henry told you what we've come for? HIGGINS [over his shoulder] We were interrupted: damn it! MRS. HIGGINS. Oh Henry, Henry, really! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [half rising] Are we in the way? MRS. HIGGINS [rising and making her sit down again] No, no. You couldn't have come more fortunately: we want you to meet a friend of ours. HIGGINS [turning hopefully] Yes, by George! We want two or three people. You'll do as well as anybody else. The parlor-maid returns, ushering Freddy. THE PARLOR-MAID. Mr. Eynsford Hill. HIGGINS [almost audibly, past endurance] God of Heaven! another of them. FREDDY [shaking hands with Mrs. Higgins] Ahdedo? MRS. HIGGINS. Very good of you to come. [Introducing] Colonel Pickering. FREDDY [bowing] Ahdedo? MRS. HIGGINS. I don't think you know my son, Professor Higgins. FREDDY [going to Higgins] Ahdedo? HIGGINS [looking at him much as if he were a pickpocket] I'll take my oath I've met you before somewhere. Where was it? FREDDY. I don't think so. HIGGINS [resignedly] It don't matter, anyhow. Sit down. He shakes Freddy's hand, and almost slings him on the ottoman with his face to the windows; then comes round to the other side of it. HIGGINS. Well, here we are, anyhow! [He sits down on the ottoman next Mrs. Eynsford Hill, on her left.] And now, what the devil are we going to talk about until Eliza comes? MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: you are the life and soul of the Royal Society's soirees; but really you're rather trying on more commonplace occasions. HIGGINS. Am I? Very sorry. [Beaming suddenly] I suppose I am, you know. [Uproariously] Ha, ha! MISS EYNSFORD HILL [who considers Higgins quite eligible matrimonially] I sympathize. I haven't any small talk. If people would only be frank and say what they really think! HIGGINS [relapsing into gloom] Lord forbid! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [taking up her daughter's cue] But why? HIGGINS. What they think they ought to think is bad enough, Lord knows; but what they really think would break up the whole show. Do you suppose it would be really agreeable if I were to come out now with what I really think? MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] Is it so very cynical? HIGGINS. Cynical! Who the dickens said it was cynical? I mean it wouldn't be decent. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [seriously] Oh! I'm sure you don't mean that, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. You see, we're all savages, more or less. We're supposed to be civilized and cultured--to know all about poetry and philosophy and art and science, and so on; but how many of us know even the meanings of these names? [To Miss Hill] What do you know of poetry? [To Mrs. Hill] What do you know of science? [Indicating Freddy] What does he know of art or science or anything else? What the devil do you imagine I know of philosophy? MRS. HIGGINS [warningly] Or of manners, Henry? THE PARLOR-MAID [opening the door] Miss Doolittle. [She withdraws]. HIGGINS [rising hastily and running to Mrs. Higgins] Here she is, mother. [He stands on tiptoe and makes signs over his mother's head to Eliza to indicate to her which lady is her hostess]. Eliza, who is exquisitely dressed, produces an impression of such remarkable distinction and beauty as she enters that they all rise, quite flustered. Guided by Higgins's signals, she comes to Mrs. Higgins with studied grace. LIZA [speaking with pedantic correctness of pronunciation and great beauty of tone] How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? [She gasps slightly in making sure of the H in Higgins, but is quite successful]. Mr. Higgins told me I might come. MRS. HIGGINS [cordially] Quite right: I'm very glad indeed to see you. PICKERING. How do you do, Miss Doolittle? LIZA [shaking hands with him] Colonel Pickering, is it not? MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I feel sure we have met before, Miss Doolittle. I remember your eyes. LIZA. How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman gracefully in the place just left vacant by Higgins]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My daughter Clara. LIZA. How do you do? CLARA [impulsively] How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman beside Eliza, devouring her with her eyes]. FREDDY [coming to their side of the ottoman] I've certainly had the pleasure. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My son Freddy. LIZA. How do you do? Freddy bows and sits down in the Elizabethan chair, infatuated. HIGGINS [suddenly] By George, yes: it all comes back to me! [They stare at him]. Covent Garden! [Lamentably] What a damned thing! MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, please! [He is about to sit on the edge of the table]. Don't sit on my writing-table: you'll break it. HIGGINS [sulkily] Sorry. He goes to the divan, stumbling into the fender and over the fire-irons on his way; extricating himself with muttered imprecations; and finishing his disastrous journey by throwing himself so impatiently on the divan that he almost breaks it. Mrs. Higgins looks at him, but controls herself and says nothing. A long and painful pause ensues. MRS. HIGGINS [at last, conversationally] Will it rain, do you think? LIZA. The shallow depression in the west of these islands is likely to move slowly in an easterly direction. There are no indications of any great change in the barometrical situation. FREDDY. Ha! ha! how awfully funny! LIZA. What is wrong with that, young man? I bet I got it right. FREDDY. Killing! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I'm sure I hope it won't turn cold. There's so much influenza about. It runs right through our whole family regularly every spring. LIZA [darkly] My aunt died of influenza: so they said. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [clicks her tongue sympathetically]!!! LIZA [in the same tragic tone] But it's my belief they done the old woman in. MRS. HIGGINS [puzzled] Done her in? LIZA. Y-e-e-e-es, Lord love you! Why should she die of influenza? She come through diphtheria right enough the year before. I saw her with my own eyes. Fairly blue with it, she was. They all thought she was dead; but my father he kept ladling gin down her throat til she came to so sudden that she bit the bowl off the spoon. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [startled] Dear me! LIZA [piling up the indictment] What call would a woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. What does doing her in mean? HIGGINS [hastily] Oh, that's the new small talk. To do a person in means to kill them. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Eliza, horrified] You surely don't believe that your aunt was killed? LIZA. Do I not! Them she lived with would have killed her for a hat-pin, let alone a hat. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. But it can't have been right for your father to pour spirits down her throat like that. It might have killed her. LIZA. Not her. Gin was mother's milk to her. Besides, he'd poured so much down his own throat that he knew the good of it. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Do you mean that he drank? LIZA. Drank! My word! Something chronic. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. How dreadful for you! LIZA. Not a bit. It never did him no harm what I could see. But then he did not keep it up regular. [Cheerfully] On the burst, as you might say, from time to time. And always more agreeable when he had a drop in. When he was out of work, my mother used to give him fourpence and tell him to go out and not come back until he'd drunk himself cheerful and loving-like. There's lots of women has to make their husbands drunk to make them fit to live with. [Now quite at her ease] You see, it's like this. If a man has a bit of a conscience, it always takes him when he's sober; and then it makes him low-spirited. A drop of booze just takes that off and makes him happy. [To Freddy, who is in convulsions of suppressed laughter] Here! what are you sniggering at? FREDDY. The new small talk. You do it so awfully well. LIZA. If I was doing it proper, what was you laughing at? [To Higgins] Have I said anything I oughtn't? MRS. HIGGINS [interposing] Not at all, Miss Doolittle. LIZA. Well, that's a mercy, anyhow. [Expansively] What I always say is-- HIGGINS [rising and looking at his watch] Ahem! LIZA [looking round at him; taking the hint; and rising] Well: I must go. [They all rise. Freddy goes to the door]. So pleased to have met you. Good-bye. [She shakes hands with Mrs. Higgins]. MRS. HIGGINS. Good-bye. LIZA. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. PICKERING. Good-bye, Miss Doolittle. [They shake hands]. LIZA [nodding to the others] Good-bye, all. FREDDY [opening the door for her] Are you walking across the Park, Miss Doolittle? If so-- LIZA. Walk! Not bloody likely. [Sensation]. I am going in a taxi. [She goes out]. Pickering gasps and sits down. Freddy goes out on the balcony to catch another glimpse of Eliza. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [suffering from shock] Well, I really can't get used to the new ways. CLARA [throwing herself discontentedly into the Elizabethan chair]. Oh, it's all right, mamma, quite right. People will think we never go anywhere or see anybody if you are so old-fashioned. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I daresay I am very old-fashioned; but I do hope you won't begin using that expression, Clara. I have got accustomed to hear you talking about men as rotters, and calling everything filthy and beastly; though I do think it horrible and unladylike. But this last is really too much. Don't you think so, Colonel Pickering? PICKERING. Don't ask me. I've been away in India for several years; and manners have changed so much that I sometimes don't know whether I'm at a respectable dinner-table or in a ship's forecastle. CLARA. It's all a matter of habit. There's no right or wrong in it. Nobody means anything by it. And it's so quaint, and gives such a smart emphasis to things that are not in themselves very witty. I find the new small talk delightful and quite innocent. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [rising] Well, after that, I think it's time for us to go. Pickering and Higgins rise. CLARA [rising] Oh yes: we have three at homes to go to still. Good-bye, Mrs. Higgins. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. Good-bye, Professor Higgins. HIGGINS [coming grimly at her from the divan, and accompanying her to the door] Good-bye. Be sure you try on that small talk at the three at-homes. Don't be nervous about it. Pitch it in strong. CLARA [all smiles] I will. Good-bye. Such nonsense, all this early Victorian prudery! HIGGINS [tempting her] Such damned nonsense! CLARA. Such bloody nonsense! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [convulsively] Clara! CLARA. Ha! ha! [She goes out radiant, conscious of being thoroughly up to date, and is heard descending the stairs in a stream of silvery laughter]. FREDDY [to the heavens at large] Well, I ask you [He gives it up, and comes to Mrs. Higgins]. Good-bye. MRS. HIGGINS [shaking hands] Good-bye. Would you like to meet Miss Doolittle again? FREDDY [eagerly] Yes, I should, most awfully. MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you know my days. FREDDY. Yes. Thanks awfully. Good-bye. [He goes out]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Good-bye, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. Good-bye. Good-bye. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Pickering] It's no use. I shall never be able to bring myself to use that word. PICKERING. Don't. It's not compulsory, you know. You'll get on quite well without it. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Only, Clara is so down on me if I am not positively reeking with the latest slang. Good-bye. PICKERING. Good-bye [They shake hands]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] You mustn't mind Clara. [Pickering, catching from her lowered tone that this is not meant for him to hear, discreetly joins Higgins at the window]. We're so poor! and she gets so few parties, poor child! She doesn't quite know. [Mrs. Higgins, seeing that her eyes are moist, takes her hand sympathetically and goes with her to the door]. But the boy is nice. Don't you think so? MRS. HIGGINS. Oh, quite nice. I shall always be delighted to see him. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Thank you, dear. Good-bye. [She goes out]. HIGGINS [eagerly] Well? Is Eliza presentable [he swoops on his mother and drags her to the ottoman, where she sits down in Eliza's place with her son on her left]? Pickering returns to his chair on her right. MRS. HIGGINS. You silly boy, of course she's not presentable. She's a triumph of your art and of her dressmaker's; but if you suppose for a moment that she doesn't give herself away in every sentence she utters, you must be perfectly cracked about her. PICKERING. But don't you think something might be done? I mean something to eliminate the sanguinary element from her conversation. MRS. HIGGINS. Not as long as she is in Henry's hands. HIGGINS [aggrieved] Do you mean that my language is improper? MRS. HIGGINS. No, dearest: it would be quite proper--say on a canal barge; but it would not be proper for her at a garden party. HIGGINS [deeply injured] Well I must say-- PICKERING [interrupting him] Come, Higgins: you must learn to know yourself. I haven't heard such language as yours since we used to review the volunteers in Hyde Park twenty years ago. HIGGINS [sulkily] Oh, well, if you say so, I suppose I don't always talk like a bishop. MRS. HIGGINS [quieting Henry with a touch] Colonel Pickering: will you tell me what is the exact state of things in Wimpole Street? PICKERING [cheerfully: as if this completely changed the subject] Well, I have come to live there with Henry. We work together at my Indian Dialects; and we think it more convenient-- MRS. HIGGINS. Quite so. I know all about that: it's an excellent arrangement. But where does this girl live? HIGGINS. With us, of course. Where would she live? MRS. HIGGINS. But on what terms? Is she a servant? If not, what is she? PICKERING [slowly] I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Higgins. HIGGINS. Well, dash me if I do! I've had to work at the girl every day for months to get her to her present pitch. Besides, she's useful. She knows where my things are, and remembers my appointments and so forth. MRS. HIGGINS. How does your housekeeper get on with her? HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce? Oh, she's jolly glad to get so much taken off her hands; for before Eliza came, she had to have to find things and remind me of my appointments. But she's got some silly bee in her bonnet about Eliza. She keeps saying "You don't think, sir": doesn't she, Pick? PICKERING. Yes: that's the formula. "You don't think, sir." That's the end of every conversation about Eliza. HIGGINS. As if I ever stop thinking about the girl and her confounded vowels and consonants. I'm worn out, thinking about her, and watching her lips and her teeth and her tongue, not to mention her soul, which is the quaintest of the lot. MRS. HIGGINS. You certainly are a pretty pair of babies, playing with your live doll. HIGGINS. Playing! The hardest job I ever tackled: make no mistake about that, mother. But you have no idea how frightfully interesting it is to take a human being and change her into a quite different human being by creating a new speech for her. It's filling up the deepest gulf that separates class from class and soul from soul. PICKERING [drawing his chair closer to Mrs. Higgins and bending over to her eagerly] Yes: it's enormously interesting. I assure you, Mrs. Higgins, we take Eliza very seriously. Every week--every day almost--there is some new change. [Closer again] We keep records of every stage--dozens of gramophone disks and photographs-- HIGGINS [assailing her at the other ear] Yes, by George: it's the most absorbing experiment I ever tackled. She regularly fills our lives up; doesn't she, Pick? PICKERING. We're always talking Eliza. HIGGINS. Teaching Eliza. PICKERING. Dressing Eliza. MRS. HIGGINS. What! HIGGINS. Inventing new Elizas. Higgins and Pickering, speaking together: HIGGINS. You know, she has the most extraordinary quickness of ear: PICKERING. I assure you, my dear Mrs. Higgins, that girl HIGGINS. just like a parrot. I've tried her with every PICKERING. is a genius. She can play the piano quite beautifully HIGGINS. possible sort of sound that a human being can make-- PICKERING. We have taken her to classical concerts and to music HIGGINS. Continental dialects, African dialects, Hottentot PICKERING. halls; and it's all the same to her: she plays everything HIGGINS. clicks, things it took me years to get hold of; and PICKERING. she hears right off when she comes home, whether it's HIGGINS. she picks them up like a shot, right away, as if she had PICKERING. Beethoven and Brahms or Lehar and Lionel Morickton; HIGGINS. been at it all her life. PICKERING. though six months ago, she'd never as much as touched a piano. MRS. HIGGINS [putting her fingers in her ears, as they are by this time shouting one another down with an intolerable noise] Sh--sh--sh--sh! [They stop]. PICKERING. I beg your pardon. [He draws his chair back apologetically]. HIGGINS. Sorry. When Pickering starts shouting nobody can get a word in edgeways. MRS. HIGGINS. Be quiet, Henry. Colonel Pickering: don't you realize that when Eliza walked into Wimpole Street, something walked in with her? PICKERING. Her father did. But Henry soon got rid of him. MRS. HIGGINS. It would have been more to the point if her mother had. But as her mother didn't something else did. PICKERING. But what? MRS. HIGGINS [unconsciously dating herself by the word] A problem. PICKERING. Oh, I see. The problem of how to pass her off as a lady. HIGGINS. I'll solve that problem. I've half solved it already. MRS. HIGGINS. No, you two infinitely stupid male creatures: the problem of what is to be done with her afterwards. HIGGINS. I don't see anything in that. She can go her own way, with all the advantages I have given her. MRS. HIGGINS. The advantages of that poor woman who was here just now! The manners and habits that disqualify a fine lady from earning her own living without giving her a fine lady's income! Is that what you mean? PICKERING [indulgently, being rather bored] Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Higgins. [He rises to go]. HIGGINS [rising also] We'll find her some light employment. PICKERING. She's happy enough. Don't you worry about her. Good-bye. [He shakes hands as if he were consoling a frightened child, and makes for the door]. HIGGINS. Anyhow, there's no good bothering now. The thing's done. Good-bye, mother. [He kisses her, and follows Pickering]. PICKERING [turning for a final consolation] There are plenty of openings. We'll do what's right. Good-bye. HIGGINS [to Pickering as they go out together] Let's take her to the Shakespear exhibition at Earls Court. PICKERING. Yes: let's. Her remarks will be delicious. HIGGINS. She'll mimic all the people for us when we get home. PICKERING. Großartig. [Beide lachen, während sie die Treppe hinuntergehen]. MRS. HIGGINS [steht mit ungeduldigem Aufspringen auf und kehrt zu ihrer Arbeit am Schreibtisch zurück. Sie fegt einen Haufen durcheinandergebrachter Papiere aus dem Weg, schnappt sich ein Blatt Papier aus ihrer Schreibwarenkassette und versucht entschlossen zu schreiben. Bei der dritten Zeile gibt sie auf, wirft ihren Stift hin, packt den Tisch wütend und ruft aus] Oh, Männer! Männer!! Männer!!! Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist der gesellschaftliche Tag zu Hause von Mrs. Higgins, Henrys Mutter, in ihrer Wohnung in Chelsea. Plötzlich öffnet Henry Higgins die Tür und tritt ein. Mrs. Higgins schimpft mit ihm, dass er an ihrem Tag zu Hause gekommen ist, weil er unhöflich ist und ihre Gäste verjagt. Er erklärt, dass er absichtlich wegen eines Phonotypie-Jobs gekommen ist. Er bringt ein Mädchen mit, um sie und ihre Firma zu treffen. Er gibt zu, dass sie eine gewöhnliche Blumenverkäuferin ist, aber er hat ihr beigebracht, richtig zu sprechen. Er hat ihr gesagt, sich auf zwei Themen zu konzentrieren: das Wetter und die Gesundheit aller. Er ist begeistert von Elizas Fortschritten, denn in wenigen Monaten hat sie alles aufgenommen, was er und Pickering ihr über Sprache und Manieren beigebracht haben. Gerade dann kommen Gäste, Mrs. und Miss Clara Eynsford-Hill. Sie sind die beiden Frauen, die im Regen in Covent Garden gewartet haben, wo Higgins Eliza getroffen hat. Higgins ist unhöflich und direkt bei den Vorstellungen, dann wird Pickering angekündigt und Freddy Eynsford-Hill erscheint. Mrs. Higgins korrigiert Henry immer wieder dafür, dass er so direkt spricht, aber Miss Eynsford-Hill, die ihm als heiratsfähigen Junggesellen sympathisiert, gibt zu verstehen, dass es schwer ist, Smalltalk zu führen. Eliza Doolittle wird angekündigt und erscheint als elegante Schönheit. Alle erheben sich. Liza spricht langsam, deutlich und korrekt. Freddy ist völlig hin und weg von ihr. Mrs. Higgins versucht, ein Gespräch in Gang zu bringen, indem sie sie fragt, ob sie meint, dass es regnen wird. Liza antwortet mit einer ihrer phonetischen Übungen: "Die flache Depression im Westen dieser Inseln wird sich voraussichtlich in östlicher Richtung bewegen". Freddy lacht. Mrs. Eynsford-Hill sagt, sie hofft, dass es nicht kalt wird, da ihre Familie anfällig für Grippe ist. Das bringt Liza auf ihre eigene Schiene, und sie erzählt die Geschichte ihrer Tante, die angeblich an Grippe gestorben ist, aber sie weiß, dass "sie die alte Frau fertiggemacht haben". Mrs. Eynsford-Hill fragt, was bedeutet es, jemanden fertigzumachen? Higgins unterbricht und sagt, das ist der neue Smalltalk. Jemanden fertigmachen bedeutet, ihn umzubringen. Mrs. Eynsford-Hill ist entsetzt und fragt, meinst du, deine Tante wurde ermordet? Liza erzählt weiter von ihres Vaters Trinkerei und wie viele Frauen ihre Männer betrunken halten, damit sie fröhlicher und leichter zu ertragen sind. Freddy fängt an zu lachen und sagt, Eliza macht den neuen Smalltalk so gut. Higgins entscheidet, dass es genug ist und gibt das Signal zum Aufbruch. Freddy, der sich nicht von ihr trennen möchte, fragt, ob sie durch den Park gehen wird. Liza antwortet und flucht: "Nicht blutig wahrscheinlich. Ich werde mit dem Taxi fahren". Nachdem Liza gegangen ist, ist Mrs. Eynsford-Hill schockiert und sagt, sie wird sich nie daran gewöhnen können, aber Clara schimpft mit ihrer Mutter, weil sie in der Gesellschaft auf dem neuesten Stand sein will. Higgins lockt Clara dazu, das neue Wort selbst zu sagen. Clara lacht und sagt: "Was für ein blöder Unsinn!" Wenn die Gesellschaft geht, fragt Higgins seine Mutter, ob Eliza vorzeigbar ist. Mrs. Higgins sagt natürlich nicht; sie verrät sich bei jedem Satz, den sie sagt. Sie warnt, dass Liza unter Henrys Obhut nie die höfliche Sprache lernen wird. Mrs. Higgins beginnt, die Männer zu bohren, was Eliza in der Wimpole Street macht. Die drei leben zusammen, ohne sich um ihr Äußeres zu kümmern, denn die Professoren bringen ihr Sprache und Kleidung bei, als ihr Experiment. Sie erledigt alle Higgings' Termine und organisiert sein ganzes Leben. Die beiden Männer nehmen sie mit zu kulturellen Veranstaltungen und hören gerne ihre Reaktionen auf alles. Mrs. Higgins sagt, sie seien Kinder, die mit einer "lebenden Puppe" spielen. Sie beginnen, Elizas Fähigkeit, Sprache zu lernen, Klavier zu spielen und Musik zu schätzen, zu loben, als ob sie dazu geboren wäre. Mrs. Higgins prophezeit, dass sie ein Problem haben. Sie verändern Eliza, aber zu was? Sie ist halb Dame, halb Dienerin. Eine Reihe von Sternchen kündigt einen Szenenwechsel an, und die Bühnenanweisungen sagen uns, dass Eliza ihr Handwerk gut genug gelernt hat, um auf der Botschaftsparty zu bestehen. In mehreren Prosaabsätzen bekommen wir ein Bild von der Botschaft und den Leuten dort. Der Dialog beginnt wieder, als die Figur Nepommuck, einer von Higgings ehemaligen Schülern aus Ungarn, hereinkommt und Higgins prahlt, dass er da ist, um jeden Schwindler bei Gastgeber und Gastgeberin zu entlarven. Es scheint, er selbst sei ein Phonotypie-Lehrer geworden und unterrichte alle Europäer, die sich als etwas Besseres ausgeben wollen. Er lässt sie königlich dafür bezahlen, dass sie ihre Geheimnisse bewahren. Die Gastgeberin hat ihn gebeten, auf dieser Party Spionage zu betreiben. Pickering sorgt sich, dass der Mann ein Erpresser ist und Eliza enttarnen wird. Als Eliza hereinkommt, erregt sie mit ihrer Schönheit und Haltung Aufsehen, und die Gastgeberin bittet Nepommuck, herauszufinden, wer sie ist. Nepommuck kehrt zurück, um der Gastgeberin mitzuteilen, dass Eliza eine Fälschung ist; ihr Englisch ist zu gut. Sie ist offensichtlich eine Ausländerin. Er entscheidet, dass sie eine ungarische Prinzessin ist. Higgins erzählt der Gastgeberin die Wahrheit: sie ist eine Blumenverkäuferin aus Drury Lane. Niemand glaubt ihm, aber Eliza sagt zu Higgins, dass sie gehen will: "Nichts kann mich zu diesen Leuten gehören lassen". Sie ist entmutigt, aber sie sagen ihr, dass sie die Wette gewonnen 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: BOOK IV But anxious cares already seiz'd the queen: She fed within her veins a flame unseen; The hero's valor, acts, and birth inspire Her soul with love, and fan the secret fire. His words, his looks, imprinted in her heart, Improve the passion, and increase the smart. Now, when the purple morn had chas'd away The dewy shadows, and restor'd the day, Her sister first with early care she sought, And thus in mournful accents eas'd her thought: "My dearest Anna, what new dreams affright My lab'ring soul! what visions of the night Disturb my quiet, and distract my breast With strange ideas of our Trojan guest! His worth, his actions, and majestic air, A man descended from the gods declare. Fear ever argues a degenerate kind; His birth is well asserted by his mind. Then, what he suffer'd, when by Fate betray'd! What brave attempts for falling Troy he made! Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke, That, were I not resolv'd against the yoke Of hapless marriage, never to be curst With second love, so fatal was my first, To this one error I might yield again; For, since Sichaeus was untimely slain, This only man is able to subvert The fix'd foundations of my stubborn heart. And, to confess my frailty, to my shame, Somewhat I find within, if not the same, Too like the sparkles of my former flame. But first let yawning earth a passage rend, And let me thro' the dark abyss descend; First let avenging Jove, with flames from high, Drive down this body to the nether sky, Condemn'd with ghosts in endless night to lie, Before I break the plighted faith I gave! No! he who had my vows shall ever have; For, whom I lov'd on earth, I worship in the grave." She said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes, And stopp'd her speech. Her sister thus replies: "O dearer than the vital air I breathe, Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath, Condemn'd to waste in woes your lonely life, Without the joys of mother or of wife? Think you these tears, this pompous train of woe, Are known or valued by the ghosts below? I grant that, while your sorrows yet were green, It well became a woman, and a queen, The vows of Tyrian princes to neglect, To scorn Hyarbas, and his love reject, With all the Libyan lords of mighty name; But will you fight against a pleasing flame! This little spot of land, which Heav'n bestows, On ev'ry side is hemm'd with warlike foes; Gaetulian cities here are spread around, And fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound; Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land, And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand; Barcaean troops besiege the narrow shore, And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more. Propitious Heav'n, and gracious Juno, lead This wand'ring navy to your needful aid: How will your empire spread, your city rise, From such a union, and with such allies? Implore the favor of the pow'rs above, And leave the conduct of the rest to love. Continue still your hospitable way, And still invent occasions of their stay, Till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat, And planks and oars repair their shatter'd fleet." These words, which from a friend and sister came, With ease resolv'd the scruples of her fame, And added fury to the kindled flame. Inspir'd with hope, the project they pursue; On ev'ry altar sacrifice renew: A chosen ewe of two years old they pay To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day; Preferring Juno's pow'r, for Juno ties The nuptial knot and makes the marriage joys. The beauteous queen before her altar stands, And holds the golden goblet in her hands. A milk-white heifer she with flow'rs adorns, And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns; And, while the priests with pray'r the gods invoke, She feeds their altars with Sabaean smoke, With hourly care the sacrifice renews, And anxiously the panting entrails views. What priestly rites, alas! what pious art, What vows avail to cure a bleeding heart! A gentle fire she feeds within her veins, Where the soft god secure in silence reigns. Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves, From street to street the raving Dido roves. So when the watchful shepherd, from the blind, Wounds with a random shaft the careless hind, Distracted with her pain she flies the woods, Bounds o'er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods, With fruitless care; for still the fatal dart Sticks in her side, and rankles in her heart. And now she leads the Trojan chief along The lofty walls, amidst the busy throng; Displays her Tyrian wealth, and rising town, Which love, without his labor, makes his own. This pomp she shows, to tempt her wand'ring guest; Her falt'ring tongue forbids to speak the rest. When day declines, and feasts renew the night, Still on his face she feeds her famish'd sight; She longs again to hear the prince relate His own adventures and the Trojan fate. He tells it o'er and o'er; but still in vain, For still she begs to hear it once again. The hearer on the speaker's mouth depends, And thus the tragic story never ends. Then, when they part, when Phoebe's paler light Withdraws, and falling stars to sleep invite, She last remains, when ev'ry guest is gone, Sits on the bed he press'd, and sighs alone; Absent, her absent hero sees and hears; Or in her bosom young Ascanius bears, And seeks the father's image in the child, If love by likeness might be so beguil'd. Meantime the rising tow'rs are at a stand; No labors exercise the youthful band, Nor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know; The mole is left unfinish'd to the foe; The mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie, Short of their promis'd heighth, that seem'd to threat the sky, But when imperial Juno, from above, Saw Dido fetter'd in the chains of love, Hot with the venom which her veins inflam'd, And by no sense of shame to be reclaim'd, With soothing words to Venus she begun: "High praises, endless honors, you have won, And mighty trophies, with your worthy son! Two gods a silly woman have undone! Nor am I ignorant, you both suspect This rising city, which my hands erect: But shall celestial discord never cease? 'T is better ended in a lasting peace. You stand possess'd of all your soul desir'd: Poor Dido with consuming love is fir'd. Your Trojan with my Tyrian let us join; So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine: One common kingdom, one united line. Eliza shall a Dardan lord obey, And lofty Carthage for a dow'r convey." Then Venus, who her hidden fraud descried, Which would the scepter of the world misguide To Libyan shores, thus artfully replied: "Who, but a fool, would wars with Juno choose, And such alliance and such gifts refuse, If Fortune with our joint desires comply? The doubt is all from Jove and destiny; Lest he forbid, with absolute command, To mix the people in one common land- Or will the Trojan and the Tyrian line In lasting leagues and sure succession join? But you, the partner of his bed and throne, May move his mind; my wishes are your own." "Mine," said imperial Juno, "be the care; Time urges, now, to perfect this affair: Attend my counsel, and the secret share. When next the Sun his rising light displays, And gilds the world below with purple rays, The queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian court Shall to the shady woods, for sylvan game, resort. There, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around, And cheerful horns from side to side resound, A pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain With hail, and thunder, and tempestuous rain; The fearful train shall take their speedy flight, Dispers'd, and all involv'd in gloomy night; One cave a grateful shelter shall afford To the fair princess and the Trojan lord. I will myself the bridal bed prepare, If you, to bless the nuptials, will be there: So shall their loves be crown'd with due delights, And Hymen shall be present at the rites." The Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles At her vain project, and discover'd wiles. The rosy morn was risen from the main, And horns and hounds awake the princely train: They issue early thro' the city gate, Where the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait, With nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force Of Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse. The Tyrian peers and officers of state For the slow queen in antechambers wait; Her lofty courser, in the court below, Who his majestic rider seems to know, Proud of his purple trappings, paws the ground, And champs the golden bit, and spreads the foam around. The queen at length appears; on either hand The brawny guards in martial order stand. A flow'r'd simar with golden fringe she wore, And at her back a golden quiver bore; Her flowing hair a golden caul restrains, A golden clasp the Tyrian robe sustains. Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, Leads on the Trojan youth to view the chase. But far above the rest in beauty shines The great Aeneas, the troop he joins; Like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost Of wint'ry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast, When to his native Delos he resorts, Ordains the dances, and renews the sports; Where painted Scythians, mix'd with Cretan bands, Before the joyful altars join their hands: Himself, on Cynthus walking, sees below The merry madness of the sacred show. Green wreaths of bays his length of hair inclose; A golden fillet binds his awful brows; His quiver sounds: not less the prince is seen In manly presence, or in lofty mien. Now had they reach'd the hills, and storm'd the seat Of salvage beasts, in dens, their last retreat. The cry pursues the mountain goats: they bound From rock to rock, and keep the craggy ground; Quite otherwise the stags, a trembling train, In herds unsingled, scour the dusty plain, And a long chase in open view maintain. The glad Ascanius, as his courser guides, Spurs thro' the vale, and these and those outrides. His horse's flanks and sides are forc'd to feel The clanking lash, and goring of the steel. Impatiently he views the feeble prey, Wishing some nobler beast to cross his way, And rather would the tusky boar attend, Or see the tawny lion downward bend. Meantime, the gath'ring clouds obscure the skies: From pole to pole the forky lightning flies; The rattling thunders roll; and Juno pours A wintry deluge down, and sounding show'rs. The company, dispers'd, to converts ride, And seek the homely cots, or mountain's hollow side. The rapid rains, descending from the hills, To rolling torrents raise the creeping rills. The queen and prince, as love or fortune guides, One common cavern in her bosom hides. Then first the trembling earth the signal gave, And flashing fires enlighten all the cave; Hell from below, and Juno from above, And howling nymphs, were conscious of their love. From this ill-omen'd hour in time arose Debate and death, and all succeeding woes. The queen, whom sense of honor could not move, No longer made a secret of her love, But call'd it marriage, by that specious name To veil the crime and sanctify the shame. The loud report thro' Libyan cities goes. Fame, the great ill, from small beginnings grows: Swift from the first; and ev'ry moment brings New vigor to her flights, new pinions to her wings. Soon grows the pigmy to gigantic size; Her feet on earth, her forehead in the skies. Inrag'd against the gods, revengeful Earth Produc'd her last of the Titanian birth. Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste: A monstrous phantom, horrible and vast. As many plumes as raise her lofty flight, So many piercing eyes inlarge her sight; Millions of opening mouths to Fame belong, And ev'ry mouth is furnish'd with a tongue, And round with list'ning ears the flying plague is hung. She fills the peaceful universe with cries; No slumbers ever close her wakeful eyes; By day, from lofty tow'rs her head she shews, And spreads thro' trembling crowds disastrous news; With court informers haunts, and royal spies; Things done relates, not done she feigns, and mingles truth with lies. Talk is her business, and her chief delight To tell of prodigies and cause affright. She fills the people's ears with Dido's name, Who, lost to honor and the sense of shame, Admits into her throne and nuptial bed A wand'ring guest, who from his country fled: Whole days with him she passes in delights, And wastes in luxury long winter nights, Forgetful of her fame and royal trust, Dissolv'd in ease, abandon'd to her lust. The goddess widely spreads the loud report, And flies at length to King Hyarba's court. When first possess'd with this unwelcome news Whom did he not of men and gods accuse? This prince, from ravish'd Garamantis born, A hundred temples did with spoils adorn, In Ammon's honor, his celestial sire; A hundred altars fed with wakeful fire; And, thro' his vast dominions, priests ordain'd, Whose watchful care these holy rites maintain'd. The gates and columns were with garlands crown'd, And blood of victim beasts enrich'd the ground. He, when he heard a fugitive could move The Tyrian princess, who disdain'd his love, His breast with fury burn'd, his eyes with fire, Mad with despair, impatient with desire; Then on the sacred altars pouring wine, He thus with pray'rs implor'd his sire divine: "Great Jove! propitious to the Moorish race, Who feast on painted beds, with off'rings grace Thy temples, and adore thy pow'r divine With blood of victims, and with sparkling wine, Seest thou not this? or do we fear in vain Thy boasted thunder, and thy thoughtless reign? Do thy broad hands the forky lightnings lance? Thine are the bolts, or the blind work of chance? A wand'ring woman builds, within our state, A little town, bought at an easy rate; She pays me homage, and my grants allow A narrow space of Libyan lands to plow; Yet, scorning me, by passion blindly led, Admits a banish'd Trojan to her bed! And now this other Paris, with his train Of conquer'd cowards, must in Afric reign! (Whom, what they are, their looks and garb confess, Their locks with oil perfum'd, their Lydian dress.) He takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame; And I, rejected I, adore an empty name." His vows, in haughty terms, he thus preferr'd, And held his altar's horns. The mighty Thund'rer heard; Then cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found The lustful pair in lawless pleasure drown'd, Lost in their loves, insensible of shame, And both forgetful of their better fame. He calls Cyllenius, and the god attends, By whom his menacing command he sends: "Go, mount the western winds, and cleave the sky; Then, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly: There find the Trojan chief, who wastes his days In slothful riot and inglorious ease, Nor minds the future city, giv'n by fate. To him this message from my mouth relate: 'Not so fair Venus hop'd, when twice she won Thy life with pray'rs, nor promis'd such a son. Hers was a hero, destin'd to command A martial race, and rule the Latian land, Who should his ancient line from Teucer draw, And on the conquer'd world impose the law.' If glory cannot move a mind so mean, Nor future praise from fading pleasure wean, Yet why should he defraud his son of fame, And grudge the Romans their immortal name! What are his vain designs! what hopes he more From his long ling'ring on a hostile shore, Regardless to redeem his honor lost, And for his race to gain th' Ausonian coast! Bid him with speed the Tyrian court forsake; With this command the slumb'ring warrior wake." Hermes obeys; with golden pinions binds His flying feet, and mounts the western winds: And, whether o'er the seas or earth he flies, With rapid force they bear him down the skies. But first he grasps within his awful hand The mark of sov'reign pow'r, his magic wand; With this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves; With this he drives them down the Stygian waves; With this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight, And eyes, tho' clos'd in death, restores to light. Thus arm'd, the god begins his airy race, And drives the racking clouds along the liquid space; Now sees the tops of Atlas, as he flies, Whose brawny back supports the starry skies; Atlas, whose head, with piny forests crown'd, Is beaten by the winds, with foggy vapors bound. Snows hide his shoulders; from beneath his chin The founts of rolling streams their race begin; A beard of ice on his large breast depends. Here, pois'd upon his wings, the god descends: Then, rested thus, he from the tow'ring height Plung'd downward, with precipitated flight, Lights on the seas, and skims along the flood. As waterfowl, who seek their fishy food, Less, and yet less, to distant prospect show; By turns they dance aloft, and dive below: Like these, the steerage of his wings he plies, And near the surface of the water flies, Till, having pass'd the seas, and cross'd the sands, He clos'd his wings, and stoop'd on Libyan lands: Where shepherds once were hous'd in homely sheds, Now tow'rs within the clouds advance their heads. Arriving there, he found the Trojan prince New ramparts raising for the town's defense. A purple scarf, with gold embroider'd o'er, (Queen Dido's gift,) about his waist he wore; A sword, with glitt'ring gems diversified, For ornament, not use, hung idly by his side. Then thus, with winged words, the god began, Resuming his own shape: "Degenerate man, Thou woman's property, what mak'st thou here, These foreign walls and Tyrian tow'rs to rear, Forgetful of thy own? All-pow'rful Jove, Who sways the world below and heav'n above, Has sent me down with this severe command: What means thy ling'ring in the Libyan land? If glory cannot move a mind so mean, Nor future praise from flitting pleasure wean, Regard the fortunes of thy rising heir: The promis'd crown let young Ascanius wear, To whom th' Ausonian scepter, and the state Of Rome's imperial name is ow'd by fate." So spoke the god; and, speaking, took his flight, Involv'd in clouds, and vanish'd out of sight. The pious prince was seiz'd with sudden fear; Mute was his tongue, and upright stood his hair. Revolving in his mind the stern command, He longs to fly, and loathes the charming land. What should he say? or how should he begin? What course, alas! remains to steer between Th' offended lover and the pow'rful queen? This way and that he turns his anxious mind, And all expedients tries, and none can find. Fix'd on the deed, but doubtful of the means, After long thought, to this advice he leans: Three chiefs he calls, commands them to repair The fleet, and ship their men with silent care; Some plausible pretense he bids them find, To color what in secret he design'd. Himself, meantime, the softest hours would choose, Before the love-sick lady heard the news; And move her tender mind, by slow degrees, To suffer what the sov'reign pow'r decrees: Jove will inspire him, when, and what to say. They hear with pleasure, and with haste obey. But soon the queen perceives the thin disguise: (What arts can blind a jealous woman's eyes!) She was the first to find the secret fraud, Before the fatal news was blaz'd abroad. Love the first motions of the lover hears, Quick to presage, and ev'n in safety fears. Nor impious Fame was wanting to report The ships repair'd, the Trojans' thick resort, And purpose to forsake the Tyrian court. Frantic with fear, impatient of the wound, And impotent of mind, she roves the city round. Less wild the Bacchanalian dames appear, When, from afar, their nightly god they hear, And howl about the hills, and shake the wreathy spear. At length she finds the dear perfidious man; Prevents his form'd excuse, and thus began: "Base and ungrateful! could you hope to fly, And undiscover'd scape a lover's eye? Nor could my kindness your compassion move. Nor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love? Or is the death of a despairing queen Not worth preventing, tho' too well foreseen? Ev'n when the wintry winds command your stay, You dare the tempests, and defy the sea. False as you are, suppose you were not bound To lands unknown, and foreign coasts to sound; Were Troy restor'd, and Priam's happy reign, Now durst you tempt, for Troy, the raging main? See whom you fly! am I the foe you shun? Now, by those holy vows, so late begun, By this right hand, (since I have nothing more To challenge, but the faith you gave before;) I beg you by these tears too truly shed, By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed; If ever Dido, when you most were kind, Were pleasing in your eyes, or touch'd your mind; By these my pray'rs, if pray'rs may yet have place, Pity the fortunes of a falling race. For you I have provok'd a tyrant's hate, Incens'd the Libyan and the Tyrian state; For you alone I suffer in my fame, Bereft of honor, and expos'd to shame. Whom have I now to trust, ungrateful guest? (That only name remains of all the rest!) What have I left? or whither can I fly? Must I attend Pygmalion's cruelty, Or till Hyarba shall in triumph lead A queen that proudly scorn'd his proffer'd bed? Had you deferr'd, at least, your hasty flight, And left behind some pledge of our delight, Some babe to bless the mother's mournful sight, Some young Aeneas, to supply your place, Whose features might express his father's face; I should not then complain to live bereft Of all my husband, or be wholly left." Here paus'd the queen. Unmov'd he holds his eyes, By Jove's command; nor suffer'd love to rise, Tho' heaving in his heart; and thus at length replies: "Fair queen, you never can enough repeat Your boundless favors, or I own my debt; Nor can my mind forget Eliza's name, While vital breath inspires this mortal frame. This only let me speak in my defense: I never hop'd a secret flight from hence, Much less pretended to the lawful claim Of sacred nuptials, or a husband's name. For, if indulgent Heav'n would leave me free, And not submit my life to fate's decree, My choice would lead me to the Trojan shore, Those relics to review, their dust adore, And Priam's ruin'd palace to restore. But now the Delphian oracle commands, And fate invites me to the Latian lands. That is the promis'd place to which I steer, And all my vows are terminated there. If you, a Tyrian, and a stranger born, With walls and tow'rs a Libyan town adorn, Why may not we- like you, a foreign race- Like you, seek shelter in a foreign place? As often as the night obscures the skies With humid shades, or twinkling stars arise, Anchises' angry ghost in dreams appears, Chides my delay, and fills my soul with fears; And young Ascanius justly may complain Of his defrauded and destin'd reign. Ev'n now the herald of the gods appear'd: Waking I saw him, and his message heard. From Jove he came commission'd, heav'nly bright With radiant beams, and manifest to sight (The sender and the sent I both attest) These walls he enter'd, and those words express'd. Fair queen, oppose not what the gods command; Forc'd by my fate, I leave your happy land." Thus while he spoke, already she began, With sparkling eyes, to view the guilty man; From head to foot survey'd his person o'er, Nor longer these outrageous threats forebore: "False as thou art, and, more than false, forsworn! Not sprung from noble blood, nor goddess-born, But hewn from harden'd entrails of a rock! And rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck! Why should I fawn? what have I worse to fear? Did he once look, or lent a list'ning ear, Sigh'd when I sobb'd, or shed one kindly tear?- All symptoms of a base ungrateful mind, So foul, that, which is worse, 'tis hard to find. Of man's injustice why should I complain? The gods, and Jove himself, behold in vain Triumphant treason; yet no thunder flies, Nor Juno views my wrongs with equal eyes; Faithless is earth, and faithless are the skies! Justice is fled, and Truth is now no more! I sav'd the shipwrack'd exile on my shore; With needful food his hungry Trojans fed; I took the traitor to my throne and bed: Fool that I was- 't is little to repeat The rest- I stor'd and rigg'd his ruin'd fleet. I rave, I rave! A god's command he pleads, And makes Heav'n accessary to his deeds. Now Lycian lots, and now the Delian god, Now Hermes is employ'd from Jove's abode, To warn him hence; as if the peaceful state Of heav'nly pow'rs were touch'd with human fate! But go! thy flight no longer I detain- Go seek thy promis'd kingdom thro' the main! Yet, if the heav'ns will hear my pious vow, The faithless waves, not half so false as thou, Or secret sands, shall sepulchers afford To thy proud vessels, and their perjur'd lord. Then shalt thou call on injur'd Dido's name: Dido shall come in a black sulph'ry flame, When death has once dissolv'd her mortal frame; Shall smile to see the traitor vainly weep: Her angry ghost, arising from the deep, Shall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy sleep. At least my shade thy punishment shall know, And Fame shall spread the pleasing news below." Abruptly here she stops; then turns away Her loathing eyes, and shuns the sight of day. Amaz'd he stood, revolving in his mind What speech to frame, and what excuse to find. Her fearful maids their fainting mistress led, And softly laid her on her ivory bed. But good Aeneas, tho' he much desir'd To give that pity which her grief requir'd; Tho' much he mourn'd, and labor'd with his love, Resolv'd at length, obeys the will of Jove; Reviews his forces: they with early care Unmoor their vessels, and for sea prepare. The fleet is soon afloat, in all its pride, And well-calk'd galleys in the harbor ride. Then oaks for oars they fell'd; or, as they stood, Of its green arms despoil'd the growing wood, Studious of flight. The beach is cover'd o'er With Trojan bands, that blacken all the shore: On ev'ry side are seen, descending down, Thick swarms of soldiers, loaden from the town. Thus, in battalia, march embodied ants, Fearful of winter, and of future wants, T' invade the corn, and to their cells convey The plunder'd forage of their yellow prey. The sable troops, along the narrow tracks, Scarce bear the weighty burthen on their backs: Some set their shoulders to the pond'rous grain; Some guard the spoil; some lash the lagging train; All ply their sev'ral tasks, and equal toil sustain. What pangs the tender breast of Dido tore, When, from the tow'r, she saw the cover'd shore, And heard the shouts of sailors from afar, Mix'd with the murmurs of the wat'ry war! All-pow'rful Love! what changes canst thou cause In human hearts, subjected to thy laws! Once more her haughty soul the tyrant bends: To pray'rs and mean submissions she descends. No female arts or aids she left untried, Nor counsels unexplor'd, before she died. "Look, Anna! look! the Trojans crowd to sea; They spread their canvas, and their anchors weigh. The shouting crew their ships with garlands bind, Invoke the sea gods, and invite the wind. Could I have thought this threat'ning blow so near, My tender soul had been forewarn'd to bear. But do not you my last request deny; With yon perfidious man your int'rest try, And bring me news, if I must live or die. You are his fav'rite; you alone can find The dark recesses of his inmost mind: In all his trusted secrets you have part, And know the soft approaches to his heart. Haste then, and humbly seek my haughty foe; Tell him, I did not with the Grecians go, Nor did my fleet against his friends employ, Nor swore the ruin of unhappy Troy, Nor mov'd with hands profane his father's dust: Why should he then reject a suit so just! Whom does he shun, and whither would he fly! Can he this last, this only pray'r deny! Let him at least his dang'rous flight delay, Wait better winds, and hope a calmer sea. The nuptials he disclaims I urge no more: Let him pursue the promis'd Latian shore. A short delay is all I ask him now; A pause of grief, an interval from woe, Till my soft soul be temper'd to sustain Accustom'd sorrows, and inur'd to pain. If you in pity grant this one request, My death shall glut the hatred of his breast." This mournful message pious Anna bears, And seconds with her own her sister's tears: But all her arts are still employ'd in vain; Again she comes, and is refus'd again. His harden'd heart nor pray'rs nor threat'nings move; Fate, and the god, had stopp'd his ears to love. As, when the winds their airy quarrel try, Justling from ev'ry quarter of the sky, This way and that the mountain oak they bend, His boughs they shatter, and his branches rend; With leaves and falling mast they spread the ground; The hollow valleys echo to the sound: Unmov'd, the royal plant their fury mocks, Or, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks; Far as he shoots his tow'ring head on high, So deep in earth his fix'd foundations lie. No less a storm the Trojan hero bears; Thick messages and loud complaints he hears, And bandied words, still beating on his ears. Sighs, groans, and tears proclaim his inward pains; But the firm purpose of his heart remains. The wretched queen, pursued by cruel fate, Begins at length the light of heav'n to hate, And loathes to live. Then dire portents she sees, To hasten on the death her soul decrees: Strange to relate! for when, before the shrine, She pours in sacrifice the purple wine, The purple wine is turn'd to putrid blood, And the white offer'd milk converts to mud. This dire presage, to her alone reveal'd, From all, and ev'n her sister, she conceal'd. A marble temple stood within the grove, Sacred to death, and to her murther'd love; That honor'd chapel she had hung around With snowy fleeces, and with garlands crown'd: Oft, when she visited this lonely dome, Strange voices issued from her husband's tomb; She thought she heard him summon her away, Invite her to his grave, and chide her stay. Hourly 't is heard, when with a boding note The solitary screech owl strains her throat, And, on a chimney's top, or turret's height, With songs obscene disturbs the silence of the night. Besides, old prophecies augment her fears; And stern Aeneas in her dreams appears, Disdainful as by day: she seems, alone, To wander in her sleep, thro' ways unknown, Guideless and dark; or, in a desart plain, To seek her subjects, and to seek in vain: Like Pentheus, when, distracted with his fear, He saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear; Or mad Orestes, when his mother's ghost Full in his face infernal torches toss'd, And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight, Flies o'er the stage, surpris'd with mortal fright; The Furies guard the door and intercept his flight. Now, sinking underneath a load of grief, From death alone she seeks her last relief; The time and means resolv'd within her breast, She to her mournful sister thus address'd (Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears, And a false vigor in her eyes appears): "Rejoice!" she said. "Instructed from above, My lover I shall gain, or lose my love. Nigh rising Atlas, next the falling sun, Long tracts of Ethiopian climates run: There a Massylian priestess I have found, Honor'd for age, for magic arts renown'd: Th' Hesperian temple was her trusted care; 'T was she supplied the wakeful dragon's fare. She poppy seeds in honey taught to steep, Reclaim'd his rage, and sooth'd him into sleep. She watch'd the golden fruit; her charms unbind The chains of love, or fix them on the mind: She stops the torrents, leaves the channel dry, Repels the stars, and backward bears the sky. The yawning earth rebellows to her call, Pale ghosts ascend, and mountain ashes fall. Witness, ye gods, and thou my better part, How loth I am to try this impious art! Within the secret court, with silent care, Erect a lofty pile, expos'd in air: Hang on the topmost part the Trojan vest, Spoils, arms, and presents, of my faithless guest. Next, under these, the bridal bed be plac'd, Where I my ruin in his arms embrac'd: All relics of the wretch are doom'd to fire; For so the priestess and her charms require." Thus far she said, and farther speech forbears; A mortal paleness in her face appears: Yet the mistrustless Anna could not find The secret fun'ral in these rites design'd; Nor thought so dire a rage possess'd her mind. Unknowing of a train conceal'd so well, She fear'd no worse than when Sichaeus fell; Therefore obeys. The fatal pile they rear, Within the secret court, expos'd in air. The cloven holms and pines are heap'd on high, And garlands on the hollow spaces lie. Sad cypress, vervain, yew, compose the wreath, And ev'ry baleful green denoting death. The queen, determin'd to the fatal deed, The spoils and sword he left, in order spread, And the man's image on the nuptial bed. And now (the sacred altars plac'd around) The priestess enters, with her hair unbound, And thrice invokes the pow'rs below the ground. Night, Erebus, and Chaos she proclaims, And threefold Hecate, with her hundred names, And three Dianas: next, she sprinkles round With feign'd Avernian drops the hallow'd ground; Culls hoary simples, found by Phoebe's light, With brazen sickles reap'd at noon of night; Then mixes baleful juices in the bowl, And cuts the forehead of a newborn foal, Robbing the mother's love. The destin'd queen Observes, assisting at the rites obscene; A leaven'd cake in her devoted hands She holds, and next the highest altar stands: One tender foot was shod, her other bare; Girt was her gather'd gown, and loose her hair. Thus dress'd, she summon'd, with her dying breath, The heav'ns and planets conscious of her death, And ev'ry pow'r, if any rules above, Who minds, or who revenges, injur'd love. "'T was dead of night, when weary bodies close Their eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose: The winds no longer whisper thro' the woods, Nor murm'ring tides disturb the gentle floods. The stars in silent order mov'd around; And Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground The flocks and herds, and party-color'd fowl, Which haunt the woods, or swim the weedy pool, Stretch'd on the quiet earth, securely lay, Forgetting the past labors of the day. All else of nature's common gift partake: Unhappy Dido was alone awake. Nor sleep nor ease the furious queen can find; Sleep fled her eyes, as quiet fled her mind. Despair, and rage, and love divide her heart; Despair and rage had some, but love the greater part. Then thus she said within her secret mind: "What shall I do? what succor can I find? Become a suppliant to Hyarba's pride, And take my turn, to court and be denied? Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go, Forsake an empire, and attend a foe? Himself I refug'd, and his train reliev'd- 'T is true- but am I sure to be receiv'd? Can gratitude in Trojan souls have place! Laomedon still lives in all his race! Then, shall I seek alone the churlish crew, Or with my fleet their flying sails pursue? What force have I but those whom scarce before I drew reluctant from their native shore? Will they again embark at my desire, Once more sustain the seas, and quit their second Tyre? Rather with steel thy guilty breast invade, And take the fortune thou thyself hast made. Your pity, sister, first seduc'd my mind, Or seconded too well what I design'd. These dear-bought pleasures had I never known, Had I continued free, and still my own; Avoiding love, I had not found despair, But shar'd with salvage beasts the common air. Like them, a lonely life I might have led, Not mourn'd the living, nor disturb'd the dead." These thoughts she brooded in her anxious breast. On board, the Trojan found more easy rest. Resolv'd to sail, in sleep he pass'd the night; And order'd all things for his early flight. To whom once more the winged god appears; His former youthful mien and shape he wears, And with this new alarm invades his ears: "Sleep'st thou, O goddess-born! and canst thou drown Thy needful cares, so near a hostile town, Beset with foes; nor hear'st the western gales Invite thy passage, and inspire thy sails? She harbors in her heart a furious hate, And thou shalt find the dire effects too late; Fix'd on revenge, and obstinate to die. Haste swiftly hence, while thou hast pow'r to fly. The sea with ships will soon be cover'd o'er, And blazing firebrands kindle all the shore. Prevent her rage, while night obscures the skies, And sail before the purple morn arise. Who knows what hazards thy delay may bring? Woman's a various and a changeful thing." Thus Hermes in the dream; then took his flight Aloft in air unseen, and mix'd with night. Twice warn'd by the celestial messenger, The pious prince arose with hasty fear; Then rous'd his drowsy train without delay: "Haste to your banks; your crooked anchors weigh, And spread your flying sails, and stand to sea. A god commands: he stood before my sight, And urg'd us once again to speedy flight. O sacred pow'r, what pow'r soe'er thou art, To thy blest orders I resign my heart. Lead thou the way; protect thy Trojan bands, And prosper the design thy will commands." He said: and, drawing forth his flaming sword, His thund'ring arm divides the many-twisted cord. An emulating zeal inspires his train: They run; they snatch; they rush into the main. With headlong haste they leave the desert shores, And brush the liquid seas with lab'ring oars. Aurora now had left her saffron bed, And beams of early light the heav'ns o'erspread, When, from a tow'r, the queen, with wakeful eyes, Saw day point upward from the rosy skies. She look'd to seaward; but the sea was void, And scarce in ken the sailing ships descried. Stung with despite, and furious with despair, She struck her trembling breast, and tore her hair. "And shall th' ungrateful traitor go," she said, "My land forsaken, and my love betray'd? Shall we not arm? not rush from ev'ry street, To follow, sink, and burn his perjur'd fleet? Haste, haul my galleys out! pursue the foe! Bring flaming brands! set sail, and swiftly row! What have I said? where am I? Fury turns My brain; and my distemper'd bosom burns. Then, when I gave my person and my throne, This hate, this rage, had been more timely shown. See now the promis'd faith, the vaunted name, The pious man, who, rushing thro' the flame, Preserv'd his gods, and to the Phrygian shore The burthen of his feeble father bore! I should have torn him piecemeal; strow'd in floods His scatter'd limbs, or left expos'd in woods; Destroy'd his friends and son; and, from the fire, Have set the reeking boy before the sire. Events are doubtful, which on battles wait: Yet where's the doubt, to souls secure of fate? My Tyrians, at their injur'd queen's command, Had toss'd their fires amid the Trojan band; At once extinguish'd all the faithless name; And I myself, in vengeance of my shame, Had fall'n upon the pile, to mend the fun'ral flame. Thou Sun, who view'st at once the world below; Thou Juno, guardian of the nuptial vow; Thou Hecate hearken from thy dark abodes! Ye Furies, fiends, and violated gods, All pow'rs invok'd with Dido's dying breath, Attend her curses and avenge her death! If so the Fates ordain, Jove commands, Th' ungrateful wretch should find the Latian lands, Yet let a race untam'd, and haughty foes, His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose: Oppress'd with numbers in th' unequal field, His men discourag'd, and himself expell'd, Let him for succor sue from place to place, Torn from his subjects, and his son's embrace. First, let him see his friends in battle slain, And their untimely fate lament in vain; And when, at length, the cruel war shall cease, On hard conditions may he buy his peace: Nor let him then enjoy supreme command; But fall, untimely, by some hostile hand, And lie unburied on the barren sand! These are my pray'rs, and this my dying will; And you, my Tyrians, ev'ry curse fulfil. Perpetual hate and mortal wars proclaim, Against the prince, the people, and the name. These grateful off'rings on my grave bestow; Nor league, nor love, the hostile nations know! Now, and from hence, in ev'ry future age, When rage excites your arms, and strength supplies the rage Rise some avenger of our Libyan blood, With fire and sword pursue the perjur'd brood; Our arms, our seas, our shores, oppos'd to theirs; And the same hate descend on all our heirs!" This said, within her anxious mind she weighs The means of cutting short her odious days. Then to Sichaeus' nurse she briefly said (For, when she left her country, hers was dead): "Go, Barce, call my sister. Let her care The solemn rites of sacrifice prepare; The sheep, and all th' atoning off'rings bring, Sprinkling her body from the crystal spring With living drops; then let her come, and thou With sacred fillets bind thy hoary brow. Thus will I pay my vows to Stygian Jove, And end the cares of my disastrous love; Then cast the Trojan image on the fire, And, as that burns, my passions shall expire." The nurse moves onward, with officious care, And all the speed her aged limbs can bear. But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv'd, Shook at the mighty mischief she resolv'd. With livid spots distinguish'd was her face; Red were her rolling eyes, and discompos'd her pace; Ghastly she gaz'd, with pain she drew her breath, And nature shiver'd at approaching death. Then swiftly to the fatal place she pass'd, And mounts the fun'ral pile with furious haste; Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind (Not for so dire an enterprise design'd). But when she view'd the garments loosely spread, Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed, She paus'd, and with a sigh the robes embrac'd; Then on the couch her trembling body cast, Repress'd the ready tears, and spoke her last: "Dear pledges of my love, while Heav'n so pleas'd, Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eas'd: My fatal course is finish'd; and I go, A glorious name, among the ghosts below. A lofty city by my hands is rais'd, Pygmalion punish'd, and my lord appeas'd. What could my fortune have afforded more, Had the false Trojan never touch'd my shore!" Then kiss'd the couch; and, "Must I die," she said, "And unreveng'd? 'T is doubly to be dead! Yet ev'n this death with pleasure I receive: On any terms, 't is better than to live. These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view; These boding omens his base flight pursue!" She said, and struck; deep enter'd in her side The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed: Clogg'd in the wound the cruel weapon stands; The spouting blood came streaming on her hands. Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, And with loud cries the sounding palace shook. Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled, And thro' the town the dismal rumor spread. First from the frighted court the yell began; Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran: The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies. Not less the clamor, than if- ancient Tyre, Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire- The rolling ruin, with their lov'd abodes, Involv'd the blazing temples of their gods. Her sister hears; and, furious with despair, She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair, And, calling on Eliza's name aloud, Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd. "Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar'd; These fires, this fun'ral pile, these altars rear'd? Was all this train of plots contriv'd," said she, "All only to deceive unhappy me? Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend? Thy summon'd sister, and thy friend, had come; One sword had serv'd us both, one common tomb: Was I to raise the pile, the pow'rs invoke, Not to be present at the fatal stroke? At once thou hast destroy'd thyself and me, Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony! Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in death Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath." This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste, And in her arms the gasping queen embrac'd; Her temples chaf'd; and her own garments tore, To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore. Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head, And, fainting thrice, fell grov'ling on the bed; Thrice op'd her heavy eyes, and sought the light, But, having found it, sicken'd at the sight, And clos'd her lids at last in endless night. Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain A death so ling'ring, and so full of pain, Sent Iris down, to free her from the strife Of lab'ring nature, and dissolve her life. For since she died, not doom'd by Heav'n's decree, Or her own crime, but human casualty, And rage of love, that plung'd her in despair, The Sisters had not cut the topmost hair, Which Proserpine and they can only know; Nor made her sacred to the shades below. Downward the various goddess took her flight, And drew a thousand colors from the light; Then stood above the dying lover's head, And said: "I thus devote thee to the dead. This off'ring to th' infernal gods I bear." Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair: The struggling soul was loos'd, and life dissolv'd in air. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Flamme der Liebe für Aeneas, die Cupid in Didos Herz entfacht hat, wächst nur, während sie seiner betrüblichen Geschichte zuhört. Sie zögert jedoch, weil sie nach dem Tod ihres Mannes Sychaeus geschworen hat, nie wieder zu heiraten. Andererseits würde sie, wie ihre Schwester Anna ihr rät, durch eine Heirat mit Aeneas die Macht von Karthago erhöhen, da viele trojanische Krieger Aeneas folgen. Im Moment lässt Dido, verbraucht von Liebe, die Arbeit am Aufbau der Stadt vernachlässigen. Juno sieht Didos Liebe zu Aeneas als Möglichkeit, Aeneas davon abzuhalten, nach Italien zu gehen. Indem sie vorgeben, ein Friedensangebot zu machen, schlägt Juno Venus vor, einen Weg zu finden, um Dido und Aeneas allein zusammenzubringen. Wenn sie heiraten würden, schlägt Juno vor, wären die Trojaner und die Tyrier in Frieden, und sie und Venus würden ihren Streit beenden. Venus weiß, dass Juno nur versucht, die Trojaner von Italien fernzuhalten, erlaubt jedoch Juno trotzdem, weiterzumachen. Eines Tages, als Dido, ihr Hof und Aeneas auf der Jagd sind, lässt Juno einen Sturm auf sie niederprasseln, um die Gruppe nach Schutz suchen zu lassen, und arrangiert es so, dass Aeneas und Dido allein in einer Höhle landen. Sie lieben sich in der Höhle und leben offen als Liebende, als sie nach Karthago zurückkehren. Dido betrachtet sie als verheiratet, obwohl die Vereinigung noch nicht in einer Zeremonie geweiht wurde. Ängstliche Gerüchte verbreiten sich, dass Dido und Aeneas sich ganz der Lust ergeben haben und ihre Verantwortung als Herrscher vernachlässigen. Als Jupiter von der Affäre zwischen Dido und Aeneas erfährt, schickt er Merkur nach Karthago, um Aeneas daran zu erinnern, dass sein Schicksal anderswo liegt und er nach Italien aufbrechen muss. Diese Nachricht schockiert Aeneas - er muss gehorchen, weiß aber nicht, wie er Dido von seiner Abreise erzählen soll. Er versucht, seine Flotte in aller Stille abzusegeln, aber die Königin ahnt seine List und stellt ihn zur Rede. In Wut beleidigt sie ihn und beschuldigt ihn, ihre Ehre zu stehlen. Während Aeneas Mitgefühl für sie empfindet, besteht er darauf, dass er keine andere Wahl hat, als dem Willen der Götter zu folgen: "Ich segel nach Italien nicht aus freiem Willen". Als letzten Versuch schickt Dido Anna, um den trojanischen Helden dazu zu überreden, zu bleiben, aber vergeblich. Dido schwankt zwischen intensiver Liebe und bitterer Wut. Plötzlich erscheint sie ruhig und gibt Anna den Befehl, ein großes Feuer im Hof zu entzünden. Dort, sagt Dido, könne sie Aeneas aus ihrem Geist verbannen, indem sie alle Kleider und Waffen verbrennt, die er zurückgelassen hat, sogar das Bett, auf dem sie geschlafen haben. Anna gehorcht, ohne zu erkennen, dass Dido in Wirklichkeit ihren eigenen Tod plant - indem sie das Feuer zu ihrem Totenbett macht. Als die Nacht hereinbricht, lässt Didos Kummer sie ohne Schlaf. Aeneas schläft, aber in seinen Träumen besucht ihn Merkur erneut, um ihm zu sagen, dass er bereits zu lange gezögert hat und sofort aufbrechen muss. Aeneas erwacht und ruft seine Männer zu den Schiffen, und sie segeln ab. Dido sieht die Flotte davonfahren und verfällt in Verzweiflung. Sie kann nicht mehr leben. Sie rennt in den Hof, steigt auf den Scheiterhaufen und zieht ein Schwert, das Aeneas zurückgelassen hat. Sie stürzt sich auf die Klinge und verflucht ihren abwesenden Geliebten mit ihren letzten Worten. Als Anna und die Bediensteten zur sterbenden Königin eilen, hat Juno Mitleid mit Dido und beendet ihr Leiden und ihr Leben.

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 FIRST heard of Antonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the "hands" on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake's experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a "Life of Jesse James," which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from "across the water" whose destination was the same as ours. "They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is 'We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.' She's not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar. Don't you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty brown eyes, too!" This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to "Jesse James." Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners. I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I could n't see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue. Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: "Hello, are you Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for. I'm Otto Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain't you scared to come so far west?" I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might have stepped out of the pages of "Jesse James." He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian's. Surely this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into the empty darkness, and we followed them. I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed. Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. No, there was nothing but land--slightly undulating, I knew, because often our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick. If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Jim Burden hörte zum ersten Mal von Antonia, als er eine sehr lange Zugfahrt in den Westen nach Nebraska machte. Er war zehn Jahre alt und wurde von seinen Verwandten in Virginia zu seinen Großeltern im Westen geschickt, nachdem seine Eltern gestorben waren. Jake Marpole, ein Mann, der von seinen Großeltern eingestellt wurde, brachte ihn mit dem Zug. Während er mit dem Zug fuhr, las Jim einen Roman über das Leben von Jesse James. Der Zugbegleiter freundete sich mit ihnen an und erzählte ihnen von einer Familie im Einwanderungswagen, die sich in Black Hawk, Nebraska, niederlassen würde, demselben Ort, an dem Jim leben würde. Der Zugbegleiter ermutigt Jim, rüberzugehen und das Mädchen kennenzulernen, aber er ist schüchtern. Jake stimmt seiner Entscheidung zu und sagt, dass er aufpassen sollte, weil er sich von Ausländern anstecken könnte. Jim denkt nicht viel von Nebraska. Es ist eine lange Zugfahrt durch den Staat und er bemerkt nur ihre Weite. Als sie in Black Hawk ankommen, ist es dunkel. Er fühlt sich "von völliger Dunkelheit umgeben". Er kann nirgendwo Licht sehen. Als sie aus dem Zug aussteigen, bemerkt er die Einwandererfamilie. Ein Mann kommt zu ihnen und spricht eine fremde Sprache. Jim ist interessiert, es zu hören, da es das erste Mal ist, dass er eine Fremdsprache gehört hat. Dann kommt Otto Fuchs, der von Jims Großeltern eingestellte Mann, um sie abzuholen. Jim denkt, dass Otto genau wie ein Charakter aus seinem Jesse James Buch aussieht. Sie setzen Jim in die Rückseite des Wagens und fahren zur Farm. Jim schläft unter einem Büffelhaut, aber die Fahrt ist zu holprig zum Wohlfühlen. Er guckt aus der Haut, um das Land zu sehen. Er findet nichts zu sehen. Er denkt, es ist nichts anderes als das Material, aus dem ein Land gemacht wird. Er hat das Gefühl, als hätten sie die Welt hinter sich gelassen. Als er zum Himmel hochblickt, erkennt er, dass er nicht glaubt, dass sein Vater und seine Mutter ihn hier oben beobachten, sondern sie in Virginia nach ihm suchen müssen. Der Wagen fährt weiter und Jim erlebt ein seltsames Gefühl, nicht von Traurigkeit, sondern von Leere. Er denkt, dass es ihm nichts ausmachen würde, wenn sie für immer weiter fahren würden. In dieser Nacht sagt er sein Gebet nicht. Er hat das Gefühl, dass hier in Nebraska "das Schicksal seinen Lauf nehmen 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: This is not the time at which I am to enter on the state of my mind beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the Future was walled up before me, that the energy and action of my life were at an end, that I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I came to think so, I say, but not in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that. If the events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in the beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it is possible (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen at once into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fully knew my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting on all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was closed for ever. When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how it came to be agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my peace in change and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that I assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was so quiet that I know no more. And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association of her with the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic foreshadowing of what she would be to me, in the calamity that was to happen in the fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from the moment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with her upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house. When the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell asleep--they told me so when I could bear to hear it--on her bosom, with a smile. From my swoon, I first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its pain. Let me go on. I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among us from the first. The ground now covering all that could perish of my departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the 'final pulverization of Heep'; and for the departure of the emigrants. At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friends in my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber's house; where, and at Mr. Wickfield's, my friend had been labouring ever since our explosive meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in, in my black clothes, she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal of good in Mrs. Micawber's heart, which had not been dunned out of it in all those many years. 'Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,' was my aunt's first salutation after we were seated. 'Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of mine?' 'My dear madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'perhaps I cannot better express the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humble servant, and I may add our children, have jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing the language of an illustrious poet, to reply that our Boat is on the shore, and our Bark is on the sea.' 'That's right,' said my aunt. 'I augur all sort of good from your sensible decision.' 'Madam, you do us a great deal of honour,' he rejoined. He then referred to a memorandum. 'With respect to the pecuniary assistance enabling us to launch our frail canoe on the ocean of enterprise, I have reconsidered that important business-point; and would beg to propose my notes of hand--drawn, it is needless to stipulate, on stamps of the amounts respectively required by the various Acts of Parliament applying to such securities--at eighteen, twenty-four, and thirty months. The proposition I originally submitted, was twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four; but I am apprehensive that such an arrangement might not allow sufficient time for the requisite amount of--Something--to turn up. We might not,' said Mr. Micawber, looking round the room as if it represented several hundred acres of highly cultivated land, 'on the first responsibility becoming due, have been successful in our harvest, or we might not have got our harvest in. Labour, I believe, is sometimes difficult to obtain in that portion of our colonial possessions where it will be our lot to combat with the teeming soil.' 'Arrange it in any way you please, sir,' said my aunt. 'Madam,' he replied, 'Mrs. Micawber and myself are deeply sensible of the very considerate kindness of our friends and patrons. What I wish is, to be perfectly business-like, and perfectly punctual. Turning over, as we are about to turn over, an entirely new leaf; and falling back, as we are now in the act of falling back, for a Spring of no common magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect, besides being an example to my son, that these arrangements should be concluded as between man and man.' I don't know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this last phrase; I don't know that anybody ever does, or did; but he appeared to relish it uncommonly, and repeated, with an impressive cough, 'as between man and man'. 'I propose,' said Mr. Micawber, 'Bills--a convenience to the mercantile world, for which, I believe, we are originally indebted to the Jews, who appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much to do with them ever since--because they are negotiable. But if a Bond, or any other description of security, would be preferred, I should be happy to execute any such instrument. As between man and man.' My aunt observed, that in a case where both parties were willing to agree to anything, she took it for granted there would be no difficulty in settling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her opinion. 'In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,' said Mr. Micawber, with some pride, 'for meeting the destiny to which we are now understood to be self-devoted, I beg to report them. My eldest daughter attends at five every morning in a neighbouring establishment, to acquire the process--if process it may be called--of milking cows. My younger children are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances will permit, the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in the poorer parts of this city: a pursuit from which they have, on two occasions, been brought home, within an inch of being run over. I have myself directed some attention, during the past week, to the art of baking; and my son Wilkins has issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle, when permitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge, to render any voluntary service in that direction--which I regret to say, for the credit of our nature, was not often; he being generally warned, with imprecations, to desist.' 'All very right indeed,' said my aunt, encouragingly. 'Mrs. Micawber has been busy, too, I have no doubt.' 'My dear madam,' returned Mrs. Micawber, with her business-like air. 'I am free to confess that I have not been actively engaged in pursuits immediately connected with cultivation or with stock, though well aware that both will claim my attention on a foreign shore. Such opportunities as I have been enabled to alienate from my domestic duties, I have devoted to corresponding at some length with my family. For I own it seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, who always fell back on me, I suppose from old habit, to whomsoever else she might address her discourse at starting, 'that the time is come when the past should be buried in oblivion; when my family should take Mr. Micawber by the hand, and Mr. Micawber should take my family by the hand; when the lion should lie down with the lamb, and my family be on terms with Mr. Micawber.' I said I thought so too. 'This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' pursued Mrs. Micawber, 'in which I view the subject. When I lived at home with my papa and mama, my papa was accustomed to ask, when any point was under discussion in our limited circle, "In what light does my Emma view the subject?" That my papa was too partial, I know; still, on such a point as the frigid coldness which has ever subsisted between Mr. Micawber and my family, I necessarily have formed an opinion, delusive though it may be.' 'No doubt. Of course you have, ma'am,' said my aunt. 'Precisely so,' assented Mrs. Micawber. 'Now, I may be wrong in my conclusions; it is very likely that I am, but my individual impression is, that the gulf between my family and Mr. Micawber may be traced to an apprehension, on the part of my family, that Mr. Micawber would require pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help thinking,' said Mrs. Micawber, with an air of deep sagacity, 'that there are members of my family who have been apprehensive that Mr. Micawber would solicit them for their names.---I do not mean to be conferred in Baptism upon our children, but to be inscribed on Bills of Exchange, and negotiated in the Money Market.' The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber announced this discovery, as if no one had ever thought of it before, seemed rather to astonish my aunt; who abruptly replied, 'Well, ma'am, upon the whole, I shouldn't wonder if you were right!' 'Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the pecuniary shackles that have so long enthralled him,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'and of commencing a new career in a country where there is sufficient range for his abilities,--which, in my opinion, is exceedingly important; Mr. Micawber's abilities peculiarly requiring space,--it seems to me that my family should signalize the occasion by coming forward. What I could wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr. Micawber and my family at a festive entertainment, to be given at my family's expense; where Mr. Micawber's health and prosperity being proposed, by some leading member of my family, Mr. Micawber might have an opportunity of developing his views.' 'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, with some heat, 'it may be better for me to state distinctly, at once, that if I were to develop my views to that assembled group, they would possibly be found of an offensive nature: my impression being that your family are, in the aggregate, impertinent Snobs; and, in detail, unmitigated Ruffians.' 'Micawber,' said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, 'no! You have never understood them, and they have never understood you.' Mr. Micawber coughed. 'They have never understood you, Micawber,' said his wife. 'They may be incapable of it. If so, that is their misfortune. I can pity their misfortune.' 'I am extremely sorry, my dear Emma,' said Mr. Micawber, relenting, 'to have been betrayed into any expressions that might, even remotely, have the appearance of being strong expressions. All I would say is, that I can go abroad without your family coming forward to favour me,--in short, with a parting Shove of their cold shoulders; and that, upon the whole, I would rather leave England with such impetus as I possess, than derive any acceleration of it from that quarter. At the same time, my dear, if they should condescend to reply to your communications--which our joint experience renders most improbable--far be it from me to be a barrier to your wishes.' The matter being thus amicably settled, Mr. Micawber gave Mrs. Micawber his arm, and glancing at the heap of books and papers lying before Traddles on the table, said they would leave us to ourselves; which they ceremoniously did. 'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, leaning back in his chair when they were gone, and looking at me with an affection that made his eyes red, and his hair all kinds of shapes, 'I don't make any excuse for troubling you with business, because I know you are deeply interested in it, and it may divert your thoughts. My dear boy, I hope you are not worn out?' 'I am quite myself,' said I, after a pause. 'We have more cause to think of my aunt than of anyone. You know how much she has done.' 'Surely, surely,' answered Traddles. 'Who can forget it!' 'But even that is not all,' said I. 'During the last fortnight, some new trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and out of London every day. Several times she has gone out early, and been absent until evening. Last night, Traddles, with this journey before her, it was almost midnight before she came home. You know what her consideration for others is. She will not tell me what has happened to distress her.' My aunt, very pale, and with deep lines in her face, sat immovable until I had finished; when some stray tears found their way to her cheeks, and she put her hand on mine. 'It's nothing, Trot; it's nothing. There will be no more of it. You shall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us attend to these affairs.' 'I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,' Traddles began, 'that although he would appear not to have worked to any good account for himself, he is a most untiring man when he works for other people. I never saw such a fellow. If he always goes on in the same way, he must be, virtually, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat into which he has been continually putting himself; and the distracted and impetuous manner in which he has been diving, day and night, among papers and books; to say nothing of the immense number of letters he has written me between this house and Mr. Wickfield's, and often across the table when he has been sitting opposite, and might much more easily have spoken; is quite extraordinary.' 'Letters!' cried my aunt. 'I believe he dreams in letters!' 'There's Mr. Dick, too,' said Traddles, 'has been doing wonders! As soon as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heep, whom he kept in such charge as I never saw exceeded, he began to devote himself to Mr. Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the investigations we have been making, and his real usefulness in extracting, and copying, and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stimulating to us.' 'Dick is a very remarkable man,' exclaimed my aunt; 'and I always said he was. Trot, you know it.' 'I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,' pursued Traddles, at once with great delicacy and with great earnestness, 'that in your absence Mr. Wickfield has considerably improved. Relieved of the incubus that had fastened upon him for so long a time, and of the dreadful apprehensions under which he had lived, he is hardly the same person. At times, even his impaired power of concentrating his memory and attention on particular points of business, has recovered itself very much; and he has been able to assist us in making some things clear, that we should have found very difficult indeed, if not hopeless, without him. But what I have to do is to come to results; which are short enough; not to gossip on all the hopeful circumstances I have observed, or I shall never have done.' His natural manner and agreeable simplicity made it transparent that he said this to put us in good heart, and to enable Agnes to hear her father mentioned with greater confidence; but it was not the less pleasant for that. 'Now, let me see,' said Traddles, looking among the papers on the table. 'Having counted our funds, and reduced to order a great mass of unintentional confusion in the first place, and of wilful confusion and falsification in the second, we take it to be clear that Mr. Wickfield might now wind up his business, and his agency-trust, and exhibit no deficiency or defalcation whatever.' 'Oh, thank Heaven!' cried Agnes, fervently. 'But,' said Traddles, 'the surplus that would be left as his means of support--and I suppose the house to be sold, even in saying this--would be so small, not exceeding in all probability some hundreds of pounds, that perhaps, Miss Wickfield, it would be best to consider whether he might not retain his agency of the estate to which he has so long been receiver. His friends might advise him, you know; now he is free. You yourself, Miss Wickfield--Copperfield--I--' 'I have considered it, Trotwood,' said Agnes, looking to me, 'and I feel that it ought not to be, and must not be; even on the recommendation of a friend to whom I am so grateful, and owe so much.' 'I will not say that I recommend it,' observed Traddles. 'I think it right to suggest it. No more.' 'I am happy to hear you say so,' answered Agnes, steadily, 'for it gives me hope, almost assurance, that we think alike. Dear Mr. Traddles and dear Trotwood, papa once free with honour, what could I wish for! I have always aspired, if I could have released him from the toils in which he was held, to render back some little portion of the love and care I owe him, and to devote my life to him. It has been, for years, the utmost height of my hopes. To take our future on myself, will be the next great happiness--the next to his release from all trust and responsibility--that I can know.' 'Have you thought how, Agnes?' 'Often! I am not afraid, dear Trotwood. I am certain of success. So many people know me here, and think kindly of me, that I am certain. Don't mistrust me. Our wants are not many. If I rent the dear old house, and keep a school, I shall be useful and happy.' The calm fervour of her cheerful voice brought back so vividly, first the dear old house itself, and then my solitary home, that my heart was too full for speech. Traddles pretended for a little while to be busily looking among the papers. 'Next, Miss Trotwood,' said Traddles, 'that property of yours.' 'Well, sir,' sighed my aunt. 'All I have got to say about it is, that if it's gone, I can bear it; and if it's not gone, I shall be glad to get it back.' 'It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Consols?' said Traddles. 'Right!' replied my aunt. 'I can't account for more than five,' said Traddles, with an air of perplexity. '--thousand, do you mean?' inquired my aunt, with uncommon composure, 'or pounds?' 'Five thousand pounds,' said Traddles. 'It was all there was,' returned my aunt. 'I sold three, myself. One, I paid for your articles, Trot, my dear; and the other two I have by me. When I lost the rest, I thought it wise to say nothing about that sum, but to keep it secretly for a rainy day. I wanted to see how you would come out of the trial, Trot; and you came out nobly--persevering, self-reliant, self-denying! So did Dick. Don't speak to me, for I find my nerves a little shaken!' Nobody would have thought so, to see her sitting upright, with her arms folded; but she had wonderful self-command. 'Then I am delighted to say,' cried Traddles, beaming with joy, 'that we have recovered the whole money!' 'Don't congratulate me, anybody!' exclaimed my aunt. 'How so, sir?' 'You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wickfield?' said Traddles. 'Of course I did,' said my aunt, 'and was therefore easily silenced. Agnes, not a word!' 'And indeed,' said Traddles, 'it was sold, by virtue of the power of management he held from you; but I needn't say by whom sold, or on whose actual signature. It was afterwards pretended to Mr. Wickfield, by that rascal,--and proved, too, by figures,--that he had possessed himself of the money (on general instructions, he said) to keep other deficiencies and difficulties from the light. Mr. Wickfield, being so weak and helpless in his hands as to pay you, afterwards, several sums of interest on a pretended principal which he knew did not exist, made himself, unhappily, a party to the fraud.' 'And at last took the blame upon himself,' added my aunt; 'and wrote me a mad letter, charging himself with robbery, and wrong unheard of. Upon which I paid him a visit early one morning, called for a candle, burnt the letter, and told him if he ever could right me and himself, to do it; and if he couldn't, to keep his own counsel for his daughter's sake.---If anybody speaks to me, I'll leave the house!' We all remained quiet; Agnes covering her face. 'Well, my dear friend,' said my aunt, after a pause, 'and you have really extorted the money back from him?' 'Why, the fact is,' returned Traddles, 'Mr. Micawber had so completely hemmed him in, and was always ready with so many new points if an old one failed, that he could not escape from us. A most remarkable circumstance is, that I really don't think he grasped this sum even so much for the gratification of his avarice, which was inordinate, as in the hatred he felt for Copperfield. He said so to me, plainly. He said he would even have spent as much, to baulk or injure Copperfield.' 'Ha!' said my aunt, knitting her brows thoughtfully, and glancing at Agnes. 'And what's become of him?' 'I don't know. He left here,' said Traddles, 'with his mother, who had been clamouring, and beseeching, and disclosing, the whole time. They went away by one of the London night coaches, and I know no more about him; except that his malevolence to me at parting was audacious. He seemed to consider himself hardly less indebted to me, than to Mr. Micawber; which I consider (as I told him) quite a compliment.' 'Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles?' I asked. 'Oh dear, yes, I should think so,' he replied, shaking his head, seriously. 'I should say he must have pocketed a good deal, in one way or other. But, I think you would find, Copperfield, if you had an opportunity of observing his course, that money would never keep that man out of mischief. He is such an incarnate hypocrite, that whatever object he pursues, he must pursue crookedly. It's his only compensation for the outward restraints he puts upon himself. Always creeping along the ground to some small end or other, he will always magnify every object in the way; and consequently will hate and suspect everybody that comes, in the most innocent manner, between him and it. So the crooked courses will become crookeder, at any moment, for the least reason, or for none. It's only necessary to consider his history here,' said Traddles, 'to know that.' 'He's a monster of meanness!' said my aunt. 'Really I don't know about that,' observed Traddles thoughtfully. 'Many people can be very mean, when they give their minds to it.' 'And now, touching Mr. Micawber,' said my aunt. 'Well, really,' said Traddles, cheerfully, 'I must, once more, give Mr. Micawber high praise. But for his having been so patient and persevering for so long a time, we never could have hoped to do anything worth speaking of. And I think we ought to consider that Mr. Micawber did right, for right's sake, when we reflect what terms he might have made with Uriah Heep himself, for his silence.' 'I think so too,' said I. 'Now, what would you give him?' inquired my aunt. 'Oh! Before you come to that,' said Traddles, a little disconcerted, 'I am afraid I thought it discreet to omit (not being able to carry everything before me) two points, in making this lawless adjustment--for it's perfectly lawless from beginning to end--of a difficult affair. Those I.O.U.'s, and so forth, which Mr. Micawber gave him for the advances he had--' 'Well! They must be paid,' said my aunt. 'Yes, but I don't know when they may be proceeded on, or where they are,' rejoined Traddles, opening his eyes; 'and I anticipate, that, between this time and his departure, Mr. Micawber will be constantly arrested, or taken in execution.' 'Then he must be constantly set free again, and taken out of execution,' said my aunt. 'What's the amount altogether?' 'Why, Mr. Micawber has entered the transactions--he calls them transactions--with great form, in a book,' rejoined Traddles, smiling; 'and he makes the amount a hundred and three pounds, five.' 'Now, what shall we give him, that sum included?' said my aunt. 'Agnes, my dear, you and I can talk about division of it afterwards. What should it be? Five hundred pounds?' Upon this, Traddles and I both struck in at once. We both recommended a small sum in money, and the payment, without stipulation to Mr. Micawber, of the Uriah claims as they came in. We proposed that the family should have their passage and their outfit, and a hundred pounds; and that Mr. Micawber's arrangement for the repayment of the advances should be gravely entered into, as it might be wholesome for him to suppose himself under that responsibility. To this, I added the suggestion, that I should give some explanation of his character and history to Mr. Peggotty, who I knew could be relied on; and that to Mr. Peggotty should be quietly entrusted the discretion of advancing another hundred. I further proposed to interest Mr. Micawber in Mr. Peggotty, by confiding so much of Mr. Peggotty's story to him as I might feel justified in relating, or might think expedient; and to endeavour to bring each of them to bear upon the other, for the common advantage. We all entered warmly into these views; and I may mention at once, that the principals themselves did so, shortly afterwards, with perfect good will and harmony. Seeing that Traddles now glanced anxiously at my aunt again, I reminded him of the second and last point to which he had adverted. 'You and your aunt will excuse me, Copperfield, if I touch upon a painful theme, as I greatly fear I shall,' said Traddles, hesitating; 'but I think it necessary to bring it to your recollection. On the day of Mr. Micawber's memorable denunciation a threatening allusion was made by Uriah Heep to your aunt's--husband.' My aunt, retaining her stiff position, and apparent composure, assented with a nod. 'Perhaps,' observed Traddles, 'it was mere purposeless impertinence?' 'No,' returned my aunt. 'There was--pardon me--really such a person, and at all in his power?' hinted Traddles. 'Yes, my good friend,' said my aunt. Traddles, with a perceptible lengthening of his face, explained that he had not been able to approach this subject; that it had shared the fate of Mr. Micawber's liabilities, in not being comprehended in the terms he had made; that we were no longer of any authority with Uriah Heep; and that if he could do us, or any of us, any injury or annoyance, no doubt he would. My aunt remained quiet; until again some stray tears found their way to her cheeks. 'You are quite right,' she said. 'It was very thoughtful to mention it.' 'Can I--or Copperfield--do anything?' asked Traddles, gently. 'Nothing,' said my aunt. 'I thank you many times. Trot, my dear, a vain threat! Let us have Mr. and Mrs. Micawber back. And don't any of you speak to me!' With that she smoothed her dress, and sat, with her upright carriage, looking at the door. 'Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!' said my aunt, when they entered. 'We have been discussing your emigration, with many apologies to you for keeping you out of the room so long; and I'll tell you what arrangements we propose.' These she explained to the unbounded satisfaction of the family,--children and all being then present,--and so much to the awakening of Mr. Micawber's punctual habits in the opening stage of all bill transactions, that he could not be dissuaded from immediately rushing out, in the highest spirits, to buy the stamps for his notes of hand. But, his joy received a sudden check; for within five minutes, he returned in the custody of a sheriff 's officer, informing us, in a flood of tears, that all was lost. We, being quite prepared for this event, which was of course a proceeding of Uriah Heep's, soon paid the money; and in five minutes more Mr. Micawber was seated at the table, filling up the stamps with an expression of perfect joy, which only that congenial employment, or the making of punch, could impart in full completeness to his shining face. To see him at work on the stamps, with the relish of an artist, touching them like pictures, looking at them sideways, taking weighty notes of dates and amounts in his pocket-book, and contemplating them when finished, with a high sense of their precious value, was a sight indeed. 'Now, the best thing you can do, sir, if you'll allow me to advise you,' said my aunt, after silently observing him, 'is to abjure that occupation for evermore.' 'Madam,' replied Mr. Micawber, 'it is my intention to register such a vow on the virgin page of the future. Mrs. Micawber will attest it. I trust,' said Mr. Micawber, solemnly, 'that my son Wilkins will ever bear in mind, that he had infinitely better put his fist in the fire, than use it to handle the serpents that have poisoned the life-blood of his unhappy parent!' Deeply affected, and changed in a moment to the image of despair, Mr. Micawber regarded the serpents with a look of gloomy abhorrence (in which his late admiration of them was not quite subdued), folded them up and put them in his pocket. This closed the proceedings of the evening. We were weary with sorrow and fatigue, and my aunt and I were to return to London on the morrow. It was arranged that the Micawbers should follow us, after effecting a sale of their goods to a broker; that Mr. Wickfield's affairs should be brought to a settlement, with all convenient speed, under the direction of Traddles; and that Agnes should also come to London, pending those arrangements. We passed the night at the old house, which, freed from the presence of the Heeps, seemed purged of a disease; and I lay in my old room, like a shipwrecked wanderer come home. We went back next day to my aunt's house--not to mine--and when she and I sat alone, as of old, before going to bed, she said: 'Trot, do you really wish to know what I have had upon my mind lately?' 'Indeed I do, aunt. If there ever was a time when I felt unwilling that you should have a sorrow or anxiety which I could not share, it is now.' 'You have had sorrow enough, child,' said my aunt, affectionately, 'without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no other motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.' 'I know that well,' said I. 'But tell me now.' 'Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?' asked my aunt. 'Of course.' 'At nine,' said she. 'I'll tell you then, my dear.' At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse. The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand at the window, drove slowly off; we following. 'You understand it now, Trot,' said my aunt. 'He is gone!' 'Did he die in the hospital?' 'Yes.' She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on her face. 'He was there once before,' said my aunt presently. 'He was ailing a long time--a shattered, broken man, these many years. When he knew his state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. He was sorry then. Very sorry.' 'You went, I know, aunt.' 'I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.' 'He died the night before we went to Canterbury?' said I. My aunt nodded. 'No one can harm him now,' she said. 'It was a vain threat.' We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. 'Better here than in the streets,' said my aunt. 'He was born here.' We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember well, where the service was read consigning it to the dust. 'Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,' said my aunt, as we walked back to the chariot, 'I was married. God forgive us all!' We took our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long time, holding my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears, and said: 'He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot--and he was sadly changed!' It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon became composed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shaken, she said, or she would not have given way to it. God forgive us all! So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where we found the following short note, which had arrived by that morning's post from Mr. Micawber: 'Canterbury, 'Friday. 'My dear Madam, and Copperfield, 'The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is again enveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever withdrawn from the eyes of a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed! 'Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty's High Court of King's Bench at Westminster), in another cause of HEEP V. MICAWBER, and the defendant in that cause is the prey of the sheriff having legal jurisdiction in this bailiwick. 'Now's the day, and now's the hour, See the front of battle lower, See approach proud EDWARD'S power-- Chains and slavery! 'Consigned to which, and to a speedy end (for mental torture is not supportable beyond a certain point, and that point I feel I have attained), my course is run. Bless you, bless you! Some future traveller, visiting, from motives of curiosity, not unmingled, let us hope, with sympathy, the place of confinement allotted to debtors in this city, may, and I trust will, Ponder, as he traces on its wall, inscribed with a rusty nail, 'The obscure initials, 'W. M. 'P.S. I re-open this to say that our common friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles (who has not yet left us, and is looking extremely well), has paid the debt and costs, in the noble name of Miss Trotwood; and that myself and family are at the height of earthly bliss.' Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Nach einer Weile wird Davids Trauer so intensiv, dass er denkt, dass er nie wieder glücklich sein wird. David verbindet diese schreckliche Zeit mit Agnes, die die erste Person ist, die er sieht, als er aus seiner Ohnmacht erwacht. Er und seine Freunde beschließen, dass es am besten wäre, wenn David ins Ausland geht. Das Einzige, worauf David wartet, ist das endgültige Schicksal von Uriah Heep. Traddles lädt David, Miss Betsey und Agnes zurück nach Canterbury ein. Sie treffen sich alle im Haus von Mr. Micawber. Miss Betsey fragt die Micawbers, ob sie über ihren Vorschlag, nach Australien zu ziehen, nachgedacht haben. Mr. Micawber stimmt zu, dass sie gerne umziehen würden. Er beginnt dann mit einer langen Zusammenfassung seiner Vorbereitungen für den Umzug, die im Wesentlichen darauf hinausläuft, wie viel Geld die Micawbers zum Umzug nach Australien benötigen. Frau Micawber fügt hinzu, dass die anfängliche Trennung zwischen Mr. Micawber und ihrer Familie wahrscheinlich aufgrund ihrer Vermutungen entstanden ist, dass Mr. Micawber Geld leihen müsste. Da Mr. Micawber kurz vor dem Beginn einer neuen Karriere als Australier steht, möchte Frau Micawber die Beziehungen zwischen ihm und ihrer Familie wiederherstellen. Mr. Micawber hat überhaupt kein Interesse daran, Zeit mit Frau Micawbers Familie zu verbringen - er beschreibt sie als Schurken und Snobs. Frau Micawber sagt, dass dies nicht der Fall ist, sondern dass sie Mr. Micawber nie verstanden haben und er sie nie verstanden hat. Dennoch möchte Mr. Micawber im Großen und Ganzen England verlassen, ohne sie zu treffen. Aber er wird es tun, wenn Frau Micawber darauf besteht. Traddles entschuldigt sich bei David, dass er ihn in geschäftliche Angelegenheiten verwickelt hat, aber er denkt, dass es eine gute Ablenkung für David sein wird. David sagt Traddles, dass er sich etwas Sorgen um Miss Betsey macht, die längere Zeit unerklärlicherweise nach London gefahren ist. Miss Betsey sagt David, dass er sich keine Sorgen machen soll; alles wird zur richtigen Zeit erklärt werden. Traddles lobt Mr. Micawber, der seiner Meinung nach nie viel für sich selbst getan hat, aber unermüdlich für andere arbeitet. Traddles erklärt, dass auch Mr. Dick Wunder vollbracht hat, mit seiner unermüdlichen Hingabe, sich um Mr. Wickfield zu kümmern. Mr. Wickfields Gesundheit hat sich verbessert, seit Uriah Heep aus seinem Leben entfernt wurde. Traddles hat festgestellt, dass Mr. Wickfields Angelegenheiten ohne Ehrenverlust oder Schaden für seine Investoren geregelt werden können. Nachdem alle Konten erledigt sind, hat er jedoch nicht mehr viel Geld zum Leben übrig. Daher schlägt Traddles vor, dass Mr. Wickfield mit dem Rat seiner Freunde im Geschäft bleibt. Agnes entscheidet, dass dies eine sehr schlechte Idee wäre. Alles, was sie möchte, ist, dass Mr. Wickfield frei und im Ruhestand ist. Sie hat beschlossen, dass das Beste für sie wäre, Mr. Wickfields Haus zu vermieten, eine Schule zu gründen und Mr. Wickfield zu unterstützen. Traddles geht als nächstes auf Miss Betsys Eigentum ein. Ursprünglich hatte sie 8.000 Pfund bei Mr. Wickfield angelegt. Er hat nur 5.000 Pfund auf ihren Namen finden können. Miss Betsey gibt zu, dass das alles sein sollte - Miss Betsey hat tausend Pfund für Davids Lehre bezahlt und zweitausend Pfund für schlechte Zeiten beiseite gelegt. Miss Betsey hat David von diesen zusätzlichen zweitausend Pfund nichts erzählt, um zu sehen, wie er sich der Herausforderung stellt, seine Familie zu unterstützen. Traddles ist erleichtert zu hören, dass sie all das Geld von Miss Betsey wiederentdeckt haben. Nachdem er von Uriah Heep getäuscht wurde und glaubte, dass er Miss Betsys Geld gestohlen hatte, um andere Schulden zu begleichen, schrieb Mr. Wickfield einen Brief an Miss Betsey, in dem er sich selbst des Diebstahls beschuldigte. Um Mr. Wickfield zu schützen, verbrannte Miss Betsey den Brief und erwähnte seine Beteiligung niemandem. Jetzt, mit all dem Beweismaterial von Mr. Micawber gegen ihn, hatte Uriah Heep keine andere Wahl, als das Geld erneut vorzulegen. Uriah Heep gesteht auch, dass er Miss Betsys Geld eigentlich nicht brauchte. Er wollte es nur stehlen, um David zu schaden. Traddles informiert die Gruppe darüber, dass Uriah Heep London mit seiner Mutter verlassen hat. Traddles ist sicher, dass Uriah Heep wieder in Kriminalität verfallen wird, obwohl er sicherlich eine beträchtliche Menge Geld bei sich hat. David und Traddles sind sich einig, dass Mr. Micawber letztendlich das Richtige gemacht hat. Seine Geduld ist es, die all diese Beweise gegen Uriah Heep ans Licht gebracht hat. Eine von Traddles' Sorgen um den armen Mr. Micawber ist, dass er jeden Tag wegen seiner nicht beglichenen Schulden verhaftet werden soll. Insgesamt schuldet Mr. Micawber noch etwa 103 Pfund. Daher stimmen sie alle zu, Mr. Micawber das Geld zu geben, um seine Schulden zu begleichen und die Reise seiner Familie nach Australien zu bezahlen. David beschließt auch, Mr. Peggotty um Hilfe zu bitten. David wird Mr. Peggotty hundert Pfund geben und wenn Mr. Peggotty es für eine gute Idee hält, kann er das Geld Mr. Micawber geben. Damit Mr. Micawber sich aber mit Mr. Peggotty anfreundet, findet David es gut, wenn er Mr. Micawber ein bisschen von Mr. Peggottys persönlicher Geschichte erzählt. Das Thema von Miss Betsys Ehemann ist der letzte Punkt, den Traddles anspricht. Er fragt, ob sich alle daran erinnern, wie Uriah Miss Betsys Ehemann bedroht hat, was sie tun. Traddles konnte keine weiteren Informationen über diese Person und ihre Beziehung zu Uriah Heep finden. Miss Betsys Augen füllen sich mit Tränen, aber sie möchte absolut nicht darüber sprechen und bittet Traddles und David, nicht mehr davon zu reden. Davids Tante ruft Mr. und Mrs. Micawber wieder ins Zimmer und erklärt die finanziellen Bedingungen ihrer Reise. Die Micawbers sind außerordentlich aufgeregt. Miss Betsey rät Mr. Micawber, nie wieder Schulden zu machen. Mr. Micawber stimmt zu, dass es besser ist, die Hand ins Feuer zu legen, als Schulden zu machen. Damit endet der Abend. Miss Betsey bittet David, am nächsten Morgen um 9 Uhr mit ihr auf eine Reise mitzukommen. David stimmt zu. David fährt mit seiner Tante zu einem Krankenhaus. Neben dem Krankenhaus steht ein Leichenwagen. Der Fahrer erkennt Miss Betsey. David erkennt, dass Miss Betsys Ehemann gestorben ist. Uriah Heeps Bedrohung war vergeblich: Miss Betsys Ehemann starb in der Nacht vor der Konfrontation mit Heep in Canterbury. Dieser Tag ist der sechsunddreißigste Jahrestag von Miss Betsys Hochzeit. Miss Betsey bricht in Tränen aus und ruft aus, dass ihr Ehemann ein gut aussehender Mann war, als sie heirateten, aber er hat sich schrecklich verändert. Bald fasst sich Miss Betsey wieder. Sie kehren zu Miss Betsys Zuhause in Highgate zurück. Dort finden sie einen Brief von Mr. Micawber. In dem Brief wird erneut von einer Katastrophe gesprochen: Mr. Micawber wurde wegen unbezahlter Schulden verhaftet. Aber dann, ganz am Ende, gibt es eine Postskriptum. Traddles hat im Namen von Miss Betsey alle Schulden von Mr. Micawber bezahlt, und Mr. Micawber ist wieder glücklich.

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. A public road near Coventry. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton Co'fil' to-night. Bard. Will you give me money, Captain? Fal. Lay out, lay out. Bard. This bottle makes an angel. Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town's end. Bard. I will, Captain. Farewell. Exit. Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a sous'd gurnet. I have misused the King's press damnably. I have got in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the banes- such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lieve hear the devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I press'd me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies- slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to Younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old fac'd ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and press'd the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins tack'd together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stol'n from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on every hedge. Enter the Prince and the Lord of Westmoreland. Prince. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt? Fal. What, Hal? How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury. West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all. We must away all, to-night. Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after? Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals. Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare- too beggarly. Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know, not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am surd they never learn'd that of me. Prince. No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy 's already in the field. Exit. Fal. What, is the King encamp'd? West. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long. [Exit.] Fal. Well, To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. Exit. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Falstaff und Bardolph erscheinen auf einer öffentlichen Straße in der Nähe von Coventry, gefolgt von einer neu rekrutierten Soldatenkompanie. Sir John befiehlt Bardolph, seinen Vorrat an Wein aufzufüllen und Peto zu informieren, ihm am Ende der Stadt zu begegnen. Er mag nicht die Idee, seine Männer in ihren Lumpen und zerlumpten Kleidern durch die Stadt marschieren zu lassen. Erbärmlich verarmt könnte keiner von ihnen ihn wie so viele andere für die Entlassung aus dem Militärdienst bezahlen. In Falstaffs eigenen Worten: "Noch kein Auge hat solche Vogelscheuchen gesehen." Prinz Hal und Westmoreland treffen ihn auf der Straße und kommentieren die armen Kreaturen, die Falstaff anführt. Der Ritter bleibt unbeeindruckt und ist philosophisch angesichts dieser Kritik. Und, um ehrlich zu sein, scheint der Prinz eher amüsiert als empört. Alle sollen sich beeilen, sagt Hal, denn Percy ist bereits auf dem Feld.

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 Same Subject Continued (Concerning the General Power of Taxation) From the New York Packet. Tuesday, January 8, 1788. HAMILTON To the People of the State of New York: WE HAVE seen that the result of the observations, to which the foregoing number has been principally devoted, is, that from the natural operation of the different interests and views of the various classes of the community, whether the representation of the people be more or less numerous, it will consist almost entirely of proprietors of land, of merchants, and of members of the learned professions, who will truly represent all those different interests and views. If it should be objected that we have seen other descriptions of men in the local legislatures, I answer that it is admitted there are exceptions to the rule, but not in sufficient number to influence the general complexion or character of the government. There are strong minds in every walk of life that will rise superior to the disadvantages of situation, and will command the tribute due to their merit, not only from the classes to which they particularly belong, but from the society in general. The door ought to be equally open to all; and I trust, for the credit of human nature, that we shall see examples of such vigorous plants flourishing in the soil of federal as well as of State legislation; but occasional instances of this sort will not render the reasoning founded upon the general course of things, less conclusive. The subject might be placed in several other lights that would all lead to the same result; and in particular it might be asked, What greater affinity or relation of interest can be conceived between the carpenter and blacksmith, and the linen manufacturer or stocking weaver, than between the merchant and either of them? It is notorious that there are often as great rivalships between different branches of the mechanic or manufacturing arts as there are between any of the departments of labor and industry; so that, unless the representative body were to be far more numerous than would be consistent with any idea of regularity or wisdom in its deliberations, it is impossible that what seems to be the spirit of the objection we have been considering should ever be realized in practice. But I forbear to dwell any longer on a matter which has hitherto worn too loose a garb to admit even of an accurate inspection of its real shape or tendency. There is another objection of a somewhat more precise nature that claims our attention. It has been asserted that a power of internal taxation in the national legislature could never be exercised with advantage, as well from the want of a sufficient knowledge of local circumstances, as from an interference between the revenue laws of the Union and of the particular States. The supposition of a want of proper knowledge seems to be entirely destitute of foundation. If any question is depending in a State legislature respecting one of the counties, which demands a knowledge of local details, how is it acquired? No doubt from the information of the members of the county. Cannot the like knowledge be obtained in the national legislature from the representatives of each State? And is it not to be presumed that the men who will generally be sent there will be possessed of the necessary degree of intelligence to be able to communicate that information? Is the knowledge of local circumstances, as applied to taxation, a minute topographical acquaintance with all the mountains, rivers, streams, highways, and bypaths in each State; or is it a general acquaintance with its situation and resources, with the state of its agriculture, commerce, manufactures, with the nature of its products and consumptions, with the different degrees and kinds of its wealth, property, and industry? Nations in general, even under governments of the more popular kind, usually commit the administration of their finances to single men or to boards composed of a few individuals, who digest and prepare, in the first instance, the plans of taxation, which are afterwards passed into laws by the authority of the sovereign or legislature. Inquisitive and enlightened statesmen are deemed everywhere best qualified to make a judicious selection of the objects proper for revenue; which is a clear indication, as far as the sense of mankind can have weight in the question, of the species of knowledge of local circumstances requisite to the purposes of taxation. The taxes intended to be comprised under the general denomination of internal taxes may be subdivided into those of the DIRECT and those of the INDIRECT kind. Though the objection be made to both, yet the reasoning upon it seems to be confined to the former branch. And indeed, as to the latter, by which must be understood duties and excises on articles of consumption, one is at a loss to conceive what can be the nature of the difficulties apprehended. The knowledge relating to them must evidently be of a kind that will either be suggested by the nature of the article itself, or can easily be procured from any well-informed man, especially of the mercantile class. The circumstances that may distinguish its situation in one State from its situation in another must be few, simple, and easy to be comprehended. The principal thing to be attended to, would be to avoid those articles which had been previously appropriated to the use of a particular State; and there could be no difficulty in ascertaining the revenue system of each. This could always be known from the respective codes of laws, as well as from the information of the members from the several States. The objection, when applied to real property or to houses and lands, appears to have, at first sight, more foundation, but even in this view it will not bear a close examination. Land taxes are commonly laid in one of two modes, either by ACTUAL valuations, permanent or periodical, or by OCCASIONAL assessments, at the discretion, or according to the best judgment, of certain officers whose duty it is to make them. In either case, the EXECUTION of the business, which alone requires the knowledge of local details, must be devolved upon discreet persons in the character of commissioners or assessors, elected by the people or appointed by the government for the purpose. All that the law can do must be to name the persons or to prescribe the manner of their election or appointment, to fix their numbers and qualifications and to draw the general outlines of their powers and duties. And what is there in all this that cannot as well be performed by the national legislature as by a State legislature? The attention of either can only reach to general principles; local details, as already observed, must be referred to those who are to execute the plan. But there is a simple point of view in which this matter may be placed that must be altogether satisfactory. The national legislature can make use of the SYSTEM OF EACH STATE WITHIN THAT STATE. The method of laying and collecting this species of taxes in each State can, in all its parts, be adopted and employed by the federal government. Let it be recollected that the proportion of these taxes is not to be left to the discretion of the national legislature, but is to be determined by the numbers of each State, as described in the second section of the first article. An actual census or enumeration of the people must furnish the rule, a circumstance which effectually shuts the door to partiality or oppression. The abuse of this power of taxation seems to have been provided against with guarded circumspection. In addition to the precaution just mentioned, there is a provision that "all duties, imposts, and excises shall be UNIFORM throughout the United States." It has been very properly observed by different speakers and writers on the side of the Constitution, that if the exercise of the power of internal taxation by the Union should be discovered on experiment to be really inconvenient, the federal government may then forbear the use of it, and have recourse to requisitions in its stead. By way of answer to this, it has been triumphantly asked, Why not in the first instance omit that ambiguous power, and rely upon the latter resource? Two solid answers may be given. The first is, that the exercise of that power, if convenient, will be preferable, because it will be more effectual; and it is impossible to prove in theory, or otherwise than by the experiment, that it cannot be advantageously exercised. The contrary, indeed, appears most probable. The second answer is, that the existence of such a power in the Constitution will have a strong influence in giving efficacy to requisitions. When the States know that the Union can apply itself without their agency, it will be a powerful motive for exertion on their part. As to the interference of the revenue laws of the Union, and of its members, we have already seen that there can be no clashing or repugnancy of authority. The laws cannot, therefore, in a legal sense, interfere with each other; and it is far from impossible to avoid an interference even in the policy of their different systems. An effectual expedient for this purpose will be, mutually, to abstain from those objects which either side may have first had recourse to. As neither can CONTROL the other, each will have an obvious and sensible interest in this reciprocal forbearance. And where there is an IMMEDIATE common interest, we may safely count upon its operation. When the particular debts of the States are done away, and their expenses come to be limited within their natural compass, the possibility almost of interference will vanish. A small land tax will answer the purpose of the States, and will be their most simple and most fit resource. Many spectres have been raised out of this power of internal taxation, to excite the apprehensions of the people: double sets of revenue officers, a duplication of their burdens by double taxations, and the frightful forms of odious and oppressive poll-taxes, have been played off with all the ingenious dexterity of political legerdemain. As to the first point, there are two cases in which there can be no room for double sets of officers: one, where the right of imposing the tax is exclusively vested in the Union, which applies to the duties on imports; the other, where the object has not fallen under any State regulation or provision, which may be applicable to a variety of objects. In other cases, the probability is that the United States will either wholly abstain from the objects preoccupied for local purposes, or will make use of the State officers and State regulations for collecting the additional imposition. This will best answer the views of revenue, because it will save expense in the collection, and will best avoid any occasion of disgust to the State governments and to the people. At all events, here is a practicable expedient for avoiding such an inconvenience; and nothing more can be required than to show that evils predicted to not necessarily result from the plan. As to any argument derived from a supposed system of influence, it is a sufficient answer to say that it ought not to be presumed; but the supposition is susceptible of a more precise answer. If such a spirit should infest the councils of the Union, the most certain road to the accomplishment of its aim would be to employ the State officers as much as possible, and to attach them to the Union by an accumulation of their emoluments. This would serve to turn the tide of State influence into the channels of the national government, instead of making federal influence flow in an opposite and adverse current. But all suppositions of this kind are invidious, and ought to be banished from the consideration of the great question before the people. They can answer no other end than to cast a mist over the truth. As to the suggestion of double taxation, the answer is plain. The wants of the Union are to be supplied in one way or another; if to be done by the authority of the federal government, it will not be to be done by that of the State government. The quantity of taxes to be paid by the community must be the same in either case; with this advantage, if the provision is to be made by the Union that the capital resource of commercial imposts, which is the most convenient branch of revenue, can be prudently improved to a much greater extent under federal than under State regulation, and of course will render it less necessary to recur to more inconvenient methods; and with this further advantage, that as far as there may be any real difficulty in the exercise of the power of internal taxation, it will impose a disposition to greater care in the choice and arrangement of the means; and must naturally tend to make it a fixed point of policy in the national administration to go as far as may be practicable in making the luxury of the rich tributary to the public treasury, in order to diminish the necessity of those impositions which might create dissatisfaction in the poorer and most numerous classes of the society. Happy it is when the interest which the government has in the preservation of its own power, coincides with a proper distribution of the public burdens, and tends to guard the least wealthy part of the community from oppression! As to poll taxes, I, without scruple, confess my disapprobation of them; and though they have prevailed from an early period in those States(1) which have uniformly been the most tenacious of their rights, I should lament to see them introduced into practice under the national government. But does it follow because there is a power to lay them that they will actually be laid? Every State in the Union has power to impose taxes of this kind; and yet in several of them they are unknown in practice. Are the State governments to be stigmatized as tyrannies, because they possess this power? If they are not, with what propriety can the like power justify such a charge against the national government, or even be urged as an obstacle to its adoption? As little friendly as I am to the species of imposition, I still feel a thorough conviction that the power of having recourse to it ought to exist in the federal government. There are certain emergencies of nations, in which expedients, that in the ordinary state of things ought to be forborne, become essential to the public weal. And the government, from the possibility of such emergencies, ought ever to have the option of making use of them. The real scarcity of objects in this country, which may be considered as productive sources of revenue, is a reason peculiar to itself, for not abridging the discretion of the national councils in this respect. There may exist certain critical and tempestuous conjunctures of the State, in which a poll tax may become an inestimable resource. And as I know nothing to exempt this portion of the globe from the common calamities that have befallen other parts of it, I acknowledge my aversion to every project that is calculated to disarm the government of a single weapon, which in any possible contingency might be usefully employed for the general defense and security. (I have now gone through the examination of such of the powers proposed to be vested in the United States, which may be considered as having an immediate relation to the energy of the government; and have endeavored to answer the principal objections which have been made to them. I have passed over in silence those minor authorities, which are either too inconsiderable to have been thought worthy of the hostilities of the opponents of the Constitution, or of too manifest propriety to admit of controversy. The mass of judiciary power, however, might have claimed an investigation under this head, had it not been for the consideration that its organization and its extent may be more advantageously considered in connection. This has determined me to refer it to the branch of our inquiries upon which we shall next enter.)(E1) (I have now gone through the examination of those powers proposed to be conferred upon the federal government which relate more peculiarly to its energy, and to its efficiency for answering the great and primary objects of union. There are others which, though omitted here, will, in order to render the view of the subject more complete, be taken notice of under the next head of our inquiries. I flatter myself the progress already made will have sufficed to satisfy the candid and judicious part of the community that some of the objections which have been most strenuously urged against the Constitution, and which were most formidable in their first appearance, are not only destitute of substance, but if they had operated in the formation of the plan, would have rendered it incompetent to the great ends of public happiness and national prosperity. I equally flatter myself that a further and more critical investigation of the system will serve to recommend it still more to every sincere and disinterested advocate for good government and will leave no doubt with men of this character of the propriety and expediency of adopting it. Happy will it be for ourselves, and more honorable for human nature, if we have wisdom and virtue enough to set so glorious an example to mankind!)(E1) PUBLIUS 1. The New England States. E1. Two versions of this paragraph appear in different editions. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Hamilton reagiert auf weitere Kritik an den Steuervorschriften der Verfassung. Er weist den Vorwurf zurück, dass das nationale Parlament nicht ausreichend über die örtlichen Verhältnisse informiert sein wird, um direkt Steuern von den Menschen zu erheben. Die Vertreter jedes Staates werden sicherlich ein angemessenes Verständnis der Interessen und Umstände ihrer Wähler haben, um eine informierte Entscheidung über die Besteuerung zu treffen. Hamilton geht auch auf Bedenken darüber ein, wie das nationale Steuersystem funktionieren würde, insbesondere wenn sowohl die Regierungen der einzelnen Bundesstaaten als auch die Union das Recht haben, Steuern zu erheben. Er behauptet, dass beide Regierungsebenen klug genug wären, darauf zu achten, bereits besteuerte Gegenstände nicht erneut zu besteuern. Er behauptet auch, dass das nationale Parlament in der Lage sein wird, den Steuereinziehungsapparat des Staates zur Erhebung bundesweiter Steuern zu nutzen. Schließlich argumentiert Hamilton, dass die vorgeschlagene Verfassung nicht zu "doppelten Sätzen von Steuerbeamten" oder "doppelter Besteuerung" führen wird, wie befürchtet wurde.

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: ADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest stride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might be gone out--hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state of strong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it he saw the deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel. But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and though there was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwine's: it had evidently had a journey this morning, and must belong to some one who had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam could hardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to speak to the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had begun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, as he threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at the clock on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said, but he heard the study door open--the stranger seemed to be coming out, and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master know at once. Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurrying along the last five minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick, and Adam watched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had some reason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there are almost always these pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everything but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy came to give us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave us in our sleep. Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. He was to go into the study immediately. "I can't think what that strange person's come about," the butler added, from mere incontinence of remark, as he preceded Adam to the door, "he's gone i' the dining-room. And master looks unaccountable--as if he was frightened." Adam took no notice of the words: he could not care about other people's business. But when he entered the study and looked in Mr. Irwine's face, he felt in an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely different from the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open on the table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changed glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation with some disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door, as if Adam's entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him. "You want to speak to me, Adam," he said, in that low constrainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation. "Sit down here." He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no more than a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense that this cold manner of Mr. Irwine's gave an additional unexpected difficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind to a measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but imperative reasons. "I come to you, sir," he said, "as the gentleman I look up to most of anybody. I've something very painful to tell you--something as it'll pain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o' the wrong other people have done, you'll see I didn't speak till I'd good reason." Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously, "You was t' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the fifteenth o' this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' the parish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me." Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then, determined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out. "She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was going to Snowfield o' Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday to fetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took the coach to Stoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now I'm going a long journey to look for her, and I can't trust t' anybody but you where I'm going." Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down. "Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?" he said. "It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir," said Adam. "She didn't like it when it came so near. But that isn't all, I doubt. There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody else concerned besides me." A gleam of something--it was almost like relief or joy--came across the eager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face at that moment. Adam was looking on the ground, and paused a little: the next words were hard to speak. But when he went on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr. Irwine. He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without flinching. "You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend," he said, "and used to be proud to think as I should pass my life i' working for him, and had felt so ever since we were lads...." Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm, which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, "No, Adam, no--don't say it, for God's sake!" Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented of the words that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his chair, saying, "Go on--I must know it." "That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd no right to do to a girl in her station o' life--made her presents and used to go and meet her out a-walking. I found it out only two days before he went away--found him a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove. There'd been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I'd loved her for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him with his wrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he said solemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no more than a bit o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty he'd meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, and I thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to love another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter, and she seemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected...and she behaved kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she didn't know her own feelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was too late...I don't want to blame her...I can't think as she meant to deceive me. But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and--you know the rest, sir. But it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away, and she's gone to him--and I'm going now to see, for I can never go to work again till I know what's become of her." During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover his self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him. It was a bitter remembrance to him now--that morning when Arthur breakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of a confession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess. And if their words had taken another turn...if he himself had been less fastidious about intruding on another man's secrets...it was cruel to think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt and misery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination which the present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as it rushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the man who sat before him--already so bruised, going forth with sad blind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was close upon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to have feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comes over us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he must inflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his hand on the arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he said solemnly: "Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. You can bear sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God requires both tasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than any you have yet known. But you are not guilty--you have not the worst of all sorrows. God help him who has!" The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was trembling suspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on. "I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to him. She is in Stonyshire--at Stoniton." Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leaped to her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold of his arm again and said, persuasively, "Wait, Adam, wait." So he sat down. "She is in a very unhappy position--one which will make it worse for you to find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for ever." Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, and he whispered, "Tell me." "She has been arrested...she is in prison." It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said, loudly and sharply, "For what?" "For a great crime--the murder of her child." "It CAN'T BE!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair and making a stride towards the door; but he turned round again, setting his back against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. "It isn't possible. She never had a child. She can't be guilty. WHO says it?" "God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is." "But who says she is guilty?" said Adam violently. "Tell me everything." "Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and the constable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She will not confess her name or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be no doubt it is Hetty. The description of her person corresponds, only that she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leather pocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it--one at the beginning, 'Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'Dinah Morris, Snowfield.' She will not say which is her own name--she denies everything, and will answer no questions, and application has been made to me, as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her, for it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her own name." "But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?" said Adam, still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame. "I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and none of us know it." "Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime; but we have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and read that letter, Adam." Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give some orders. When he came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first page--he couldn't read--he could not put the words together and make out what they meant. He threw it down at last and clenched his fist. "It's HIS doing," he said; "if there's been any crime, it's at his door, not at hers. HE taught her to deceive--HE deceived me first. Let 'em put HIM on his trial--let him stand in court beside her, and I'll tell 'em how he got hold of her heart, and 'ticed her t' evil, and then lied to me. Is HE to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her...so weak and young?" The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor Adam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of the room as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone of appealing anguish, "I can't bear it...O God, it's too hard to lay upon me--it's too hard to think she's wicked." Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to utter soothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam before him, with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in moments of terrible emotion--the hard bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow--the sight of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless, with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that short space he was living through all his love again. "She can't ha' done it," he said, still without moving his eyes, as if he were only talking to himself: "it was fear made her hide it...I forgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee wast deceived too...it's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty...but they'll never make me believe it." He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierce abruptness, "I'll go to him--I'll bring him back--I'll make him go and look at her in her misery--he shall look at her till he can't forget it--it shall follow him night and day--as long as he lives it shall follow him--he shan't escape wi' lies this time--I'll fetch him, I'll drag him myself." In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who was present with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by the arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, "No, Adam, no; I'm sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall without your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on his way home--or would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, I know, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to go with me to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you can compose yourself." While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the actual scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened. "Remember," Mr. Irwine went on, "there are others to think of, and act for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty's friends, the good Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to think. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam--from your sense of duty to God and man--that you will try to act as long as action can be of any use." In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam's own sake. Movement, with some object before him, was the best means of counteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours. "You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?" he said again, after a moment's pause. "We have to see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know." "Ja, Sir," sagte Adam, "ich werde tun, was Sie für richtig halten. Aber was ist mit den Leuten auf dem Hall Farm?" "Ich möchte nicht, dass sie es erfahren, bis ich persönlich zurückkehre, um es ihnen zu sagen. Bis dahin werde ich gewisse Dinge geklärt haben, über die ich im Moment unsicher bin, und ich werde so bald wie möglich zurückkehren. Nun, kommen Sie, die Pferde sind bereit." Können Sie 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.

Als er Adam hereinführt, sagt der Butler, dass eine seltsame Person, die gerade gegangen ist, aus unbekannten Gründen gekommen ist. Als Adam Mr. Irwine sieht, wirkt er bekümmert und hat einen offenen Brief vor sich liegen. Adam erzählt ihm die Neuigkeiten über Hetty. Als Adam sagt, dass er vielleicht eine Idee habe, wo Hetty hingegangen ist und zu wem, sieht das Gesicht von Mr. Irwine beinahe erwartungsvoll aus. Adam erzählt ihm die ganze Geschichte, so wie er sie zwischen Hetty und Arthur versteht. Mr. Irwine fühlt sich schuldig daran, dass Arthur ihm anscheinend etwas gestehen wollte bei diesem Frühstück. Er bedauert, dass er Adam noch mehr Kummer bereiten muss, aber er erzählt ihm, dass Hetty in Stoniton ist und wegen des Mordes an ihrem Kind verhaftet worden ist. Die fremde Person, die gerade gegangen ist, ist der Polizist, der sie verhaftet hat. Adam sagt, dass jegliches Unrecht Arthurs Schuld sei, da er es war, der sie zum Lügen angeleitet hat. Adam beschließt, Arthur zu finden, ihn zurückzubringen und ihn Hetty im Elend sehen zu lassen. Mr. Irwine drängt ihn dazu, zu bleiben und zu sehen, was für Hetty getan werden kann. Sie machen sich sofort auf den Weg, um sie zu besuchen.

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 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.

Salerio und Solanio sind wieder einmal in den Straßen von Venedig unterwegs. Sie tratschen über die neuesten Nachrichten: Bassanios Schiff ist mit Graziano, aber ohne Lorenzo abgefahren. Shylock stellte fest, dass seine Tochter verschwunden war und weckte den Herzog von Venedig, um sie zu finden. Jessica wurde nicht gefunden, aber der Herzog erfuhr, dass sie zuletzt mit Lorenzo in einer mit Liebe gefüllten Gondel gesehen wurde. Solanio berichtet, dass Shylocks Reaktion seltsam war - er beklagte seine verlorenen Dukaten abwechselnd mit seiner verlorenen Tochter, beide gestohlen von einem Christen: "Meine Tochter! O meine Dukaten! Meine Tochter ist mit einem Christen geflohen! O meine christlichen Dukaten!" und so weiter. Er wurde von allen Jungen in Venedig verspottet, die ihm nachliefen und von Dukaten und Töchtern weinten. Solanio sagt, dass Antonio Shylock besser rechtzeitig zurückzahlen sollte, oder er wird definitiv zahlen müssen. Shylock wird jemanden finden wollen, an dem er seinen Ärger auslassen kann. In Bezug auf Antonio verkündet Salerio, dass er vor kurzem schlechte Nachrichten von einem Franzosen erhalten hat, der von einem italienischen Schiff erzählte, das zwischen Frankreich und England gesunken ist. Salerio hofft sicher, dass es nicht eines von Antonios Schiffen war. Die Männer überlegen hin und her, ob sie Antonio die potenziell katastrophalen Nachrichten mitteilen sollen. Salerio lobt Antonio als einen der nettesten Typen im Viertel und erzählt, wie er Antonio und Bassanio verabschiedete, als letzterer auf dem Weg nach Belmont war. Antonio sagte Bassanio, er solle nicht hetzen, sondern so lange bleiben, wie er braucht, um Portia zu gewinnen. Ach. In der Zwischenzeit riet Antonio Bassanio, sich keine Sorgen um seine Schulden bei Shylock zu machen. Stattdessen solle er glücklich sein und an Liebe und Werbung denken. Und er hatte eine Träne in den Augen, als sie sich die Hände schüttelten. Ach. Sie machten sich auf den Weg, um Antonio aufzumuntern.

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: "LIEBES ICH, es gibt nichts als Treffen und Abschiede in dieser Welt, wie Mrs. Lynde sagt", bemerkte Anne klagend und legte ihre Schiefertafel und Bücher am letzten Tag des Junis auf den Küchentisch und wischte sich die roten Augen mit einem sehr feuchten Taschentuch ab. "War es nicht glücklich, Marilla, dass ich ein extra Taschentuch mit zur Schule genommen habe? Ich hatte eine Vorahnung, dass es gebraucht werden würde." "Ich habe nie gedacht, dass du so sehr auf Mr. Phillips stehst, dass du zwei Taschentücher brauchst, um deine Tränen zu trocknen, nur weil er weggeht", sagte Marilla. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich geweint habe, weil ich wirklich so sehr auf ihn stand", überlegte Anne. "Ich habe nur geweint, weil es alle anderen getan haben. Ruby Gillis hat damit angefangen. Ruby Gillis hat immer behauptet, sie hasse Mr. Phillips, aber sobald er aufstand, um seine Abschiedsrede zu halten, brach sie in Tränen aus. Dann fingen alle Mädchen nacheinander an zu weinen. Ich habe versucht, stark zu bleiben, Marilla. Ich habe versucht, mich daran zu erinnern, wie Mr. Phillips mich dazu gebracht hat, mit Gil - mit einem Jungen - zusammenzusitzen; und wie er meinen Namen ohne ein 'e' an die Tafel geschrieben hat; und wie er gesagt hat, ich wäre der dümmste Schüler in Geometrie, und wie er sich über meine Rechtschreibung lustig gemacht hat; und all die Male, in denen er so furchtbar und sarkastisch gewesen ist; aber irgendwie konnte ich es nicht, Marilla, und ich musste auch weinen. Jane Andrews hat seit einem Monat davon gesprochen, wie froh sie sein wird, wenn Mr. Phillips geht, und sie hat behauptet, dass sie keine einzige Träne vergießen würde. Nun, sie war schlimmer als wir alle und musste sich ein Taschentuch von ihrem Bruder ausleihen - natürlich haben die Jungen nicht geweint - weil sie keines dabei hatte und nicht erwartet hätte, es zu brauchen. Oh, Marilla, es war herzzerreißend. Mr. Phillips hat so eine schöne Abschiedsrede gehalten und gesagt: 'Die Zeit ist gekommen, dass wir uns trennen müssen.' Es war sehr ergreifend. Und auch er hatte Tränen in seinen Augen, Marilla. Oh, ich habe mich fürchterlich schlecht und reuevoll gefühlt für all die Male, in denen ich in der Schule über ihn geredet und Bilder von ihm auf meine Schiefertafel gemalt und mich über ihn und Prissy lustig gemacht habe. Ich kann dir sagen, ich hätte mir gewünscht, ich wäre ein Musterschüler wie Minnie Andrews gewesen. Sie hatte nichts, worüber sie sich Vorwürfe machen musste. Die Mädchen haben den ganzen Weg von der Schule nach Hause geweint. Carrie Sloane hat alle paar Minuten gesagt: 'Die Zeit ist gekommen, dass wir uns trennen', und das hat uns jedes Mal wieder in Tränen ausbrechen lassen, wenn wir in Gefahr waren, unseren Mut zu fassen. Ich fühle mich schrecklich traurig, Marilla. Aber man kann nicht völlig in Verzweiflung versinken, wenn man zwei Monate Ferien vor sich hat, oder? Und außerdem sind wir dem neuen Pfarrer und seiner Frau begegnet, als sie vom Bahnhof kamen. Obwohl es mir so leid um Mr. Phillips ging, konnte ich mir doch ein wenig für einen neuen Pfarrer interessieren, oder? Seine Frau ist sehr hübsch. Nicht gerade königlich schön natürlich - es wäre wahrscheinlich nicht angebracht, dass ein Pfarrer eine königlich schöne Frau hat, weil es ein schlechtes Beispiel sein könnte. Frau Lynde sagt, die Frau des Pfarrers in Newbridge gibt ein sehr schlechtes Beispiel ab, weil sie sich so modisch kleidet. Die Frau unseres neuen Pfarrers war in blauer Musselin gekleidet, mit schönen Puffärmeln und einem mit Rosen verzierten Hut. Jane Andrews hat gesagt, sie findet Puffärmel zu weltlich für eine Pfarrersfrau, aber ich habe keinen derart uncharmanten Kommentar abgegeben, Marilla, weil ich weiß, wie sehr ich mir Puffärmel wünsche. Außerdem ist sie erst seit kurzer Zeit die Frau eines Pfarrers, also sollte man Nachsicht walten lassen, oder? Sie werden bei Frau Lynde wohnen, bis der Pfarrhof bereit ist." Wenn Marilla an diesem Abend zu Mrs. Lynde hinunterging, wurde sie entweder von einem anderen Motiv als dem bekundeten, nämlich den Quilt-Rahmen, den sie im vorherigen Winter ausgeliehen hatte, geleitet, oder sie hatte jene liebenswerte Schwäche, die den meisten Einwohnern von Avonlea eigen war. Viele Dinge, die Mrs. Lynde geliehen hatte, oft ohne zu erwarten, sie jemals wiederzusehen, kehrten in dieser Nacht in der Obhut der Entleiher zurück. Ein neuer Pfarrer und außerdem ein Pfarrer mit Frau, war ein legitimes Objekt der Neugierde in einer ruhigen kleinen Landgemeinde, in der Sensationen selten waren. Der alte Mr. Bentley, der Pfarrer, den Anne als fühllos empfunden hatte, war 18 Jahre lang Pastor von Avonlea gewesen. Er war Witwer, als er kam, und Witwer blieb er, trotz der Tatsache, dass der Tratsch ihn regelmäßig jedes Jahr mit diesem und jenem verheiratete. Im Februar des letzten Jahres hatte er seinen Dienst niedergelegt und war mit den Bedauern seiner Gemeinde gegangen, von denen die meisten trotz seiner Mängel als Redner eine liebevolle Zuneigung zu ihrem guten alten Pastor empfanden. Seitdem hatte die Avonlea-Kirche eine Vielzahl von religiösen Erfahrungen gemacht, wenn sie verschiedenen Kandidaten und "Vertretungen" zuhörte, die Sonntag für Sonntag zum Probesprechen kamen. Diese standen oder fielen im Urteil der Väter und Mütter in Israel. Aber ein gewisses rotköpfiges Mädchen, das demütig in der Ecke der alten Cuthbert-Kirchenbank saß, hatte auch ihre Meinungen über sie und diskutierte sie ausführlich mit Matthew. Marilla lehnte es aus Prinzip ab, Pfarrer in irgendeiner Form zu kritisieren. "Ich glaube nicht, dass Herr Smith es geschafft hätte, Matthew", fasste Anne zusammen. "Frau Lynde sagt, seine Vortragsweise sei fürchterlich gewesen, aber ich denke, sein schlimmster Fehler war genau wie bei Mr. Bentley - er hatte keine Phantasie. Und Mr. Terry hatte zu viel davon; er ließ sich davon mitreißen, genau wie ich es bei der Geschichte mit dem Geisterwald getan habe. Außerdem sagt Frau Lynde, seine Theologie sei nicht richtig gewesen. Mr. Gresham war ein sehr guter und sehr religiöser Mensch, aber er hat zu viele lustige Geschichten erzählt und die Leute in der Kirche zum Lachen gebracht. Das war unwürdig, und ein Pfarrer muss doch etwas Würdevolles haben, nicht wahr, Matthew? Ich fand, dass Mr. Marshall ausgesprochen attraktiv war, aber Frau Lynde sagt, dass er nicht verheiratet ist und auch nicht verlobt, weil sie ihn genau dazu befragt hat, und sie sagt, es wäre nie gut, einen jungen unverheirateten Pfarrer in Avonlea zu haben, weil er in der Gemeinde heiraten könnte und das würde Ärger verursachen. Frau Lynde ist eine sehr vorausschauende Frau, oder? Ich bin sehr froh, dass sie Mr. Allan berufen haben. Ich mochte ihn, weil seine Predigt interessant war und er gebetet hat, als würde er es ernst meinen und nicht nur, weil es Gewohnheit ist. Frau Lynde sagt, er sei nicht perfekt, aber sie sagt, dass wir für 750 Dollar im Jahr wohl keinen perfekten Pfarrer erwarten können, und außerdem ist seine Theologie richtig, weil sie ihn gründlich zu allen Glaubensfragen befragt hat. Und sie kennt die Leute seiner Frau, und sie sind sehr angesehen, und die Frauen sind alle gute Haushälterinnen. Frau Lynde sagt, dass eine korrekte Lehre beim Mann und gute Haushaltsführung bei der Frau eine ideale Kombination für eine Pfarrersfamilie ergibt." Der neue Pfarrer und seine Frau waren ein junges, angenehmes Paar mit freundlichen Gesichtern, immer noch auf ihrer Hochzeitsreise und voller aller guten und schönen Begeisterungen für ihre gewählte Lebensarbeit. Avonlea öffnete ihnen von Anfang an sein Herz. Alt und jung mochten den offenen, fröhlichen jungen Mann mit seinen hohen Idealen, und die helle, sanfte kleine Dame, die Niemand außer Ruby Gillis hat irgendetwas gefragt und sie hat gefragt, ob es in diesem Sommer ein Sonntagsschulausflug geben wird. Ich fand das keine ganz passende Frage, denn es hatte nichts mit der Lektion zu tun - die Lektion handelte von Daniel in der Löwengrube - aber Frau Allan lächelte nur und meinte, dass es wahrscheinlich einen Ausflug geben wird. Frau Allan hat ein schönes Lächeln; sie hat so exquisite Grübchen in ihren Wangen. Ich wünschte, ich hätte Grübchen in meinen Wangen, Marilla. Ich bin nicht mehr halb so dünn wie damals als ich hierher kam, aber ich habe immer noch keine Grübchen. Wenn ich welche hätte, könnte ich vielleicht Leute zum Guten beeinflussen. Frau Allan meinte, dass wir immer versuchen sollten, andere Menschen zum Guten zu beeinflussen. Sie hat so nett über alles gesprochen. Ich wusste vorher nie, dass Religion so eine fröhliche Sache ist. Ich dachte immer, dass es irgendwie melancholisch ist, aber bei Frau Allan ist es das nicht und ich würde gerne Christin sein, wenn ich eine wie sie sein könnte. Ich würde nicht gerne so einer wie Superintendent Bell sein." "Es ist sehr frech von dir, so über Mr. Bell zu sprechen, " sagte Marilla streng. "Mr. Bell ist ein echt guter Mann." "Oh, natürlich ist er gut", stimmte Anne zu, "aber es scheint, als würde er keine Freude daran haben. Wenn ich gut sein könnte, würde ich den ganzen Tag tanzen und singen, weil ich mich darüber freue. Ich nehme an, dass Frau Allan zu alt ist, um zu tanzen und zu singen und natürlich wäre es nicht angemessen für die Frau eines Pfarrers. Aber ich kann einfach spüren, dass sie froh ist, eine Christin zu sein und dass sie es auch sein würde, wenn sie in den Himmel kommen könnte, ohne es zu sein." "Ich nehme an, wir sollten Mr. und Mrs. Allan bald mal zum Tee einladen", sagte Marilla nachdenklich. "Sie waren überall, nur noch nicht hier. Lass mich mal überlegen. Nächsten Mittwoch wäre ein guter Tag, um sie einzuladen. Aber sag kein Wort zu Matthew, wenn er wüsste, dass sie kommen, würde er irgendeine Ausrede finden, um an dem Tag weg zu sein. Er hatte sich so an Mr. Bentley gewöhnt, dass es ihm nichts ausmachte, aber es wird für ihn schwer sein, sich mit einem neuen Pfarrer anzufreunden, und die Frau eines neuen Pfarrers wird ihm Todesängste einjagen." "Ich werde so geheimnisvoll sein wie die Toten", versicherte Anne. "Aber oh, Marilla, erlaubst du mir, einen Kuchen für diesen Anlass zu backen? Ich würde gerne etwas für Frau Allan tun und du weißt, dass ich mittlerweile einen ziemlich guten Kuchen backen kann." "Du kannst einen Tortenkuchen backen", versprach Marilla. Am Montag und Dienstag wurden große Vorbereitungen bei Green Gables getroffen. Die Einladung des Pfarrers und seiner Frau zum Tee war eine ernste und wichtige Angelegenheit, und Marilla war entschlossen, von keiner der Hausfrauen in Avonlea übertroffen zu werden. Anne war vor Aufregung und Freude völlig aus dem Häuschen. Sie besprach alles am Dienstagabend in der Dämmerung mit Diana, während sie auf den großen roten Steinen neben der Dryad's Bubble saßen und Regenbogen im Wasser mit kleinen Zweigen, die in Tannenbalsam getaucht waren, machten. "Alles ist bereit, Diana, außer meinem Kuchen, den ich morgens machen werde, und den Backpulverkeksen, die Marilla kurz vor dem Tee machen wird. Ich versichere dir, Diana, dass Marilla und ich in den letzten zwei Tagen sehr beschäftigt waren. Es ist so eine Verantwortung, eine Pfarrersfamilie zum Tee einzuladen. Ich habe so etwas noch nie erlebt. Du solltest nur unseren Vorratsschrank sehen. Es ist ein Anblick. Wir werden geleebratenes Hühnchen und kalte Zunge haben. Wir werden zwei Arten von Gelee haben, rot und gelb, und geschlagene Sahne und Zitronenkuchen und Kirschekuchen und drei Arten von Keksen und Obstkuchen und Marillas berühmte gelbe Pflaumenkonfitüre, die sie extra für Pfarrer aufhebt, und Sandkuchen und Tortenkuchen und wie gesagt, Backpulverkekse und Brot, alt und neu, für den Fall, dass der Pfarrer Magenbeschwerden hat und kein neues Brot essen kann. Mrs. Lynde sagt, dass Pfarrer Magenbeschwerden haben, aber ich glaube nicht, dass Mr. Allan schon lange genug Pfarrer ist, um davon beeinträchtigt zu sein. Mir wird ganz kalt, wenn ich an meinen Tortenkuchen denke. Oh, Diana, was ist, wenn er nicht gut wird! Ich habe letzte Nacht geträumt, dass ich von einem furchtbaren Kobold mit einem großen Tortenkuchenkopf gejagt wurde." "Er wird gut werden, ganz sicher", versicherte Diana, die eine sehr bequeme Freundin war. "Ich bin sicher, dass das Stück, das du vor zwei Wochen für uns zum Mittagessen in Idlewild gemacht hast, absolut elegant war." "Ja, aber Kuchen haben so eine furchtbare Angewohnheit, sich gerade dann schlecht zu entwickeln, wenn man besonders möchte, dass sie gut werden," seufzte Anne und ließ einen besonders gut mit Balsamharz bepinselten Zweig treiben. "Aber ich nehme an, ich muss mich einfach auf das Schicksal verlassen und darauf achten, das Mehl einzubringen. Oh, sieh, Diana, was für einen wunderschönen Regenbogen wir haben! Glaubst du, die Dryade wird herauskommen, nachdem wir weg sind und ihn als Schal nehmen?" "Weißt du nicht, dass es so etwas wie eine Dryade nicht gibt", sagte Diana. Dianas Mutter hatte vom Spukwald erfahren und war entschieden darüber wütend geworden. Aus diesem Grund hatte sich Diana von weiteren Ausflügen in die Welt der Phantasie zurückgehalten und hielt es nicht für klug, selbst an harmlose Dryaden zu glauben. "Aber es ist so einfach, sich das vorzustellen", sagte Anne. "Jede Nacht, bevor ich ins Bett gehe, schaue ich aus dem Fenster und frage mich, ob die Dryade wirklich hier sitzt und ihre Locken mit dem Frühling als Spiegel kämmt. Manchmal suche ich am Morgen nach ihren Fußspuren im Tau. Oh, Diana, gib nicht deinen Glauben an die Dryade auf!" Der Mittwochmorgen kam. Anne stand vor Aufregung schon bei Sonnenaufgang auf und konnte nicht schlafen. Aufgrund ihrer Planscherei im Springbrunnen am Vorabend hatte sie sich erkältet, aber nichts weniger als eine Lungenentzündung konnte ihr Interesse an kulinarischen Dingen an diesem Morgen schmälern. Nach dem Frühstück ging sie daran, ihren Kuchen zu machen. Als sie endlich die Backofentür schloss, zog sie erleichtert Luft. "Ich bin mir sicher, diesmal nichts vergessen zu haben, Marilla. Aber glaubst du, er wird aufgehen? Stell dir mal vor, das Backpulver ist vielleicht nicht mehr gut? Ich habe es aus der neuen Dose genommen. Und Mrs. Lynde sagt, dass man sich heutzutage nie sicher sein kann, dass man gutes Backpulver bekommt, wenn alles so verfälscht ist. Mrs. Lynde sagt, die Regierung sollte sich damit beschäftigen, aber sie sagt, dass wir den Tag nie erleben werden, an dem eine Tory-Regierung das machen würde. Marilla, was ist, wenn dieser Kuchen nicht aufgeht?" "Wir werden trotzdem genug haben", war Marillas unerschütterliche Art, das Thema zu betrachten. Der Kuchen ging jedoch auf und kam aus dem Ofen so leicht und luftig wie goldener Schaum. Anne, vor Freude gerötet, schichtete ihn mit Schichten von rotem Gelee zusammen und sah sich in In diesem Fall muss ich es probieren", lachte Mrs. Allan und nahm sich ein üppiges Dreieck, ebenso wie der Pfarrer und Marilla. Mrs. Allan nahm einen Bissen von ihrem Stück und ein sehr eigentümlicher Ausdruck zeigte sich auf ihrem Gesicht; sie sagte jedoch kein Wort, sondern aß beharrlich weiter. Marilla sah den Ausdruck und beeilte sich, den Kuchen zu probieren. "Anne Shirley!", rief sie aus, "was zum Teufel hast du in diesen Kuchen getan?" "Gar nichts, außer dem, was im Rezept stand, Marilla", rief Anne mit einem Ausdruck der Angst. "Oh, ist alles in Ordnung?" "Alles in Ordnung? Es ist einfach furchtbar. Mr. Allan, versuchen Sie nicht, davon zu essen. Anne, probiere es selbst. Welche Aromastoffe hast du benutzt?" "Vanille", sagte Anne, ihr Gesicht knallrot vor Verlegenheit, nachdem sie den Kuchen probiert hatte. "Nur Vanille. Oh, Marilla, es muss das Backpulver gewesen sein. Ich hatte meine Zweifel an diesem Ba--" "Backpulver Quatsch! Geh und hol mir die Flasche Vanille, die du benutzt hast." Anne eilte in die Vorratskammer und kehrte mit einer kleinen Flasche zurück, die teilweise mit einer braunen Flüssigkeit gefüllt war und gelblich beschriftet war mit "Beste Vanille". Marilla nahm sie, zog den Korken ab, roch daran. "Gott sei Dank, Anne! Du hast den Kuchen mit _Anodyne Liniment_ aromatisiert. Ich habe die Linimentflasche letzte Woche zerbrochen und den Rest in eine alte leere Vanilleflasche gegossen. Es ist wohl zum Teil meine Schuld - ich hätte dich warnen sollen - aber aus Barmherzigkeit, warum konntest du nicht daran riechen?" Anne brach unter dieser doppelten Schande in Tränen aus. "Ich konnte es nicht - ich hatte so eine Erkältung!" und mit diesen Worten rannte sie förmlich ins Giebelzimmer, warf sich auf das Bett und weinte wie jemand, der sich nicht trösten lassen will. Bald darauf waren leichte Schritte auf der Treppe zu hören und jemand betrat den Raum. "Oh, Marilla", schluchzte Anne, ohne aufzublicken, "ich bin für immer in Verruf geraten. Ich werde es nie wieder gutmachen können. Es wird bekannt werden - in Avonlea kommt immer alles raus. Diana wird mich fragen, wie mein Kuchen geworden ist und ich werde ihr die Wahrheit sagen müssen. Man wird immer auf mich zeigen als das Mädchen, das einen Kuchen mit Anodyne Liniment aromatisiert hat. Die Jungs in der Schule werden nie aufhören, darüber zu lachen. Oh, Marilla, wenn du auch nur einen Funken christlichen Mitleids hast, sag mir nicht, dass ich nach all dem das Geschirr abwaschen muss. Ich werde es tun, wenn der Pfarrer und seine Frau weg sind, aber ich kann Mrs. Allan nie wieder ins Gesicht sehen. Vielleicht denkt sie, ich habe versucht, sie zu vergiften. Mrs. Lynde sagt, sie kennt ein Waisenmädchen, das versucht hat, ihren Wohltäter zu vergiften. Aber das Liniment ist nicht giftig. Es ist zum inneren Gebrauch gedacht - wenn auch nicht in Kuchen. Wirst du es Mrs. Allan nicht sagen, Marilla?" "Stell dir vor, du springst auf und sagst es ihr selbst", sagte eine fröhliche Stimme. Anne sprang auf und fand Mrs. Allan an ihrem Bett stehen, sie mit lachenden Augen betrachtend. "Mein liebes kleines Mädchen, du darfst nicht so weinen", sagte sie, von Annes tragischem Gesicht tief bewegt. "Ach, das ist alles nur ein lustiger Irrtum, den jeder begehen könnte." "Oh nein, dafür braucht man schon mich", sagte Anne traurig. "Und ich wollte diesen Kuchen so schön für dich machen, Mrs. Allan." "Ja, das weiß ich, Liebes. Und ich versichere dir, ich schätze deine Freundlichkeit und Fürsorglichkeit genauso sehr, als wenn alles gut gegangen wäre. Nun, du darfst nicht mehr weinen, sondern komm mit mir runter und zeige mir deinen Blumengarten. Miss Cuthbert hat mir erzählt, dass du ein kleines Beet ganz für dich allein hast. Ich möchte es sehen, denn ich interessiere mich sehr für Blumen." Anne ließ sich führen und trösten und dachte darüber nach, dass es wirklich glücklich war, dass Mrs. Allan eine Artverwandte war. Es wurde kein weiteres Wort über den Linimentkuchen verloren, und als die Gäste weg waren, stellte Anne fest, dass sie den Abend mehr genossen hatte, als man angesichts dieses schrecklichen Vorfalls hätte erwarten können. Dennoch seufzte sie tief. "Marilla, ist es nicht schön zu denken, dass morgen ein neuer Tag ist, an dem noch keine Fehler gemacht wurden?" "Ich wette, du wirst genug in ihm machen", sagte Marilla. "Ich habe noch nie jemanden wie dich gesehen, der so viele Fehler macht, Anne." "Ja, das weiß ich nur zu gut", gab Anne traurig zu. "Aber hast du jemals eine ermutigende Sache an mir bemerkt, Marilla? Ich mache nie denselben Fehler zweimal." "Ich weiß nicht, ob das viel bringt, wenn du immer neue machst." "Oh, siehst du das nicht, Marilla? Es muss eine Grenze für die Fehler geben, die eine Person machen kann, und wenn ich am Ende angelangt bin, werde ich damit durch sein. Das ist ein sehr tröstlicher Gedanke." "Nun, dann geh und gib den Kuchen den Schweinen", sagte Marilla. "Er ist für kein menschliches Wesen geeignet, nicht einmal für Jerry Boute." Können Sie 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.

Das Schuljahr endet; Anne und viele ihrer Klassenkameraden weinen, als sie ihren Lehrer gehen sehen, obwohl sie ihn nicht besonders mochten. Anne sagt jedoch, dass sie nicht zu traurig ist, weil sie jetzt zwei Monate Sommerferien hat - und sie den neuen, jungen Pfarrer von Avonlea und seine hübsche Frau gesehen hat. Viele Kandidaten für den Pfarrer von Avonlea waren im Frühjahr gekommen, um zu predigen, und schließlich wurde der neue Pfarrer, Herr Allan, von der Gemeinde ausgewählt. Anne ist sofort von Frau Allan angetan, als sie ihre Sonntagsschulklasse übernimmt, besonders weil Frau Allan sagte, dass die Schüler sie so viele Fragen stellen dürfen, wie sie möchten. Marilla sagt Anne, dass sie Mr. und Mrs. Allan bald zum Tee einladen können, und sie sagt Anne, dass sie eine Torte für die Gelegenheit machen kann. Marilla und Anne sind damit beschäftigt, eine große Auswahl an Gebäck und anderen Köstlichkeiten für den Tag vorzubereiten, an dem die Allans zu Besuch kommen. Schließlich kommt der Tag und Anne wacht früh auf, um ihre Torte zu machen. Sie hat eine Erkältung, aber sie ist immer noch sehr daran interessiert, die Torte so gut wie möglich zu machen. Als die Allans da sind, läuft alles gut, bis es Zeit für Annes Torte ist. Frau Allan lehnt es zunächst ab, sie zu probieren, weil sie bereits viele andere Dinge gegessen hat, aber als sie erfährt, dass Anne sie speziell für sie gemacht hat, stimmt sie zu, einen großen Bissen zu nehmen. Als sie einen Bissen nimmt, wird klar, dass etwas mit der Torte nicht stimmt, aber sie isst trotzdem weiter. Marilla probiert auch einen Bissen und fragt Anne sofort schockiert, was sie in die Torte getan hat. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Anne Anodyne Liniment hinzugefügt hat, weil es in einer Flasche mit der Aufschrift "Bester Vanille" war. Anne konnte aufgrund ihrer verstopften Nase den Unterschied nicht riechen. Anne weint und denkt darüber nach, wie die Kinder in der Schule sich über sie lustig machen werden. Frau Allan tröstet sie und sagt, dass es ein kleiner Fehler war und dass sie Annes Aufmerksamkeit immer noch zu schätzen weiß. Frau Allan bittet darum, Annes Garten zu sehen. Nachdem die Allans weg sind, sagt Anne Marilla, dass etwas Gutes an ihr ist, dass sie nie denselben Fehler zweimal macht.

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: Madame Merle ist am Donnerstagabend nicht im Palazzo Roccanera erschienen, von dem ich einige Ereignisse erzählt habe, und Isabel war nicht überrascht von ihrer Abwesenheit, obwohl sie sie bemerkt hatte. Zwischen ihnen waren Dinge vorgefallen, die die Geselligkeit nicht förderten und um die zu schätzen, sollten wir etwas zurückschauen. Es wurde erwähnt, dass Madame Merle kurz nachdem Lord Warburton Rom verlassen hatte, aus Neapel zurückgekehrt war und dass sie bei ihrem ersten Treffen mit Isabel (deren gerechtigkeits halber sie sofort aufgesucht hatte) als erste Frage nach dem Verbleib dieses Edelmanns gefragt hatte, für den sie ihre liebe Freundin verantwortlich zu machen schien. "Sprich nicht von ihm", antwortete Isabel. "Wir haben in letzter Zeit so viel von ihm gehört." Madame Merle neigte leicht den Kopf, protestierte ein wenig und lächelte am linken Mundwinkel. "Du hast gehört, ja. Aber du musst bedenken, dass ich in Neapel nichts davon gehört habe. Ich hoffte, ihn hier zu finden und Pansy beglückwünschen zu können." "Du kannst Pansy immer noch beglückwünschen, aber nicht dazu, Lord Warburton zu heiraten." "Wie kannst du das sagen! Weißt du nicht, dass ich mein Herz darauf gesetzt habe?" Madame Merle fragte mit viel Geist, aber noch immer mit einem freundlichen Ton. Isabel war verunsichert, aber sie war entschlossen, ebenfalls freundlich zu sein. "Dann hättest du nicht nach Neapel gehen sollen. Du hättest hierbleiben sollen, um die Sache zu beobachten." "Ich hatte zu viel Vertrauen in dich. Aber denkst du, es ist zu spät?" "Frag lieber Pansy", sagte Isabel. "Ich werde sie fragen, was du zu ihr gesagt hast." Diese Worte schienen Isabels Abwehrantwort zu rechtfertigen, als sie bemerkte, dass die Einstellung ihres Besuchers kritisch war. Madame Merle war bisher, wie wir wissen, sehr diskret gewesen, sie hatte nie kritisiert, sie hatte sich erkennbar davor gefürchtet, sich einzumischen. Aber anscheinend hatte sie sich nur für diesen Anlass aufgespart, da sie jetzt eine gefährliche Schnelligkeit in ihren Augen hatte und eine Reizbarkeit in ihrer Art, die selbst ihre bewundernswürdige Gelassenheit nicht in der Lage war zu verwandeln. Sie hatte eine Enttäuschung erlitten, die Isabel überraschte - unsere Heldin hatte keine Kenntnis von ihrem eifrigen Interesse an Pansys Ehe, und sie zeigte sie auf eine Weise, die Isabels Besorgnis verstärkte. Klarer als je zuvor hörte Isabel eine kalte, spöttische Stimme aus der düsteren Leere um sie herum kommen und erklären, dass diese helle, starke, scharf umrissene, weltliche Frau, diese Verkörperung des Praktischen, des Persönlichen, des Unmittelbaren eine mächtige Einflussfaktorin in ihrem Schicksal war. Sie war ihr näher, als Isabel bisher entdeckt hatte, und ihre Nähe war nicht der charmante Zufall, den sie so lange angenommen hatte. Das Gefühl des Zufalls war in der Tat an dem Tag in ihr gestorben, als sie durch Zufall auf die Art und Weise aufmerksam geworden war, wie die wunderbare Dame und ihr eigener Ehemann privat miteinander saßen. Noch hatte noch kein konkreter Verdacht seinen Platz eingenommen; aber es war genug, um sie diese Freundin mit anderen Augen zu betrachten, um zu erkennen, dass ihr vergangenes Verhalten mehr Absicht hatte, als sie damals vermutet hatte. Oh ja, da war Absicht gewesen, da hatte Absicht stattgefunden, sagte sich Isabel. Und sie schien aus einem langen, schädlichen Traum aufzuwachen. Was hat ihr bewusst gemacht, dass Madame Merles Absicht nicht gut war? Nichts anderes als das Misstrauen, das sich in letzter Zeit in ihr entwickelt hatte und das sich jetzt mit dem fruchtbaren Staunen verband, das ihr Besucher in Bezug auf die arme Pansy hervorrief. Da war etwas in dieser Herausforderung, das von Anfang an eine antwortende Herausforderung hervorrief; eine namenlose Vitalität, die sie in den Bekenntnissen von Zartheit und Vorsicht ihrer Freundin nicht erkennen konnte. Madame Merle hatte sich sicherlich nicht einmischen wollen, aber nur solange, wie es nichts gab, womit sie sich einmischen musste. Es wird dem Leser vielleicht scheinen, dass Isabels Zweifel zu schnell auf kühnen Verdächtigungen beruhen, auf einer Ehrlichkeit, die sich in mehreren Jahren guter Dienste bewährt hat. Sie bewegte sich tatsächlich schnell und mit Grund, denn eine seltsame Wahrheit sickerte in ihre Seele. Madame Merles Interesse war identisch mit Osmonds: das reichte. "Ich denke nicht, dass Pansy dir etwas sagen wird, was dich noch mehr verärgert", antwortete sie auf die letzte Bemerkung ihrer Begleiterin. "Ich bin überhaupt nicht wütend. Ich habe nur den starken Wunsch, die Situation zu verbessern. Glaubst du, Warburton hat uns für immer verlassen?" "Ich kann es dir nicht sagen; ich verstehe dich nicht. Es ist vorbei; bitte lass es ruhen. Osmond hat viel mit mir darüber geredet, und ich habe nichts mehr zu sagen oder zu hören. Ich bin sicher", fügte Isabel hinzu, "dass er sehr glücklich darüber wäre, das Thema mit dir zu diskutieren." "Ich weiß, was er denkt; er kam mich gestern Abend besuchen." "Sobald du angekommen warst? Dann weißt du alles darüber, und du musst mich nicht um Informationen bitten." "Ich brauche keine Informationen. Im Grunde genommen handelt es sich um Sympathie. Ich habe mein Herz an diese Heirat gehängt; die Idee hat etwas getan - sie hat meine Vorstellungskraft befriedigt." "Deine Vorstellungskraft, ja. Aber nicht die der beteiligten Personen." "Damit meinst du natürlich, dass es mich nicht betrifft. Natürlich nicht direkt. Aber wenn man so eine alte Freundin ist, kann man nicht verhindern, dass man etwas daran hängt. Du vergisst, wie lange ich Pansy schon kenne. Du meinst, natürlich", fügte Madame Merle hinzu, "dass DU eine der beteiligten Personen bist." "Nein, das meine ich gerade nicht. Das ist das letzte, was ich meine. Ich bin es leid von alledem." Madame Merle zögerte ein wenig. "Ach ja, deine Arbeit ist erledigt." "Pass auf, was du sagst", sagte Isabel sehr ernst. "Oh, ich passe auf; vielleicht nie mehr als dann, wenn es am wenigsten erscheint. Dein Mann urteilt sehr streng über dich." Isabel antwortete für einen Moment nicht; sie fühlte sich von Bitterkeit erstickt. Es war nicht die Frechheit von Madame Merle, ihr mitzuteilen, dass Osmond ihr gegenüber ihr Vertrauen geäußert hatte, die sie am meisten traf; denn sie glaubte nicht schnell, dass dies als Frechheit gemeint war. Madame Merle war sehr selten frech, und nur wenn es genau richtig war. Das war jetzt nicht richtig oder zumindest noch nicht richtig. Was Isabel wie ein Tropfen ätzender Säure auf offene Wunden berührte, war die Erkenntnis, dass Osmond sie nicht nur in seinen Gedanken, sondern auch durch seine Worte entehrte. "Möchtest du wissen, wie ich ihn beurteile?", fragte sie schließlich. "Nein, denn du würdest es mir nie sagen. Und es wäre schmerzhaft für mich, es zu wissen." Es herrschte eine Pause, und zum ersten Mal seit sie sie kannte, fand Isabel Madame Merle unangenehm. Sie wünschte, sie würde sie verlassen. "Denk daran, wie attraktiv Pansy Madame Merle hatte sehr bedacht gehandelt. Sie beobachtete ihre Begleitung und schien zu denken, dass sie sicher fortfahren könne. Währenddessen wurde Isabel blass; sie presste ihre Hände fester auf ihren Schoß. Es lag nicht daran, dass ihr Besucher endlich dachte, es wäre an der richtigen Zeit, unhöflich zu sein; denn das war nicht das Offensichtlichste. Es war ein schlimmeres Grauen als das. "Wer bist du - was bist du?" murmelte Isabel. "Was hast du mit meinem Mann zu tun?" Es war seltsam, dass sie sich für einen Moment ihm so nahe fühlte, als würde sie ihn lieben. "Ah, du nimmst es dann heroisch auf! Es tut mir sehr leid. Aber denk nicht, dass ich das auch tun werde." "Was hast du mit mir zu tun?" fragte Isabel weiter. Madame Merle stand langsam auf, streichelte ihren Pelzmuff und nahm ihre Augen nicht von Isabels Gesicht. "Alles!" antwortete sie. Isabel saß da und schaute zu ihr auf, ohne aufzustehen; ihr Gesicht war fast ein Gebet, um erleuchtet zu werden. Aber das Licht in den Augen dieser Frau schien nur Dunkelheit zu sein. "Oh Elend!" murmelte sie schließlich und fiel zurück, bedeckte ihr Gesicht mit den Händen. Es überwältigte sie wie eine hohe Welle, dass Mrs. Touchett Recht hatte. Madame Merle hatte sie verheiratet. Bevor sie ihr Gesicht wieder enthüllte, hatte diese Dame den Raum verlassen. Isabel unternahm an diesem Nachmittag eine Fahrt allein; sie wollte weit weg sein, unter dem Himmel, wo sie aus dem Wagen steigen und auf den Gänseblümchen stehen könnte. Sie hatte schon lange zuvor das alte Rom eingeweiht, denn in einer Welt der Ruinen schien der Ruin ihres Glücks eine weniger natürliche Katastrophe zu sein. Sie ließ ihre Erschöpfung in Dingen ruhen, die seit Jahrhunderten zerfallen waren und dennoch aufrecht standen; sie ließ ihre geheime Traurigkeit in die Stille einsamer Orte fallen, wo sie sich selbst entfernte und objektiv wurde, sodass sie, während sie an einem sonnigen Winkel an einem Wintertag saß oder in einer schimmeligen Kirche stand, zu der niemand kam, fast darüber lächeln konnte und an ihre Kleinheit denken konnte. Klein war sie im großen römischen Bericht, und ihr hartnäckiges Gefühl der Kontinuität des menschlichen Schicksals führte sie mühelos vom Kleinen zum Großen. Sie hatte sich tief, zärtlich mit Rom angefreundet; es durchdrang und milderte ihre Leidenschaft. Aber sie dachte hauptsächlich daran als den Ort, wo Menschen gelitten hatten. Dies kam ihr in den verarmten Kirchen, wo die Marmor-Säulen von heidnischen Ruinen übertragen zu bieten schienen, wo ihre Einsamkeit Gemeinschaft in Ausdauer war und der muffige Weihrauch wie eine Mischung aus lange unbeantworteten Gebeten wirkte. Es gab keinen sanfteren oder weniger konsistenten Ketzer als Isabel; selbst die glühendsten Anbeter konnten bei dunklen Altarbildern oder versammelten Kerzen nicht intimer die Bedeutung dieser Objekte wahrnehmen oder in solchen Momenten anfälliger für eine geistige Erleuchtung sein. Pansy, wie wir wissen, war fast immer ihre Begleiterin, und in letzter Zeit hatte die Gräfin Gemini, die einen rosa Sonnenschirm balancierte, ihrem Gefährt Glanz verliehen; aber sie befand sich noch gelegentlich allein, wenn es ihrem Gemüt entsprach und wo es zum Ort passte. An solchen Gelegenheiten hatte sie mehrere Rückzugsorte; der zugänglichste war vielleicht ein Sitz auf der niedrigen Brüstung, die den weiten, grasbewachsenen Platz vor der hohen, kalten Fassade von St. John Lateran umgab, von wo aus man über die Campagna auf die weitreichende Kontur des Albaner Gebirges schaute und auf die mächtige Ebene dazwischen, die immer noch so voll von allem war, was von ihr vergangen war. Nach dem Weggang ihres Cousins und seiner Begleiterin streifte sie mehr als gewöhnlich umher; sie trug ihren düsteren Geist von einem vertrauten Heiligtum zum anderen. Selbst wenn Pansy und die Gräfin bei ihr waren, spürte sie den Hauch einer vergangenen Welt. Der Wagen fuhr durch enge Gassen, nachdem sie die Mauern von Rom hinter sich lassen hatten, rollte durch enge Gassen, in denen sich die wilde Geißblattpflanze in den Hecken verfangen hatte, oder wartete an ruhigen Orten, wo die Felder in der Nähe lagen, während sie weiter und weiter über die blumenübersäte Wiese schlenderte oder auf einem Stein saß, der einmal einen Zweck hatte, und durch den Schleier ihrer persönlichen Traurigkeit auf die prächtige Traurigkeit der Szenerie schaute - auf das dichte, warme Licht, die weitreichenden Abstufungen und weichen Farbnuancen, die regungslosen Hirten in einsamen Haltungen, die Hügel, auf denen die Wolken-Schatten die Leichtigkeit eines Errötens hatten. An dem Nachmittag, von dem ich sprach, hatte sie beschlossen, nicht an Madame Merle zu denken; aber der Beschluss erwies sich als vergeblich, und das Bild dieser Dame schwebte ständig vor ihr. Sie fragte sich mit einer fast kindlichen Abscheu vor der Annahme, ob dieser vertrauten Freundin von mehreren Jahren das große historische Epitheton "böse" zuzuschreiben sei. Sie kannte die Vorstellung nur aus der Bibel und anderen literarischen Werken; nach ihrem besten Wissen kannte sie das Böse nicht persönlich. Sie hatte eine umfassende Bekanntschaft mit dem menschlichen Leben gewünscht, und trotz ihrer Selbstüberzeugung, dass sie es mit einigem Erfolg kultivierte, war ihr dieses elementare Privileg versagt geblieben. Vielleicht war es nicht böse - im historischen Sinne -, sogar tiefgründig falsch zu sein; denn das war es, was Madame Merle gewesen war - tief, tief, tief. Isabels Tante Lydia hatte diese Entdeckung schon lange zuvor gemacht und sie ihrer Nichte mitgeteilt; aber Isabel hatte sich zu dieser Zeit eingeschmeichelt, dass sie eine viel reichhaltigere Sicht der Dinge hatte, insbesondere auf die Spontaneität ihrer eigenen Karriere und die Noblesse ihrer eigenen Interpretationen, als die arm steif argumentierende Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle hatte getan, was sie wollte; sie hatte die Vereinigung ihrer beiden Freunde veranlasst; eine Überlegung, die es zu einem Wunder machte, dass sie ein solches Ereignis so sehr gewünscht hatte. Es gab Menschen, die die Leidenschaft des Kuppelns hatten, wie die Anhänger der Kunst um der Kunst willen; aber Madame Merle, so große Künstlerin sie auch war, war kaum eine von ihnen. Sie dachte schlecht von der Ehe, sogar schlecht vom Leben; sie hatte diese spezielle Ehe gewünscht, aber andere nicht. Sie hatte daher ein Gewinnkonzept und Isabel fragte sich, wo sie ihren Gewinn gefunden hatte. Es dauerte natürlich eine lange Zeit, bis sie es herausfand, und selbst dann war ihre Entdeckung unvollständig. Es fiel ihr wieder ein, dass Madame Merle, obwohl sie sie seit ihrer ersten Begegnung in Gardencourt mochte, nach dem Tod von Mr. Touchett und nachdem sie erfahren hatte, dass ihre junge Freundin der milden Wohltätigkeit des alten Mannes unterworfen war, doppelt liebevoll gewesen war. Sie hatte ihren Gewinn nicht in der plumpen Einrichtung des Geldleihens gefunden, sondern in der raffinierteren Idee, einem ihrer Vertrauten das frische und arglose Vermö "Sprich nicht über Dankbarkeit", erwiderte er trocken. "Und reiz mich nicht", fügte er nach einem Moment hinzu. Madame Merle setzte sich langsam hin, die Arme verschränkt und die weißen Hände als Stütze für eine von ihnen und als Verzierung für die andere arrangiert. Sie wirkte exquisit ruhig, aber beeindruckend traurig. "Auf deiner Seite versuche nicht, mich zu erschrecken. Ich frage mich, ob du einige meiner Gedanken erratest." "Ich mache mir nicht mehr Sorgen darüber, als ich muss. Ich habe genug mit meinen eigenen." "Weil sie so wunderbar sind." Osmond lehnte seinen Kopf an die Rückenlehne seines Stuhls und betrachtete seinen Begleiter mit einer zynischen Direktheit, die auch teilweise Ausdruck von Müdigkeit zu sein schien. "Du reizt mich", bemerkte er nach einem Moment. "Ich bin sehr müde." "Eh moi donc!" rief Madame Merle aus. "Bei dir liegt es daran, dass du dich selbst ermüdest. Bei mir ist es nicht meine Schuld." "Wenn ich mich selbst ermüde, ist es für dich. Ich habe dir ein Interesse gewidmet. Das ist ein großes Geschenk." "Nennst du das ein Interesse?" fragte Osmond gelassen. "Sicher, da es dir hilft, deine Zeit zu verbringen." "Die Zeit schien mir noch nie so lang wie diesen Winter." "Du hast noch nie besser ausgesehen; du warst noch nie so liebenswürdig, so brillant." "Verdammt noch mal meine Brillanz!" murmelte er nachdenklich. "Wie wenig du mich letztendlich kennst!" "Wenn ich dich nicht kenne, dann kenne ich nichts", lächelte Madame Merle. "Du hast das Gefühl, völligen Erfolg zu haben." "Nein, das werde ich erst haben, wenn ich dich dazu gebracht habe, aufzuhören, über mich zu urteilen." "Das habe ich längst getan. Ich spreche aus alter Kenntnis. Aber du drückst dich jedoch mehr aus." Osmond zögerte. "Ich wünschte, du würdest dich weniger ausdrücken!" "Du möchtest mich zum Schweigen verurteilen? Bedenke, ich war nie ein Schwätzer. Es gibt jedoch drei oder vier Dinge, die ich dir gerne sagen würde. Deine Frau weiß nicht, was sie mit sich selbst anfangen soll", fuhr sie mit einer Tonänderung fort. "Verzeihung; sie weiß es perfekt. Sie hat eine scharf gezogene Linie. Sie beabsichtigt, ihre Ideen umzusetzen." "Ihre heutigen Ideen müssen bemerkenswert sein." "Sicher sind sie das. Sie hat mehr Ideen als je zuvor." "Heute Morgen konnte sie mir keine einzige zeigen", sagte Madame Merle. "Sie schien in einem sehr einfachen, beinahe dummen Zustand des Geistes zu sein. Sie war völlig verwirrt." "Du solltest besser sofort sagen, dass sie bemitleidenswert war." "Ah nein, ich möchte dich nicht zu sehr ermutigen." Er hatte immer noch seinen Kopf an dem Kissen hinter ihm; der Knöchel eines Fußes ruhte auf dem anderen Knie. So saß er eine Weile da. "Ich möchte wissen, was mit dir los ist", sagte er schließlich. "Das Los - das Los!" Und hier hielt Madame Merle inne. Dann fuhr sie mit einem plötzlichen Ausbruch von Leidenschaft, einem Ausbruch von Sommerdonner in einem klaren Himmel fort: "Das Los ist, dass ich meine rechte Hand geben würde, um weinen zu können, und dass ich es nicht kann!" "Was würde es dir nützen zu weinen?" "Es würde mich so fühlen lassen, wie ich mich fühlte, bevor ich dich kannte." "Wenn ich deine Tränen getrocknet habe, ist das schon etwas. Aber ich habe dich Tränen vergießen sehen." "Oh, ich glaube, du wirst mich noch zum Weinen bringen. Ich meine, mich wie einen Wolf heulen lassen. Ich habe eine große Hoffnung, ich habe ein großes Bedürfnis danach. Ich war heute Morgen abscheulich; ich war schrecklich", sagte sie. "Wenn Isabel in dem dummen Zustand des Geistes war, den du erwähnst, hat sie es wahrscheinlich nicht bemerkt", antwortete Osmond. "Es war gerade meine Bosheit, die sie verblüfft hat. Ich konnte nichts dagegen tun; ich war mit etwas Schlechtem erfüllt. Vielleicht war es etwas Gutes; ich weiß es nicht. Du hast nicht nur meine Tränen getrocknet, sondern auch meine Seele", sagte sie. "Dann bin nicht ich verantwortlich für den Zustand meiner Frau", sagte Osmond. "Es ist angenehm zu denken, dass ich von deinem Einfluss auf sie profitieren werde. Weißt du nicht, dass die Seele ein unsterblicher Grundsatz ist? Wie kann sie Veränderungen erfahren?" "Ich glaube überhaupt nicht, dass sie ein unsterblicher Grundsatz ist. Ich glaube, dass sie völlig zerstört werden kann. Das ist mit meiner passiert, die von Anfang an sehr gut war, und dafür habe ich dir zu danken. Du bist SEHR schlecht", fügte sie mit Ernst in ihrer Betonung hinzu. "Ist das der Weg, wie wir enden sollen?" fragte Osmond mit derselben studierten Kälte. "Ich weiß nicht, wie wir enden sollen. Ich wünschte, ich wüsste es - Wie enden schlechte Menschen? - besonders in Bezug auf ihre gewöhnlichen Verbrechen. Du hast mich genauso schlecht gemacht wie dich selbst." "Ich verstehe dich nicht. Du scheinst mir mehr als gut genug zu sein", sagte Osmond, und seine bewusste Gleichgültigkeit gab den Worten eine extreme Wirkung. Madame Merles Selbstbeherrschung tendierte dagegen dazu, abzunehmen, und sie stand kurz vor dem Verlust derselben, was an keiner der früheren Begegnungen, die wir mit ihr gehabt haben, der Fall war. Der Glanz in ihren Augen wurde düster; ihr Lächeln verriet eine schmerzhafte Anstrengung. "Gut genug für alles, was ich mit mir selbst getan habe? Das ist wohl das, was du meinst." "Gut genug, um immer charmant zu sein!" rief Osmond lächelnd aus. "Oh Gott!" murmelte seine Begleiterin, und als sie in ihrer reifen Frische da saß, griff sie auf die gleiche Geste zurück, die sie heute Morgen bei Isabel provoziert hatte: Sie beugte ihr Gesicht und bedeckte es mit ihren Händen. "Wirst du jetzt weinen?" fragte Osmond, und als sie reglos blieb, fuhr er fort: "Habe ich mich jemals bei dir beschwert?" Sie ließ ihre Hände schnell fallen. "Nein, du hast dich auf andere Weise gerächt - du hast es an IHR verübt." Osmond warf seinen Kopf weiter zurück; er betrachtete eine Weile die Decke und hätte so wirken können, als würde er auf informelle Weise die himmlischen Mächte anrufen. "Oh, die Vorstellungskraft der Frauen! Sie ist im Grunde immer vulgär. Du redest von Rache wie ein drittklassiger Schriftsteller." "Natürlich hast du dich nicht beschwert. Du hast deinen Triumph zu sehr genossen." "Ich bin ziemlich neugierig, was du meinen Triumph nennst." "Du hast deine Frau vor dir erschreckt." Osmond veränderte seine Position; er lehnte sich nach vorne, stützte seine Ellenbogen auf seine Knie und betrachtete eine Weile einen wunderschönen alten persischen Teppich zu seinen Füßen. Er hatte eine Haltung des Nicht-Akzeptierens der Bewertung anderer, selbst der Zeit, und bevorzugte es, sich auf seine eigene einzulassen; eine Eigenart, die ihn zuweilen zu einer irritierenden Person für Gespräche machte. "Isabel hat keine Angst vor mir, und das ist nicht das, was ich wünsche", sagte er schließlich. "Zu was willst du mich provozieren, wenn du solche Dinge sag "Meine Frau hat abgelehnt - abgelehnt, irgendetwas in dieser Art zu tun", sagte Osmond. "Wenn du darauf bestehst, eine Tragödie daraus zu machen, ist die Tragödie kaum für sie bestimmt." "Die Tragödie gilt mir!" rief Madame Merle aus und stand mit einem langen, leisen Seufzer auf, warf aber gleichzeitig einen Blick auf den Inhalt ihres Kaminsimses. "Scheinbar soll mir die Nachteile einer falschen Position streng beigebracht werden." "Du drückst dich wie ein Satz in einem Übungsheft aus. Wir müssen unser Trost dort suchen, wo wir ihn finden können. Falls meine Frau mich nicht mag, mein Kind tut es zumindest. Ich werde Kompensationen in Pansy suchen. Glücklicherweise kann ich an ihr keinen Fehler finden." "Ach", sagte sie leise, "wenn ich doch ein Kind hätte - !" Osmond wartete und fragte dann mit einer kleinen formellen Geste: "Die Kinder anderer können sehr interessant sein!" "Du bist mehr wie ein Übungsheft als ich. Es gibt doch etwas, das uns zusammenhält." "Ist es die Vorstellung von dem Schaden, den ich dir zufügen könnte?" fragte Osmond. "Nein, es ist die Vorstellung von dem Guten, das ich für dich tun kann. Das ist es", fuhr Madame Merle fort, während ihr Gesicht, das hart und verbittert geworden war, sich zu seiner gewohnten Glätte entspannte. Ihr Freund nahm seinen Hut und seinen Regenschirm und nachdem er den Hut zwei- oder dreimal mit dem Ärmel seines Mantels gestreichelt hatte, sagte er: "Im Großen und Ganzen denke ich, du solltest es besser mir überlassen." Nachdem er sie verlassen hatte, ging sie als erstes und nahm die schmale Kaffeetasse vom Kaminsims, von der er das Vorhandensein eines Risses erwähnt hatte; doch sie betrachtete sie eher abwesend. "Bin ich so abscheulich gewesen - umsonst?" klagte sie vage. 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.

Madame Merle kehrt nach Rom zurück und fragt Isabel, was mit Lord Warburton passiert ist. Sie gibt vor, die ganze Angelegenheit locker zu nehmen, aber Isabel bemerkt, dass sie mehr Interesse an Pansys Heirat zeigt, als sie sollte. Isabel vermutet sogar, dass Merle auch bei ihrer eigenen Heirat ihre Finger im Spiel hatte. Sie hat nicht nur das Gefühl, dass Merles Nähe zu ihr ein Zufall ist, sondern eher, dass es absichtlich geplant ist. Sie hat keinen konkreten Verdacht, aber sie spürt immer noch, dass Merle etwas beabsichtigt hat. Merle lässt Isabel wissen, dass ihr Ehemann enttäuscht von ihr ist. Isabel fühlt sich verbittert, als sie hört, wie Osmond schlecht von seiner Frau spricht. Merle besteht darauf zu wissen, ob Lord Warburton von selbst gegangen ist oder ob Isabel ihm geraten hat, zu gehen. Sie denkt, es würde Osmond helfen, die Aussichten seiner Tochter zu kennen, wenn er wüsste, was passiert ist. Isabel wird bleich. Sie fragt Merle: "Wer bist du - was bist du? Was hast du mit meinem Ehemann zu tun? Was hast du mit mir zu tun?" Merle antwortet: "Alles." Die Wahrheit überkommt Isabel wie eine "hoch aufsteigende Welle". Merle war verantwortlich für ihre Ehe. An diesem Nachmittag fährt Isabel alleine spazieren. Das Bild von Madame Merle schwebt vor ihr. Sie fragt sich, ob das Wort "bösartig" auf ihre Freundin zutrifft. Sie erkennt, dass Merle ihr gegenüber tief unaufrichtig war. Isabel fragt sich immer noch, warum Merle das Ereignis ihrer Heirat so sehr herbeiführen wollte, dass sie sich so schlecht benahm. Sie denkt bei sich, dass es etwas mit Geld zu tun haben muss; Merle hat sie mit einem engen Begleiter verheiratet, der Merle etwas Geld geben könnte. Sie fragt sich, ob Gilbert sie nur wegen ihres Geldes wollte, würde er sie gehen lassen, wenn sie ihm alles geben würde. Sie tut Merle leid, weil sie denkt, sie muss das Geld, das sie gewollt hat, nicht bekommen haben. Der Erzähler führt den Leser dann zu einer gleichzeitig stattfindenden Szene zwischen Gilbert und Merle. Merle denkt, dass Gilbert undankbar für das ist, was sie ihm gegeben hat. Osmond ist genervt von ihr und fragt, was mit ihr los ist. Sie erklärt, dass sie alles geben würde, um weinen zu können, aber dass sie das nicht mehr kann, seit sie Mr. Osmond getroffen hat. Merle erkennt, dass sie furchtbar zu Isabel war und behauptet, dass Gilbert ihre Seele ausgetrocknet hat. Merle behauptet, dass Osmond sich an Isabel rächt, indem er seine Frau vor ihm Angst hat und sie schlecht behandelt. Osmond behauptet, dass sie den Blick für das Wahre verliert und er tatsächlich sehr einfach ist. Er verlangt nur, dass seine Frau ihn anbetet. Merle sagt, dass sie selbst ihn nie angebetet hat und Osmond darauf hinweist, dass sie es vorgespielt hat. Merle betrauert die Tatsache, dass ihr eine Lektion gegeben wird, dass sie sich falsch dargestellt hat, und Osmond kritisiert sie dafür, dass sie klingt wie ein "Satz in einem Schulheft".

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: XIX. An Opinion Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night. He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly studious and attentive. Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of which he had so strong an impression had actually happened? It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning? Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none. He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain. Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the usual way, and came to breakfast. So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however, he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid he sought. And that aid was his own. Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly: "My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less so." Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than once. "Doctor Manette," said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the arm, "the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all, for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette." "If I understand," said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, "some mental shock--?" "Yes!" "Be explicit," said the Doctor. "Spare no detail." Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded. "My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock, of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings, the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately, there has been," he paused and took a deep breath--"a slight relapse." The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, "Of how long duration?" "Nine days and nights." "How did it show itself? I infer," glancing at his hands again, "in the resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?" "That is the fact." "Now, did you ever see him," asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly, though in the same low voice, "engaged in that pursuit originally?" "Once." "And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all respects--as he was then?" "I think in all respects." "You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?" "No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted." The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, "That was very kind. That was very thoughtful!" Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke for a little while. "Now, my dear Manette," said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most considerate and most affectionate way, "I am a mere man of business, and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if I knew how. "But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little. Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly, and teach me how to be a little more useful." Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him. "I think it probable," said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort, "that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject." "Was it dreaded by him?" Mr. Lorry ventured to ask. "Very much." He said it with an involuntary shudder. "You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him." "Would he," asked Mr. Lorry, "be sensibly relieved if he could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on him?" "I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible." "Now," said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again, after a short silence on both sides, "to what would you refer this attack?" "I believe," returned Doctor Manette, "that there had been a strong and extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it." "Would he remember what took place in the relapse?" asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation. The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and answered, in a low voice, "Not at all." "Now, as to the future," hinted Mr. Lorry. "As to the future," said the Doctor, recovering firmness, "I should have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against, and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that the worst was over." "Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!" said Mr. Lorry. "I am thankful!" repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence. "There are two other points," said Mr. Lorry, "on which I am anxious to be instructed. I may go on?" "You cannot do your friend a better service." The Doctor gave him his hand. "To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic; he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does he do too much?" "I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery." "You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?" "I think I am quite sure of it." "My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--" "My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight." "Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment, that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this disorder?" "I do not think so. I do not think," said Doctor Manette with the firmness of self-conviction, "that anything but the one train of association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted." He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the last nine days, he knew that he must face it. "The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction so happily recovered from," said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, "we will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by him?" The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot nervously on the ground. "He has always kept it by him," said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at his friend. "Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?" Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the ground. "You do not find it easy to advise me?" said Mr. Lorry. "I quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--" And there he shook his head, and stopped. "You see," said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause, "it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child." He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's face. "But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the forge?" There was another silence. "You see, too," said the Doctor, tremulously, "it is such an old companion." "I would not keep it," said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. "I would recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good. Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's sake, my dear Manette!" Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him! "In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there; let him miss his old companion after an absence." Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no suspicions. On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools, shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible crime. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Am zehnten Tag kehrt der Doktor zur Normalität zurück und hat keinerlei Erinnerung an die vergangenen neun Tage. Mr. Lorry informiert den Doktor in der dritten Person über seinen neuntägigen Rückfall und dass seine Tochter nichts davon erfahren hat. Er versucht auch herauszufinden, wie dieser Rückfall zustande kam und ob er jemals wieder passieren wird. Der Doktor versichert ihm, dass dies nicht wahrscheinlich ist. Er erzählt Mr. Lorry, dass der Rückfall aufgrund einer schmerzhaften Erinnerung auftritt, die durchs Schuhemachen gelindert wird. Im Gefängnis hatte der Doktor das Schuhemachen als Beschäftigungsmöglichkeit und als Mittel zur Linderung seiner seelischen Qualen aufgenommen. Der Doktor stimmt zu, seine Werkbank, Schuhmacherwerkzeuge und Materialien abzugeben. Anschließend macht er sich auf in den Urlaub nach Wales, wo er sich Darnay und Lucie anschließen wird. Während seiner Abwesenheit zerkleinern Mr. Lorry und Miss Pross die Werkbank und verwenden sie als Kaminholz. Die Werkzeuge, Schuhe und Leder werden im Garten vergraben.

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: While Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, always silent, and almost always in tears; and her brother shut himself up among books that he never opened--wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague expectation that Catherine, repenting her conduct, would come of her own accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation--and _she_ fasted pertinaciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar was ready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from running to cast himself at her feet; I went about my household duties, convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and that lodged in my body. I wasted no condolences on Miss, nor any expostulations on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the sighs of my master, who yearned to hear his lady's name, since he might not hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they pleased for me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice at length in a faint dawn of its progress: as I thought at first. Mrs. Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having finished the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed supply, and a basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I set down as a speech meant for Edgar's ears; I believed no such thing, so I kept it to myself and brought her some tea and dry toast. She ate and drank eagerly, and sank back on her pillow again, clenching her hands and groaning. 'Oh, I will die,' she exclaimed, 'since no one cares anything about me. I wish I had not taken that.' Then a good while after I heard her murmur, 'No, I'll not die--he'd be glad--he does not love me at all--he would never miss me!' 'Did you want anything, ma'am?' I inquired, still preserving my external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and strange, exaggerated manner. 'What is that apathetic being doing?' she demanded, pushing the thick entangled locks from her wasted face. 'Has he fallen into a lethargy, or is he dead?' 'Neither,' replied I; 'if you mean Mr. Linton. He's tolerably well, I think, though his studies occupy him rather more than they ought: he is continually among his books, since he has no other society.' I should not have spoken so if I had known her true condition, but I could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her disorder. 'Among his books!' she cried, confounded. 'And I dying! I on the brink of the grave! My God! does he know how I'm altered?' continued she, staring at her reflection in a mirror hanging against the opposite wall. 'Is that Catherine Linton? He imagines me in a pet--in play, perhaps. Cannot you inform him that it is frightful earnest? Nelly, if it be not too late, as soon as I learn how he feels, I'll choose between these two: either to starve at once--that would be no punishment unless he had a heart--or to recover, and leave the country. Are you speaking the truth about him now? Take care. Is he actually so utterly indifferent for my life?' 'Why, ma'am,' I answered, 'the master has no idea of your being deranged; and of course he does not fear that you will let yourself die of hunger.' 'You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?' she returned. 'Persuade him! speak of your own mind: say you are certain I will!' 'No, you forget, Mrs. Linton,' I suggested, 'that you have eaten some food with a relish this evening, and to-morrow you will perceive its good effects.' 'If I were only sure it would kill him,' she interrupted, 'I'd kill myself directly! These three awful nights I've never closed my lids--and oh, I've been tormented! I've been haunted, Nelly! But I begin to fancy you don't like me. How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me. And they have all turned to enemies in a few hours: they have, I'm positive; the people here. How dreary to meet death, surrounded by their cold faces! Isabella, terrified and repelled, afraid to enter the room, it would be so dreadful to watch Catherine go. And Edgar standing solemnly by to see it over; then offering prayers of thanks to God for restoring peace to his house, and going back to his _books_! What in the name of all that feels has he to do with _books_, when I am dying?' She could not bear the notion which I had put into her head of Mr. Linton's philosophical resignation. Tossing about, she increased her feverish bewilderment to madness, and tore the pillow with her teeth; then raising herself up all burning, desired that I would open the window. We were in the middle of winter, the wind blew strong from the north-east, and I objected. Both the expressions flitting over her face, and the changes of her moods, began to alarm me terribly; and brought to my recollection her former illness, and the doctor's injunction that she should not be crossed. A minute previously she was violent; now, supported on one arm, and not noticing my refusal to obey her, she seemed to find childish diversion in pulling the feathers from the rents she had just made, and ranging them on the sheet according to their different species: her mind had strayed to other associations. 'That's a turkey's,' she murmured to herself; 'and this is a wild duck's; and this is a pigeon's. Ah, they put pigeons' feathers in the pillows--no wonder I couldn't die! Let me take care to throw it on the floor when I lie down. And here is a moor-cock's; and this--I should know it among a thousand--it's a lapwing's. Bonny bird; wheeling over our heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted to get to its nest, for the clouds had touched the swells, and it felt rain coming. This feather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot: we saw its nest in the winter, full of little skeletons. Heathcliff set a trap over it, and the old ones dared not come. I made him promise he'd never shoot a lapwing after that, and he didn't. Yes, here are more! Did he shoot my lapwings, Nelly? Are they red, any of them? Let me look.' 'Give over with that baby-work!' I interrupted, dragging the pillow away, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was removing its contents by handfuls. 'Lie down and shut your eyes: you're wandering. There's a mess! The down is flying about like snow.' I went here and there collecting it. 'I see in you, Nelly,' she continued dreamily, 'an aged woman: you have grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under Penistone crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers; pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That's what you'll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I'm not wandering: you're mistaken, or else I should believe you really _were_ that withered hag, and I should think I _was_ under Penistone Crags; and I'm conscious it's night, and there are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet.' 'The black press? where is that?' I asked. 'You are talking in your sleep!' 'It's against the wall, as it always is,' she replied. 'It _does_ appear odd--I see a face in it!' 'There's no press in the room, and never was,' said I, resuming my seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her. 'Don't _you_ see that face?' she inquired, gazing earnestly at the mirror. And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl. 'It's behind there still!' she pursued, anxiously. 'And it stirred. Who is it? I hope it will not come out when you are gone! Oh! Nelly, the room is haunted! I'm afraid of being alone!' I took her hand in mine, and bid her be composed; for a succession of shudders convulsed her frame, and she would keep straining her gaze towards the glass. 'There's nobody here!' I insisted. 'It was _yourself_, Mrs. Linton: you knew it a while since.' 'Myself!' she gasped, 'and the clock is striking twelve! It's true, then! that's dreadful!' Her fingers clutched the clothes, and gathered them over her eyes. I attempted to steal to the door with an intention of calling her husband; but I was summoned back by a piercing shriek--the shawl had dropped from the frame. 'Why, what is the matter?' cried I. 'Who is coward now? Wake up! That is the glass--the mirror, Mrs. Linton; and you see yourself in it, and there am I too by your side.' Trembling and bewildered, she held me fast, but the horror gradually passed from her countenance; its paleness gave place to a glow of shame. 'Oh, dear! I thought I was at home,' she sighed. 'I thought I was lying in my chamber at Wuthering Heights. Because I'm weak, my brain got confused, and I screamed unconsciously. Don't say anything; but stay with me. I dread sleeping: my dreams appal me.' 'A sound sleep would do you good, ma'am,' I answered: 'and I hope this suffering will prevent your trying starving again.' 'Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house!' she went on bitterly, wringing her hands. 'And that wind sounding in the firs by the lattice. Do let me feel it--it comes straight down the moor--do let me have one breath!' To pacify her I held the casement ajar a few seconds. A cold blast rushed through; I closed it, and returned to my post. She lay still now, her face bathed in tears. Exhaustion of body had entirely subdued her spirit: our fiery Catherine was no better than a wailing child. 'How long is it since I shut myself in here?' she asked, suddenly reviving. 'It was Monday evening,' I replied, 'and this is Thursday night, or rather Friday morning, at present.' 'What! of the same week?' she exclaimed. 'Only that brief time?' 'Long enough to live on nothing but cold water and ill-temper,' observed I. 'Well, it seems a weary number of hours,' she muttered doubtfully: 'it must be more. I remember being in the parlour after they had quarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me running into this room desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the door, utter blackness overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I couldn't explain to Edgar how certain I felt of having a fit, or going raging mad, if he persisted in teasing me! I had no command of tongue, or brain, and he did not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely left me sense to try to escape from him and his voice. Before I recovered sufficiently to see and hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, I'll tell you what I thought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my reason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg, and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and worried myself to discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the whole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the panels aside: it struck the table-top! I swept it along the carpet, and then memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: it must have been temporary derangement; for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth, from what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide: fasten it open! Quick, why don't you move?' 'Because I won't give you your death of cold,' I answered. 'You won't give me a chance of life, you mean,' she said, sullenly. 'However, I'm not helpless yet; I'll open it myself.' And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she was delirious, I became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no moon, and everything beneath lay in misty darkness: not a light gleamed from any house, far or near all had been extinguished long ago: and those at Wuthering Heights were never visible--still she asserted she caught their shining. 'Look!' she cried eagerly, 'that's my room with the candle in it, and the trees swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph's garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn't he? He's waiting till I come home that he may lock the gate. Well, he'll wait a while yet. It's a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton Kirk to go that journey! We've braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I'll keep you. I'll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won't rest till you are with me. I never will!' She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. 'He's considering--he'd rather I'd come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard. You are slow! Be content, you always followed me!' Perceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning how I could reach something to wrap about her, without quitting my hold of herself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping lattice), when, to my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door-handle, and Mr. Linton entered. He had only then come from the library; and, in passing through the lobby, had noticed our talking and been attracted by curiosity, or fear, to examine what it signified, at that late hour. 'Oh, sir!' I cried, checking the exclamation risen to his lips at the sight which met him, and the bleak atmosphere of the chamber. 'My poor mistress is ill, and she quite masters me: I cannot manage her at all; pray, come and persuade her to go to bed. Forget your anger, for she's hard to guide any way but her own.' 'Catherine ill?' he said, hastening to us. 'Shut the window, Ellen! Catherine! why--' He was silent. The haggardness of Mrs. Linton's appearance smote him speechless, and he could only glance from her to me in horrified astonishment. 'She's been fretting here,' I continued, 'and eating scarcely anything, and never complaining: she would admit none of us till this evening, and so we couldn't inform you of her state, as we were not aware of it ourselves; but it is nothing.' I felt I uttered my explanations awkwardly; the master frowned. 'It is nothing, is it, Ellen Dean?' he said sternly. 'You shall account more clearly for keeping me ignorant of this!' And he took his wife in his arms, and looked at her with anguish. At first she gave him no glance of recognition: he was invisible to her abstracted gaze. The delirium was not fixed, however; having weaned her eyes from contemplating the outer darkness, by degrees she centred her attention on him, and discovered who it was that held her. 'Ah! you are come, are you, Edgar Linton?' she said, with angry animation. 'You are one of those things that are ever found when least wanted, and when you are wanted, never! I suppose we shall have plenty of lamentations now--I see we shall--but they can't keep me from my narrow home out yonder: my resting-place, where I'm bound before spring is over! There it is: not among the Lintons, mind, under the chapel-roof, but in the open air, with a head-stone; and you may please yourself whether you go to them or come to me!' 'Catherine, what have you done?' commenced the master. 'Am I nothing to you any more? Do you love that wretch Heath--' 'Hush!' cried Mrs. Linton. 'Hush, this moment! You mention that name and I end the matter instantly by a spring from the window! What you touch at present you may have; but my soul will be on that hill-top before you lay hands on me again. I don't want you, Edgar: I'm past wanting you. Return to your books. I'm glad you possess a consolation, for all you had in me is gone.' 'Her mind wanders, sir,' I interposed. 'She has been talking nonsense the whole evening; but let her have quiet, and proper attendance, and she'll rally. Hereafter, we must be cautious how we vex her.' 'I desire no further advice from you,' answered Mr. Linton. 'You knew your mistress's nature, and you encouraged me to harass her. And not to give me one hint of how she has been these three days! It was heartless! Months of sickness could not cause such a change!' I began to defend myself, thinking it too bad to be blamed for another's wicked waywardness. 'I knew Mrs. Linton's nature to be headstrong and domineering,' cried I: 'but I didn't know that you wished to foster her fierce temper! I didn't know that, to humour her, I should wink at Mr. Heathcliff. I performed the duty of a faithful servant in telling you, and I have got a faithful servant's wages! Well, it will teach me to be careful next time. Next time you may gather intelligence for yourself!' 'The next time you bring a tale to me you shall quit my service, Ellen Dean,' he replied. 'You'd rather hear nothing about it, I suppose, then, Mr. Linton?' said I. 'Heathcliff has your permission to come a-courting to Miss, and to drop in at every opportunity your absence offers, on purpose to poison the mistress against you?' Confused as Catherine was, her wits were alert at applying our conversation. 'Ah! Nelly has played traitor,' she exclaimed, passionately. 'Nelly is my hidden enemy. You witch! So you do seek elf-bolts to hurt us! Let me go, and I'll make her rue! I'll make her howl a recantation!' A maniac's fury kindled under her brows; she struggled desperately to disengage herself from Linton's arms. I felt no inclination to tarry the event; and, resolving to seek medical aid on my own responsibility, I quitted the chamber. In passing the garden to reach the road, at a place where a bridle hook is driven into the wall, I saw something white moved irregularly, evidently by another agent than the wind. Notwithstanding my hurry, I stayed to examine it, lest ever after I should have the conviction impressed on my imagination that it was a creature of the other world. My surprise and perplexity were great on discovering, by touch more than vision, Miss Isabella's springer, Fanny, suspended by a handkerchief, and nearly at its last gasp. I quickly released the animal, and lifted it into the garden. I had seen it follow its mistress up-stairs when she went to bed; and wondered much how it could have got out there, and what mischievous person had treated it so. While untying the knot round the hook, it seemed to me that I repeatedly caught the beat of horses' feet galloping at some distance; but there were such a number of things to occupy my reflections that I hardly gave the circumstance a thought: though it was a strange sound, in that place, at two o'clock in the morning. Mr. Kenneth was fortunately just issuing from his house to see a patient in the village as I came up the street; and my account of Catherine Linton's malady induced him to accompany me back immediately. He was a plain rough man; and he made no scruple to speak his doubts of her surviving this second attack; unless she were more submissive to his directions than she had shown herself before. 'Nelly Dean,' said he, 'I can't help fancying there's an extra cause for this. What has there been to do at the Grange? We've odd reports up here. A stout, hearty lass like Catherine does not fall ill for a trifle; and that sort of people should not either. It's hard work bringing them through fevers, and such things. How did it begin?' 'The master will inform you,' I answered; 'but you are acquainted with the Earnshaws' violent dispositions, and Mrs. Linton caps them all. I may say this; it commenced in a quarrel. She was struck during a tempest of passion with a kind of fit. That's her account, at least: for she flew off in the height of it, and locked herself up. Afterwards, she refused to eat, and now she alternately raves and remains in a half dream; knowing those about her, but having her mind filled with all sorts of strange ideas and illusions.' 'Mr. Linton will be sorry?' observed Kenneth, interrogatively. 'Sorry? he'll break his heart should anything happen!' I replied. 'Don't alarm him more than necessary.' 'Well, I told him to beware,' said my companion; 'and he must bide the consequences of neglecting my warning! Hasn't he been intimate with Mr. Heathcliff lately?' 'Heathcliff frequently visits at the Grange,' answered I, 'though more on the strength of the mistress having known him when a boy, than because the master likes his company. At present he's discharged from the trouble of calling; owing to some presumptuous aspirations after Miss Linton which he manifested. I hardly think he'll be taken in again.' 'And does Miss Linton turn a cold shoulder on him?' was the doctor's next question. 'I'm not in her confidence,' returned I, reluctant to continue the subject. 'No, she's a sly one,' he remarked, shaking his head. 'She keeps her own counsel! But she's a real little fool. I have it from good authority that last night (and a pretty night it was!) she and Heathcliff were walking in the plantation at the back of your house above two hours; and he pressed her not to go in again, but just mount his horse and away with him! My informant said she could only put him off by pledging her word of honour to be prepared on their first meeting after that: when it was to be he didn't hear; but you urge Mr. Linton to look sharp!' This news filled me with fresh fears; I outstripped Kenneth, and ran most of the way back. The little dog was yelping in the garden yet. I spared a minute to open the gate for it, but instead of going to the house door, it coursed up and down snuffing the grass, and would have escaped to the road, had I not seized it and conveyed it in with me. On ascending to Isabella's room, my suspicions were confirmed: it was empty. Had I been a few hours sooner Mrs. Linton's illness might have arrested her rash step. But what could be done now? There was a bare possibility of overtaking them if pursued instantly. _I_ could not pursue them, however; and I dared not rouse the family, and fill the place with confusion; still less unfold the business to my master, absorbed as he was in his present calamity, and having no heart to spare for a second grief! I saw nothing for it but to hold my tongue, and suffer matters to take their course; and Kenneth being arrived, I went with a badly composed countenance to announce him. Catherine lay in a troubled sleep: her husband had succeeded in soothing the excess of frenzy; he now hung over her pillow, watching every shade and every change of her painfully expressive features. The doctor, on examining the case for himself, spoke hopefully to him of its having a favourable termination, if we could only preserve around her perfect and constant tranquillity. To me, he signified the threatening danger was not so much death, as permanent alienation of intellect. I did not close my eyes that night, nor did Mr. Linton: indeed, we never went to bed; and the servants were all up long before the usual hour, moving through the house with stealthy tread, and exchanging whispers as they encountered each other in their vocations. Every one was active but Miss Isabella; and they began to remark how sound she slept: her brother, too, asked if she had risen, and seemed impatient for her presence, and hurt that she showed so little anxiety for her sister-in-law. I trembled lest he should send me to call her; but I was spared the pain of being the first proclaimant of her flight. One of the maids, a thoughtless girl, who had been on an early errand to Gimmerton, came panting up-stairs, open-mouthed, and dashed into the chamber, crying: 'Oh, dear, dear! What mun we have next? Master, master, our young lady--' 'Hold your noise!' cried, I hastily, enraged at her clamorous manner. 'Speak lower, Mary--What is the matter?' said Mr. Linton. 'What ails your young lady?' 'She's gone, she's gone! Yon' Heathcliff's run off wi' her!' gasped the girl. 'That is not true!' exclaimed Linton, rising in agitation. 'It cannot be: how has the idea entered your head? Ellen Dean, go and seek her. It is incredible: it cannot be.' As he spoke he took the servant to the door, and then repeated his demand to know her reasons for such an assertion. 'Why, I met on the road a lad that fetches milk here,' she stammered, 'and he asked whether we weren't in trouble at the Grange. I thought he meant for missis's sickness, so I answered, yes. Then says he, "There's somebody gone after 'em, I guess?" I stared. He saw I knew nought about it, and he told how a gentleman and lady had stopped to have a horse's shoe fastened at a blacksmith's shop, two miles out of Gimmerton, not very long after midnight! and how the blacksmith's lass had got up to spy who they were: she knew them both directly. And she noticed the man--Heathcliff it was, she felt certain: nob'dy could mistake him, besides--put a sovereign in her father's hand for payment. The lady had a cloak about her face; but having desired a sup of water, while she drank it fell back, and she saw her very plain. Heathcliff held both bridles as they rode on, and they set their faces from the village, and went as fast as the rough roads would let them. The lass said nothing to her father, but she told it all over Gimmerton this morning.' I ran and peeped, for form's sake, into Isabella's room; confirming, when I returned, the servant's statement. Mr. Linton had resumed his seat by the bed; on my re-entrance, he raised his eyes, read the meaning of my blank aspect, and dropped them without giving an order, or uttering a word. 'Are we to try any measures for overtaking and bringing her back,' I inquired. 'How should we do?' 'She went of her own accord,' answered the master; 'she had a right to go if she pleased. Trouble me no more about her. Hereafter she is only my sister in name: not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me.' And that was all he said on the subject: he did not make single inquiry further, or mention her in any way, except directing me to send what property she had in the house to her fresh home, wherever it was, when I knew it. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Ellen beschließt, zum Arzt zu laufen, und als sie den Garten betritt, sieht sie den Hund von Isabella von einem Taschentuch aufgehängt und kurz vor dem Tod. Sie lässt ihn frei und läuft weiter. Der Arzt fragt nach Heathcliff und sagt, dass er gehört habe, dass er und Isabella zusammen gesehen wurden in der Nacht zuvor. Diese Nachricht erschreckt Ellen, und als sie in Isabellas Zimmer geht, findet sie es leer vor. Sie möchte Edgar davon nicht jetzt erzählen, da er mit Catherine beschäftigt ist. Der Arzt fordert sie auf, Catherine in vollkommener Ruhe zu halten. Alle sind damit beschäftigt, sich um sie zu kümmern, und schließlich kommt eine Magd und sagt, dass Isabella mit Heathcliff fortgelaufen ist. Sie sagt, sie habe es von einem anderen gehört, dass sie zusammen in der Mitte der Nacht gesehen wurden. Linton sagt, dass niemand ihnen folgen soll, da Isabella freiwillig gegangen ist. Er sagt, dass sie nicht mehr über sie sprechen sollen, denn obwohl er sie nicht verleugnet hat, hat sie ihn verleugnet.

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 VIII. DER AUTOR FINDET DURCH EINEN GLÜCKLICHEN ZUFALL MÖGLICHKEITEN, BLEFUSCU ZU VERLASSEN, UND KEHRT NACH ETWAS SCHWIERIGKEITEN SICHER IN SEIN HEIMATLAND ZURÜCK. Drei Tage nach meiner Ankunft ging ich aus Neugierde zum nordöstlichen Küstenrand der Insel und bemerkte etwa eine halbe Leguene (etwa 2,6 Kilometer) vor der Küste etwas, das wie ein umgekipptes Boot aussah. Ich zog meine Schuhe und Strümpfe aus, watete zwei- oder dreihundert Meter und bemerkte, dass der Gegenstand durch die Kraft der Strömung näher kam. Dann sah ich deutlich, dass es ein echtes Boot war, das vermutlich durch einen Sturm von einem Schiff weggetrieben worden war. Daraufhin kehrte ich sofort in die Stadt zurück und bat Seine Kaiserliche Majestät, mir zwanzig der größten Schiffe zu leihen, die nach dem Verlust seiner Flotte übrig geblieben waren, sowie dreitausend Seeleute unter dem Kommando seines Vizeadmirals. Diese Flotte segelte, während ich den kürzesten Weg zurück zur Küste nahm, an der ich zuerst das Boot entdeckt hatte. Ich stellte fest, dass die Strömung es noch näher getrieben hatte. Die Seeleute waren alle mit Taue ausgestattet, die ich vorher zu ausreichender Festigkeit verdreht hatte. Als die Schiffe ankamen, zog ich mich aus und schwamm, bis ich knapp hundert Meter vom Boot entfernt war, wonach ich schwimmen musste, um dorthin zu gelangen. Die Seeleute warfen mir das Ende des Seils zu, das ich in ein Loch im vorderen Teil des Bootes band, und das andere Ende an ein Kriegsschiff. Aber ich stellte fest, dass all meine Arbeit zwecklos war; denn da ich zu tief war, konnte ich nicht arbeiten. In dieser Notlage war ich gezwungen, hinter dem Boot zu schwimmen und es so oft wie möglich mit einer Hand zu schieben, während mir die Strömung half, sodass ich so weit vorankam, dass ich gerade noch mein Kinn über Wasser halten und den Boden spüren konnte. Ich ruhte zwei oder drei Minuten aus und gab dann dem Boot einen weiteren Schubs und so weiter, bis das Meer nicht höher als bis zu meinen Achseln reichte; und jetzt, da der anstrengendste Teil vorbei war, nahm ich meine anderen Taue, die in einem der Schiffe verstaut waren, und band sie zuerst an das Boot und dann an neun der mir zur Verfügung stehenden Schiffe; bei günstigem Wind schleppten die Seeleute mich und ich schob, bis wir etwa vierzig Meter vom Ufer entfernt waren. Dort wartete ich, bis die Flut abgelaufen war, trocknete zum Boot, und mit Hilfe von zweitausend Männern mit Seilen und Vorrichtungen gelang es mir, es auf den Kopf zu stellen, und ich stellte fest, dass es nur wenig beschädigt war. Ich will den Leser nicht mit den Schwierigkeiten belästigen, die ich hatte, indem ich mit Hilfe von bestimmten Paddeln, die mich zehn Tage Arbeit gekostet haben, mein Boot in den königlichen Hafen von Blefuscu beförderte, wo bei meiner Ankunft eine gewaltige Menschenmenge voller Staunen erschien, als sie dieses gewaltige Schiff sah. Ich sagte dem Kaiser, dass mein Glück mir dieses Boot in den Weg gelegt hatte, um mich an einen Ort zu bringen, von dem aus ich in mein Heimatland zurückkehren könnte, und bat um seine Majestäts Befehle, um Materialien zu beschaffen, um es auszustatten, sowie um seine Genehmigung, abreisen zu dürfen, die er nach einiger freundlicher Erörterung gerne gewährte. Ich wunderte mich sehr, dass ich in dieser Zeit von keinem Boten unserer Kaiserin an den Hof von Blefuscu gehört hatte. Mir wurde jedoch nachher heimlich zugetragen, dass Seine Kaiserliche Majestät, der niemals annahm, ich hätte von seinen Plänen auch nur die geringste Kenntnis, glaubte, ich sei nur gemäß der mir gegebenen Genehmigung nach Blefuscu gegangen und würde zurückkehren, sobald die Zeremonie beendet sei. Aber er begann sich schließlich über meine lange Abwesenheit Sorgen zu machen, und nach Beratungen mit dem Schatzmeister und dem Rest der Clique[35] wurde eine Person von Stand als Bote mit einer Kopie der Anklagen gegen mich losgeschickt. Dieser Bote hatte den Auftrag, dem Monarchen von Blefuscu die große Milde seines Herrschers darzulegen, der sich damit begnügte, mich nur mit dem Verlust meiner Augen zu bestrafen, dass ich mich der Justiz entzogen hätte und dass ich, wenn ich nicht innerhalb von zwei Stunden zurückkehrte, meines Titels als _nardac_ (eine Art hoher Würdenträger) beraubt und als Verräter erklärt würde. Der Bote fügte hinzu, dass sein Herr, um den Frieden und die Freundschaft zwischen beiden Reichen aufrechtzuerhalten, erwartete, dass sein Bruder von Blefuscu anordnen würde, dass man mich in gebundener Hand und Fuß nach Lilliput zurücksenden würde, um als Verräter bestraft zu werden. Der Kaiser von Blefuscu, der drei Tage Zeit zur Beratung benötigte, antwortete mit vielen Höflichkeiten und Entschuldigungen. Er sagte, dass es für ihn unmöglich war, mich gefesselt zu schicken, was sein Bruder wusste. Dass ich ihm zwar seine Flotte genommen hätte, er mir jedoch große Verpflichtungen für viele gute Dienste schuldete, die ich ihm bei der Erzielung des Friedens geleistet hätte. Dass jedoch beiden Majestäten bald Erleichterung zuteilwerden würde; denn ich hatte ein gewaltiges Schiff am Strand gefunden, das mich übers Meer bringen konnte, für dessen Bekleidung er bereits angeordnet hatte, dass das Schiff unter meiner eigenen Unterstützung und Anleitung vorbereitet wurde; und er hoffte, dass beide Reiche in wenigen Wochen von einer so unerträglichen Belastung befreit sein würden. Mit dieser Antwort kehrte der Bote nach Lilliput zurück, und der Monarch von Blefuscu berichtete mir alles, was passiert war. Gleichzeitig bot er mir (unter strengster Geheimhaltung) seinen gnädigen Schutz an, wenn ich weiterhin in seinen Diensten bleiben würde; obwohl ich ihm zwar Glauben schenkte, beschloss ich doch, niemals mehr irgendein Vertrauen in Fürsten oder Minister zu setzen, wo es irgendwie möglich war, es zu vermeiden. Und so bat ich trotz meiner Dankbarkeit für seine günstigen Absichten höflich um Entschuldigung. Ich sagte ihm, dass, da das Schicksal mir ein Schiff in den Weg geworfen hatte, ich entschlossen war, mich auf das Meer zu wagen, anstatt ein Anlass für Meinungsverschiedenheiten zwischen den beiden so mächtigen Monarchen zu sein. Der Kaiser schien darüber keineswegs ungehalten zu sein, und ich fand heraus, dass er sehr froh über meine Entscheidung war, ebenso wie die meisten seiner Minister. Diese Erwägungen veranlassten mich, meine Abreise etwas früher zu beschleunigen, als ich beabsichtigt hatte. Das Hofstaat, ungeduldig, dass ich endlich gehen sollte, trug sehr bereitwillig dazu bei. Fünfhundert Arbeiter wurden damit beauftragt, gemäß meinen Anweisungen zwei Segel für mein Boot herzustellen, indem sie dreizehn Lagen ihres stärksten Leinens zusammenquilteten. Ich machte mir die Mühe, Seile und Taue zu machen, indem ich zehn, zwanzig oder dreißig davon, die dicksten und stärksten, miteinander verzwirnte. Einen großen Stein, den ich nach langem Suchen am Strand gefunden hatte, benutzte ich als Anker. Das Talg von dreihundert Kühen diente mir zum Fetten meines Bootes und für andere Zwecke. Ich gab unglaubliche Mühe, einige der größten Baumstämme für Ruder und Masten zu fällen, wobei mir jedoch die Schiffszimmerleute Seiner Majestät nachdem ich die grobe Arbeit erledigt hatte, behilflich waren. Nach etwa einem Monat Nachdem ich alles so gut wie möglich vorbereitet hatte, segelte ich am vierundzwanzigsten Tag des Septembers, 1701, um sechs Uhr morgens ab. Als ich etwa vier Seemeilen nach Norden gefahren war und der Wind aus Südosten kam, entdeckte ich um sechs Uhr abends eine kleine Insel etwa eine halbe Seemeile nordwestlich. Ich näherte mich und warf auf der geschützten Seite der Insel Anker. Die Insel schien unbewohnt zu sein. Dann nahm ich etwas zu mir und ging schlafen. Ich schlief gut und schätze, dass ich mindestens sechs Stunden geschlafen hatte, denn ich bemerkte, dass es zwei Stunden nach meinem Erwachen hell war. Die Nacht war klar. Ich frühstückte, bevor die Sonne aufging, und nahm den Anker hoch, da der Wind günstig war. Ich steuerte den gleichen Kurs wie am Vortag, den ich mit meinem Taschenkompass bestimmt hatte. Mein Ziel war es, wenn möglich, eine jener Inseln zu erreichen, von denen ich Grund hatte anzunehmen, dass sie nordöstlich von Van Diemens Land lagen. An diesem Tag entdeckte ich nichts; aber am nächsten Tag, gegen drei Uhr nachmittags, als ich, nach meiner Berechnung, vierundzwanzig Seemeilen von Blefuscu entfernt war, entdeckte ich ein Segel, das nach Südosten steuerte. Mein Kurs war genau nach Osten. Ich rief ihnen zu, erhielt aber keine Antwort; dennoch hatte ich den Eindruck, dass ich mich ihnen näherte, da der Wind nachließ. Ich setzte so viel Segel wie möglich und nach einer halben Stunde wurde ich von ihnen entdeckt. Sie hissten ihre Flagge und feuerten eine Kanone ab. Es ist kaum in Worte zu fassen, welche Freude mich überkam, als ich unerwartet die Hoffnung hatte, mein geliebtes Land und meine lieben Angehörigen wiederzusehen. Das Schiff nahm Fahrt raus und ich näherte mich ihm zwischen fünf und sechs Uhr abends am sechsundzwanzigsten September. Mein Herz machte einen Sprung, als ich die englischen Farben sah. Ich steckte meine Kühe und Schafe in meine Manteltaschen und stieg mit meiner kleinen Proviantladung an Bord. Das Schiff war ein englisches Handelsschiff, das von Japan über die Nord- und Südsee zurückkehrte. Der Kapitän, Herr John Biddle aus Deptford, war ein sehr höflicher Mann und ein ausgezeichneter Seemann. Wir befanden uns nun auf der Breite von 30 Grad Süd. Es waren etwa fünfzig Männer an Bord. Hier traf ich einen alten Kameraden, Peter Williams, der mir beim Kapitän ein gutes Zeugnis ausstellte. Dieser Herr behandelte mich freundlich und bat mich, ihm mitzuteilen, wo ich zuletzt hergekommen war und wohin ich unterwegs war. Ich antwortete kurz, aber er dachte, ich wäre verrückt geworden und dass die Gefahren, denen ich ausgesetzt war, meinen Verstand beeinflusst hatten. Daraufhin zeigte ich ihm meine schwarzen Rinder und Schafe, die, nachdem er große Verwunderung geäußert hatte, ihn von meiner Aufrichtigkeit überzeugten. Anschließend zeigte ich ihm das Gold, das mir vom Kaiser von Blefuscu geschenkt wurde, zusammen mit dem Porträt seiner Majestät in voller Größe und einigen anderen Raritäten dieses Landes. Ich gab ihm zwei Beutel mit jeweils zweihundert Sprugen und versprach ihm, ihm, wenn wir in England ankämen, eine Kuh und ein Schaf zu schenken. Ich werde den Leser nicht mit einem detaillierten Bericht über diese Reise belästigen, die größtenteils sehr erfolgreich verlief. Wir kamen am dreizehnten April 1702 in den Downs an. Ich hatte nur ein Missgeschick, dass die Ratten an Bord eines meiner Schafe davontrugen; Ich fand seine Knochen in einem Loch, sauber von Fleisch befreit. Ich brachte den Rest meines Viehs sicher ans Land und ließ sie auf einer Bowling-Wiese in Greenwich weiden, wo das schöne Gras sie sehr gut fressen ließ, obwohl ich das Gegenteil befürchtet hatte. Ich hätte sie in einer so langen Reise nicht aufbewahren können, wenn der Kapitän mir nicht einige seiner besten Kekse erlaubt hätte. Diese wurden zu Pulver zerrieben und mit Wasser vermischt, das war ihre ständige Nahrung. In der kurzen Zeit, die ich in England verbrachte, machte ich einen beträchtlichen Gewinn, indem ich vielen adligen Personen und anderen mein Vieh zeigte. Bevor ich meine zweite Reise begann, verkaufte ich sie für sechshundert Pfund. Seit meiner letzten Rückkehr hat sich die Zucht beträchtlich vermehrt, insbesondere die Schafe, was sich hoffentlich sehr zum Vorteil der Wollindustrie durch die Feinheit der Wolle erweisen wird. Ich blieb nur zwei Monate bei meiner Frau und meiner Familie, denn mein unersättlicher Wunsch, fremde Länder zu sehen, ließ mich nicht länger verweilen. Ich hinterließ tausendfünfhundert Pfund bei meiner Frau und ließ sie in einem guten Haus in Redriff zurück. Den Rest meines Vermögens nahm ich mit, teilweise in Geld und teilweise in Waren, in der Hoffnung, mein Vermögen zu vermehren. Mein ältester Onkel, John, hatte mir ein Grundstück in der Nähe von Epping hinterlassen, das jährlich etwa dreißig Pfund einbrachte. Ich hatte einen langfristigen Pachtvertrag für den "Schwarzen Bullen" in Fetter Lane, der mir ungefähr genauso viel einbrachte. Daher bestand keine Gefahr, dass meine Familie auf Kosten der Gemeinde leben musste. Mein Sohn Johnny, benannt nach seinem Onkel, besuchte die Grammatikschule und war ein vielversprechendes Kind. Meine Tochter Betty (die nun gut verheiratet ist und Kinder hat) arbeitete damals an ihrer Handarbeit. Ich verabschiedete mich mit Tränen in den Augen von meiner Frau und meinen Kindern und ging an Bord der "Adventure", einem Handelsschiff von dreihundert Tonnen, das nach Surat unterwegs war. Kapitän John Nicholas aus Liverpool war der Kommandant. Aber mein Bericht über diese Reise muss auf den zweiten Teil meiner Abenteuer verwiesen werden. ENDE DES ERSTEN TEILS. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Der König und die Königin machen eine Reise zu den Grenzen des Landes. Der Autor begleitet sie. Es wird sehr ausführlich beschrieben, wie er das Land verlässt. Er kehrt nach England zurück. Gulliver ist zwei Jahre lang in Brobdingnag und spürt stark, dass es Zeit ist zu gehen. Er wird im Grunde wie ein Haustier behandelt. Aber die königliche Familie will ihn nicht gehen lassen. Zufälligerweise nimmt ein Riesenvogel Gullivers Reisekiste mit, als sie an der Küste sind, und fliegt mit ihm davon. Als der Vogel feststellt, dass die Kiste nicht essbar ist, lässt er sie ins Meer fallen. Nach einiger Zeit wird die Kiste von einem vorbeifahrenden Schiff in Gullivers normalen Proportionen aufgefischt. Gulliver findet es sehr schwierig, sich an die Größe der Dinge in England anzupassen. Er fühlt sich viel größer als die 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: THE THINKER The house in which Seth Richmond of Winesburg lived with his mother had been at one time the show place of the town, but when young Seth lived there its glory had become somewhat dimmed. The huge brick house which Banker White had built on Buckeye Street had overshadowed it. The Richmond place was in a little valley far out at the end of Main Street. Farmers coming into town by a dusty road from the south passed by a grove of walnut trees, skirted the Fair Ground with its high board fence covered with advertisements, and trotted their horses down through the valley past the Richmond place into town. As much of the country north and south of Winesburg was devoted to fruit and berry raising, Seth saw wagon-loads of berry pickers--boys, girls, and women--going to the fields in the morning and returning covered with dust in the evening. The chattering crowd, with their rude jokes cried out from wagon to wagon, sometimes irritated him sharply. He regretted that he also could not laugh boisterously, shout meaningless jokes and make of himself a figure in the endless stream of moving, giggling activity that went up and down the road. The Richmond house was built of limestone, and, although it was said in the village to have become run down, had in reality grown more beautiful with every passing year. Already time had begun a little to color the stone, lending a golden richness to its surface and in the evening or on dark days touching the shaded places beneath the eaves with wavering patches of browns and blacks. The house had been built by Seth's grandfather, a stone quarryman, and it, together with the stone quarries on Lake Erie eighteen miles to the north, had been left to his son, Clarence Richmond, Seth's father. Clarence Richmond, a quiet passionate man extraordinarily admired by his neighbors, had been killed in a street fight with the editor of a newspaper in Toledo, Ohio. The fight concerned the publication of Clarence Richmond's name coupled with that of a woman school teacher, and as the dead man had begun the row by firing upon the editor, the effort to punish the slayer was unsuccessful. After the quarryman's death it was found that much of the money left to him had been squandered in speculation and in insecure investments made through the influence of friends. Left with but a small income, Virginia Richmond had settled down to a retired life in the village and to the raising of her son. Although she had been deeply moved by the death of the husband and father, she did not at all believe the stories concerning him that ran about after his death. To her mind, the sensitive, boyish man whom all had instinctively loved, was but an unfortunate, a being too fine for everyday life. "You'll be hearing all sorts of stories, but you are not to believe what you hear," she said to her son. "He was a good man, full of tenderness for everyone, and should not have tried to be a man of affairs. No matter how much I were to plan and dream of your future, I could not imagine anything better for you than that you turn out as good a man as your father." Several years after the death of her husband, Virginia Richmond had become alarmed at the growing demands upon her income and had set herself to the task of increasing it. She had learned stenography and through the influence of her husband's friends got the position of court stenographer at the county seat. There she went by train each morning during the sessions of the court, and when no court sat, spent her days working among the rosebushes in her garden. She was a tall, straight figure of a woman with a plain face and a great mass of brown hair. In the relationship between Seth Richmond and his mother, there was a quality that even at eighteen had begun to color all of his traffic with men. An almost unhealthy respect for the youth kept the mother for the most part silent in his presence. When she did speak sharply to him he had only to look steadily into her eyes to see dawning there the puzzled look he had already noticed in the eyes of others when he looked at them. The truth was that the son thought with remarkable clearness and the mother did not. She expected from all people certain conventional reactions to life. A boy was your son, you scolded him and he trembled and looked at the floor. When you had scolded enough he wept and all was forgiven. After the weeping and when he had gone to bed, you crept into his room and kissed him. Virginia Richmond could not understand why her son did not do these things. After the severest reprimand, he did not tremble and look at the floor but instead looked steadily at her, causing uneasy doubts to invade her mind. As for creeping into his room--after Seth had passed his fifteenth year, she would have been half afraid to do anything of the kind. Once when he was a boy of sixteen, Seth in company with two other boys ran away from home. The three boys climbed into the open door of an empty freight car and rode some forty miles to a town where a fair was being held. One of the boys had a bottle filled with a combination of whiskey and blackberry wine, and the three sat with legs dangling out of the car door drinking from the bottle. Seth's two companions sang and waved their hands to idlers about the stations of the towns through which the train passed. They planned raids upon the baskets of farmers who had come with their families to the fair. "We will live like kings and won't have to spend a penny to see the fair and horse races," they declared boastfully. After the disappearance of Seth, Virginia Richmond walked up and down the floor of her home filled with vague alarms. Although on the next day she discovered, through an inquiry made by the town marshal, on what adventure the boys had gone, she could not quiet herself. All through the night she lay awake hearing the clock tick and telling herself that Seth, like his father, would come to a sudden and violent end. So determined was she that the boy should this time feel the weight of her wrath that, although she would not allow the marshal to interfere with his adventure, she got out a pencil and paper and wrote down a series of sharp, stinging reproofs she intended to pour out upon him. The reproofs she committed to memory, going about the garden and saying them aloud like an actor memorizing his part. And when, at the end of the week, Seth returned, a little weary and with coal soot in his ears and about his eyes, she again found herself unable to reprove him. Walking into the house he hung his cap on a nail by the kitchen door and stood looking steadily at her. "I wanted to turn back within an hour after we had started," he explained. "I didn't know what to do. I knew you would be bothered, but I knew also that if I didn't go on I would be ashamed of myself. I went through with the thing for my own good. It was uncomfortable, sleeping on wet straw, and two drunken Negroes came and slept with us. When I stole a lunch basket out of a farmer's wagon I couldn't help thinking of his children going all day without food. I was sick of the whole affair, but I was determined to stick it out until the other boys were ready to come back." "I'm glad you did stick it out," replied the mother, half resentfully, and kissing him upon the forehead pretended to busy herself with the work about the house. On a summer evening Seth Richmond went to the New Willard House to visit his friend, George Willard. It had rained during the afternoon, but as he walked through Main Street, the sky had partially cleared and a golden glow lit up the west. Going around a corner, he turned in at the door of the hotel and began to climb the stairway leading up to his friend's room. In the hotel office the proprietor and two traveling men were engaged in a discussion of politics. On the stairway Seth stopped and listened to the voices of the men below. They were excited and talked rapidly. Tom Willard was berating the traveling men. "I am a Democrat but your talk makes me sick," he said. "You don't understand McKinley. McKinley and Mark Hanna are friends. It is impossible perhaps for your mind to grasp that. If anyone tells you that a friendship can be deeper and bigger and more worth while than dollars and cents, or even more worth while than state politics, you snicker and laugh." The landlord was interrupted by one of the guests, a tall, grey-mustached man who worked for a wholesale grocery house. "Do you think that I've lived in Cleveland all these years without knowing Mark Hanna?" he demanded. "Your talk is piffle. Hanna is after money and nothing else. This McKinley is his tool. He has McKinley bluffed and don't you forget it." The young man on the stairs did not linger to hear the rest of the discussion, but went on up the stairway and into the little dark hall. Something in the voices of the men talking in the hotel office started a chain of thoughts in his mind. He was lonely and had begun to think that loneliness was a part of his character, something that would always stay with him. Stepping into a side hall he stood by a window that looked into an alleyway. At the back of his shop stood Abner Groff, the town baker. His tiny bloodshot eyes looked up and down the alleyway. In his shop someone called the baker, who pretended not to hear. The baker had an empty milk bottle in his hand and an angry sullen look in his eyes. In Winesburg, Seth Richmond was called the "deep one." "He's like his father," men said as he went through the streets. "He'll break out some of these days. You wait and see." The talk of the town and the respect with which men and boys instinctively greeted him, as all men greet silent people, had affected Seth Richmond's outlook on life and on himself. He, like most boys, was deeper than boys are given credit for being, but he was not what the men of the town, and even his mother, thought him to be. No great underlying purpose lay back of his habitual silence, and he had no definite plan for his life. When the boys with whom he associated were noisy and quarrelsome, he stood quietly at one side. With calm eyes he watched the gesticulating lively figures of his companions. He wasn't particularly interested in what was going on, and sometimes wondered if he would ever be particularly interested in anything. Now, as he stood in the half-darkness by the window watching the baker, he wished that he himself might become thoroughly stirred by something, even by the fits of sullen anger for which Baker Groff was noted. "It would be better for me if I could become excited and wrangle about politics like windy old Tom Willard," he thought, as he left the window and went again along the hallway to the room occupied by his friend, George Willard. George Willard was older than Seth Richmond, but in the rather odd friendship between the two, it was he who was forever courting and the younger boy who was being courted. The paper on which George worked had one policy. It strove to mention by name in each issue, as many as possible of the inhabitants of the village. Like an excited dog, George Willard ran here and there, noting on his pad of paper who had gone on business to the county seat or had returned from a visit to a neighboring village. All day he wrote little facts upon the pad. "A. P. Wringlet had received a shipment of straw hats. Ed Byerbaum and Tom Marshall were in Cleveland Friday. Uncle Tom Sinnings is building a new barn on his place on the Valley Road." The idea that George Willard would some day become a writer had given him a place of distinction in Winesburg, and to Seth Richmond he talked continually of the matter, "It's the easiest of all lives to live," he declared, becoming excited and boastful. "Here and there you go and there is no one to boss you. Though you are in India or in the South Seas in a boat, you have but to write and there you are. Wait till I get my name up and then see what fun I shall have." In George Willard's room, which had a window looking down into an alleyway and one that looked across railroad tracks to Biff Carter's Lunch Room facing the railroad station, Seth Richmond sat in a chair and looked at the floor. George Willard, who had been sitting for an hour idly playing with a lead pencil, greeted him effusively. "I've been trying to write a love story," he explained, laughing nervously. Lighting a pipe he began walking up and down the room. "I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to fall in love. I've been sitting here and thinking it over and I'm going to do it." As though embarrassed by his declaration, George went to a window and turning his back to his friend leaned out. "I know who I'm going to fall in love with," he said sharply. "It's Helen White. She is the only girl in town with any 'get-up' to her." Struck with a new idea, young Willard turned and walked toward his visitor. "Look here," he said. "You know Helen White better than I do. I want you to tell her what I said. You just get to talking to her and say that I'm in love with her. See what she says to that. See how she takes it, and then you come and tell me." Seth Richmond arose and went toward the door. The words of his comrade irritated him unbearably. "Well, good-bye," he said briefly. George was amazed. Running forward he stood in the darkness trying to look into Seth's face. "What's the matter? What are you going to do? You stay here and let's talk," he urged. A wave of resentment directed against his friend, the men of the town who were, he thought, perpetually talking of nothing, and most of all, against his own habit of silence, made Seth half desperate. "Aw, speak to her yourself," he burst forth and then, going quickly through the door, slammed it sharply in his friend's face. "I'm going to find Helen White and talk to her, but not about him," he muttered. Seth went down the stairway and out at the front door of the hotel muttering with wrath. Crossing a little dusty street and climbing a low iron railing, he went to sit upon the grass in the station yard. George Willard he thought a profound fool, and he wished that he had said so more vigorously. Although his acquaintanceship with Helen White, the banker's daughter, was outwardly but casual, she was often the subject of his thoughts and he felt that she was something private and personal to himself. "The busy fool with his love stories," he muttered, staring back over his shoulder at George Willard's room, "why does he never tire of his eternal talking." It was berry harvest time in Winesburg and upon the station platform men and boys loaded the boxes of red, fragrant berries into two express cars that stood upon the siding. A June moon was in the sky, although in the west a storm threatened, and no street lamps were lighted. In the dim light the figures of the men standing upon the express truck and pitching the boxes in at the doors of the cars were but dimly discernible. Upon the iron railing that protected the station lawn sat other men. Pipes were lighted. Village jokes went back and forth. Away in the distance a train whistled and the men loading the boxes into the cars worked with renewed activity. Seth arose from his place on the grass and went silently past the men perched upon the railing and into Main Street. He had come to a resolution. "I'll get out of here," he told himself. "What good am I here? I'm going to some city and go to work. I'll tell mother about it tomorrow." Seth Richmond went slowly along Main Street, past Wacker's Cigar Store and the Town Hall, and into Buckeye Street. He was depressed by the thought that he was not a part of the life in his own town, but the depression did not cut deeply as he did not think of himself as at fault. In the heavy shadows of a big tree before Doctor Welling's house, he stopped and stood watching half-witted Turk Smollet, who was pushing a wheelbarrow in the road. The old man with his absurdly boyish mind had a dozen long boards on the wheelbarrow, and, as he hurried along the road, balanced the load with extreme nicety. "Easy there, Turk! Steady now, old boy!" the old man shouted to himself, and laughed so that the load of boards rocked dangerously. Seth knew Turk Smollet, the half dangerous old wood chopper whose peculiarities added so much of color to the life of the village. He knew that when Turk got into Main Street he would become the center of a whirlwind of cries and comments, that in truth the old man was going far out of his way in order to pass through Main Street and exhibit his skill in wheeling the boards. "If George Willard were here, he'd have something to say," thought Seth. "George belongs to this town. He'd shout at Turk and Turk would shout at him. They'd both be secretly pleased by what they had said. It's different with me. I don't belong. I'll not make a fuss about it, but I'm going to get out of here." Seth stumbled forward through the half-darkness, feeling himself an outcast in his own town. He began to pity himself, but a sense of the absurdity of his thoughts made him smile. In the end he decided that he was simply old beyond his years and not at all a subject for self-pity. "I'm made to go to work. I may be able to make a place for myself by steady working, and I might as well be at it," he decided. Seth went to the house of Banker White and stood in the darkness by the front door. On the door hung a heavy brass knocker, an innovation introduced into the village by Helen White's mother, who had also organized a women's club for the study of poetry. Seth raised the knocker and let it fall. Its heavy clatter sounded like a report from distant guns. "How awkward and foolish I am," he thought. "If Mrs. White comes to the door, I won't know what to say." It was Helen White who came to the door and found Seth standing at the edge of the porch. Blushing with pleasure, she stepped forward, closing the door softly. "I'm going to get out of town. I don't know what I'll do, but I'm going to get out of here and go to work. I think I'll go to Columbus," he said. "Perhaps I'll get into the State University down there. Anyway, I'm going. I'll tell mother tonight." He hesitated and looked doubtfully about. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming to walk with me?" Seth and Helen walked through the streets beneath the trees. Heavy clouds had drifted across the face of the moon, and before them in the deep twilight went a man with a short ladder upon his shoulder. Hurrying forward, the man stopped at the street crossing and, putting the ladder against the wooden lamp-post, lighted the village lights so that their way was half lighted, half darkened, by the lamps and by the deepening shadows cast by the low-branched trees. In the tops of the trees the wind began to play, disturbing the sleeping birds so that they flew about calling plaintively. In the lighted space before one of the lamps, two bats wheeled and circled, pursuing the gathering swarm of night flies. Since Seth had been a boy in knee trousers there had been a half expressed intimacy between him and the maiden who now for the first time walked beside him. For a time she had been beset with a madness for writing notes which she addressed to Seth. He had found them concealed in his books at school and one had been given him by a child met in the street, while several had been delivered through the village post office. The notes had been written in a round, boyish hand and had reflected a mind inflamed by novel reading. Seth had not answered them, although he had been moved and flattered by some of the sentences scrawled in pencil upon the stationery of the banker's wife. Putting them into the pocket of his coat, he went through the street or stood by the fence in the school yard with something burning at his side. He thought it fine that he should be thus selected as the favorite of the richest and most attractive girl in town. Helen and Seth stopped by a fence near where a low dark building faced the street. The building had once been a factory for the making of barrel staves but was now vacant. Across the street upon the porch of a house a man and woman talked of their childhood, their voices coming dearly across to the half-embarrassed youth and maiden. There was the sound of scraping chairs and the man and woman came down the gravel path to a wooden gate. Standing outside the gate, the man leaned over and kissed the woman. "For old times' sake," he said and, turning, walked rapidly away along the sidewalk. "That's Belle Turner," whispered Helen, and put her hand boldly into Seth's hand. "I didn't know she had a fellow. I thought she was too old for that." Seth laughed uneasily. The hand of the girl was warm and a strange, dizzy feeling crept over him. Into his mind came a desire to tell her something he had been determined not to tell. "George Willard's in love with you," he said, and in spite of his agitation his voice was low and quiet. "He's writing a story, and he wants to be in love. He wants to know how it feels. He wanted me to tell you and see what you said." Again Helen and Seth walked in silence. They came to the garden surrounding the old Richmond place and going through a gap in the hedge sat on a wooden bench beneath a bush. On the street as he walked beside the girl new and daring thoughts had come into Seth Richmond's mind. He began to regret his decision to get out of town. "It would be something new and altogether delightful to remain and walk often through the streets with Helen White," he thought. In imagination he saw himself putting his arm about her waist and feeling her arms clasped tightly about his neck. One of those odd combinations of events and places made him connect the idea of love-making with this girl and a spot he had visited some days before. He had gone on an errand to the house of a farmer who lived on a hillside beyond the Fair Ground and had returned by a path through a field. At the foot of the hill below the farmer's house Seth had stopped beneath a sycamore tree and looked about him. A soft humming noise had greeted his ears. For a moment he had thought the tree must be the home of a swarm of bees. And then, looking down, Seth had seen the bees everywhere all about him in the long grass. He stood in a mass of weeds that grew waist-high in the field that ran away from the hillside. The weeds were abloom with tiny purple blossoms and gave forth an overpowering fragrance. Upon the weeds the bees were gathered in armies, singing as they worked. Seth imagined himself lying on a summer evening, buried deep among the weeds beneath the tree. Beside him, in the scene built in his fancy, lay Helen White, her hand lying in his hand. A peculiar reluctance kept him from kissing her lips, but he felt he might have done that if he wished. Instead, he lay perfectly still, looking at her and listening to the army of bees that sang the sustained masterful song of labor above his head. On the bench in the garden Seth stirred uneasily. Releasing the hand of the girl, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. A desire to impress the mind of his companion with the importance of the resolution he had made came over him and he nodded his head toward the house. "Mother'll make a fuss, I suppose," he whispered. "She hasn't thought at all about what I'm going to do in life. She thinks I'm going to stay on here forever just being a boy." Seth's voice became charged with boyish earnestness. "You see, I've got to strike out. I've got to get to work. It's what I'm good for." Helen White was impressed. She nodded her head and a feeling of admiration swept over her. "This is as it should be," she thought. "This boy is not a boy at all, but a strong, purposeful man." Certain vague desires that had been invading her body were swept away and she sat up very straight on the bench. The thunder continued to rumble and flashes of heat lightning lit up the eastern sky. The garden that had been so mysterious and vast, a place that with Seth beside her might have become the background for strange and wonderful adventures, now seemed no more than an ordinary Winesburg back yard, quite definite and limited in its outlines. "What will you do up there?" she whispered. Seth turned half around on the bench, striving to see her face in the darkness. He thought her infinitely more sensible and straightforward than George Willard, and was glad he had come away from his friend. A feeling of impatience with the town that had been in his mind returned, and he tried to tell her of it. "Everyone talks and talks," he began. "I'm sick of it. I'll do something, get into some kind of work where talk don't count. Maybe I'll just be a mechanic in a shop. I don't know. I guess I don't care much. I just want to work and keep quiet. That's all I've got in my mind." Seth arose from the bench and put out his hand. He did not want to bring the meeting to an end but could not think of anything more to say. "It's the last time we'll see each other," he whispered. A wave of sentiment swept over Helen. Putting her hand upon Seth's shoulder, she started to draw his face down toward her own upturned face. The act was one of pure affection and cutting regret that some vague adventure that had been present in the spirit of the night would now never be realized. "I think I'd better be going along," she said, letting her hand fall heavily to her side. A thought came to her. "Don't you go with me; I want to be alone," she said. "You go and talk with your mother. You'd better do that now." Seth hesitated and, as he stood waiting, the girl turned and ran away through the hedge. A desire to run after her came to him, but he only stood staring, perplexed and puzzled by her action as he had been perplexed and puzzled by all of the life of the town out of which she had come. Walking slowly toward the house, he stopped in the shadow of a large tree and looked at his mother sitting by a lighted window busily sewing. The feeling of loneliness that had visited him earlier in the evening returned and colored his thoughts of the adventure through which he had just passed. "Huh!" he exclaimed, turning and staring in the direction taken by Helen White. "That's how things'll turn out. She'll be like the rest. I suppose she'll begin now to look at me in a funny way." He looked at the ground and pondered this thought. "She'll be embarrassed and feel strange when I'm around," he whispered to himself. "That's how it'll be. That's how everything'll turn out. When it comes to loving someone, it won't never be me. It'll be someone else--some fool--someone who talks a lot--someone like that George Willard." Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Hauptfigur dieser Geschichte ist nicht, wie man es vom Titel her vermuten könnte, ein weiser alter Bürger; er ist ein Junge in etwa im Alter von George Willard. Dieser Junge, Seth Richmond, der zurückhaltend und unbeholfen ist, hat den Ruf, ein "Denker" zu sein. Sogar seine Mutter hat ein wenig Angst vor ihm. Erneut zeigt Anderson die Realität hinter dem Erscheinungsbild: Seth war "nicht das, was die Männer der Stadt und sogar seine Mutter von ihm dachten. Kein großes grundlegendes Ziel lag hinter seinem gewohnheitsmäßigen Schweigen und er hatte keinen konkreten Lebensplan." Beim Lesen von "Der Denker" erkennen wir, dass die anfänglich als Tugend erscheinende Rationalität für Seth tatsächlich ein Hindernis ist. Er ist wie J. Alfred Prufrock, der so beschäftigt ist, seine Handlungen zu rationalisieren und mögliche Alternativen zu analysieren, dass er nie handelt. Er sagt zum Beispiel, dass er Winesburg verlassen will, aber er springt nicht auf einen Zug, wie es Elmer Cowley in "Eigenartig" tut. Oder betrachten Sie sein Verhalten gegenüber Helen: Er ist offensichtlich ein wenig in sie verliebt, aber er ist so damit beschäftigt, sie mit seinen Plänen zu beeindrucken, dass er ihr Interesse an ihm nicht unterstützt, als sie ihn am Ende ihres Spaziergangs küssen möchte. Auf drei Arten offenbart Anderson Seths Unfähigkeit, entschieden zu handeln und tief zu fühlen. Erstens steht Seth da und beobachtet Abner Groff, den Bäcker der Stadt, und wünscht sich, "dass er selbst von etwas wirklich ergriffen würde, sogar von den Wutanfällen, für die Baker Groff bekannt war." Zweitens sieht Seth, als er mit Helen geht, den Dorfanzünder, der zielstrebig die Straße entlanggeht und die Lampen anzündet. Gleichzeitig bemerkt er, dass ein Wind die schlafenden Vögel gestört hat und sie herumfliegen, während zwei Fledermäuse eine Schwarm von Nachtschwärmern verfolgen. Dieser Kontrast der natürlichen Aktivität mit Seths gewohnheitsmäßiger Planung anstatt Handeln wird in der dritten Szene deutlicher, wenn Seth sich vorstellt, dass er und Helen im hohen Gras unter einem Baum liegen und um sie herum ein Schwarm Bienen "singt, während sie arbeiten". In dieser imaginären Szene "hielt ihn eine eigentümliche Abneigung davon ab, ihre Lippen zu küssen, aber er fühlte, dass er es getan hätte, wenn er gewollt hätte. Stattdessen liegt er ganz still ... und lauschte dem Heer von Bienen, das über seinem Kopf das anhaltende meisterhafte Lied der Arbeit sang." In "Der Denker" zeigt Anderson nicht nur die Gefahr des zuviel Denkens, sondern auch die des zuviel Redens. Seth empfindet, dass er von sinnloser, inhaltsloser Plauderei umgeben ist. Turk Smollet, der Holzfäller, geht absichtlich die Hauptstraße entlang mit seiner Schubkarre, damit er "im Wirbelwind von Rufen und Kommentaren im Mittelpunkt stehen kann"; die geschwätzigen Politiker im New Willard House verbringen den Tag mit Reden; George Willard, "wie ein aufgeregter Hund, rennt hierhin und dorthin und notiert auf seinem Schreibblock, wer geschäftlich in den Landkreis gefahren ist oder von einem Besuch in einem Nachbardorf zurückgekehrt ist." Seth verachtet sowohl George als auch die anderen Männer der Stadt, die "ständig von nichts reden", aber der Junge wünscht sich auch, dass er sich so gut wie sie anpassen könnte. Als er eine Wagenladung Beerensammler sieht, wie Wing Biddlebaum in "Hände" es getan hat, bedauert Seth, dass er nicht auch ausgelassen lachen, sinnlose Witze machen und sich selbst zu einer Figur in dem endlosen Strom aus Bewegung und kichernder Aktivität machen kann, der die Straße rauf und runter zieht. Seth fühlt sich wie ein Ausgestoßener in seiner eigenen Stadt "und er erkennt, dass die Einsamkeit etwas ist, was immer bei ihm bleiben wird." Auch nach dem Spaziergang mit Helen White fühlt sich Seth hoffnungslos, seiner Einsamkeit zu entkommen. "Wenn es darum geht, jemanden zu lieben", denkt er, "werde nie ich es sein. Es wird jemand anderes sein - irgend ein Dummkopf - jemand, der viel redet - jemand wie dieser George Willard." Das Thema von "Der Denker" scheint zu sein, dass ein Mensch so viel denken kann, dass er versagt zu handeln, aber dass Reden ohne nachzudenken keine Lösung ist. Echte Kommunikation ist nicht das Gleiche wie sinnloses Geplapper.

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 IV Scene I Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA DOLABELLA. Why would you shift it from yourself on me? Can you not tell her, you must part? ANTONY. I cannot. I could pull out an eye, and bid it go, And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella, How many deaths are in this word, DEPART! I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: One look of hers would thaw me into tears, And I should melt, till I were lost again. DOLABELLA. Then let Ventidius; He's rough by nature. ANTONY. Oh, he'll speak too harshly; He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou. DOLABELLA. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood. I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest. ANTONY. Therefore,--therefore Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me; And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long), Take off the edge from every sharper sound, And let our parting be as gently made, As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this? DOLABELLA. What you have said so sinks into my soul, That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so. ANTONY. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell. I sent her word to meet you. [Goes to the door, and comes back.] I forgot; Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine, Her crown and dignity shall be preserved, If I have power with Caesar.--Oh, be sure To think on that. DOLABELLA. Fear not, I will remember. [ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back.] ANTONY. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained; I did not this, but with extremest force. Desire her not to hate my memory, For I still cherish hers:--insist on that. DOLABELLA. Trust me. I'll not forget it. ANTONY. Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again.] Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? Tell her, though we shall never meet again, If I should hear she took another love, The news would break my heart.--Now I must go; For every time I have returned, I feel My soul more tender; and my next command Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit.] DOLABELLA. Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing: But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view: Thus I discovered, And blamed the love of ruined Antony: Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined. Enter VENTIDIUS above VENTIDIUS. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, And may pursue it still. DOLABELLA. O friendship! friendship! Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; And if I win, undone: mere madness all. And yet the occasion's fair. What injury To him, to wear the robe which he throws by! VENTIDIUS. None, none at all. This happens as I wish, To ruin her yet more with Antony. Enter CLEOPATRA talking with ALEXAS; CHARMION, IRAS on the other side. DOLABELLA. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face! Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, And shows a moment's day. VENTIDIUS. If she should love him too! her eunuch there? That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer, Sweet devil, that I may hear. ALEXAS. Believe me; try [DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS; seems to talk with them.] To make him jealous; jealousy is like A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it. CLEOPATRA. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease, and makes it show, But has no power to cure. ALEXAS. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too: And then this Dolabella, who so fit To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young, And looks as he were laid for nature's bait, To catch weak women's eyes. He stands already more than half suspected Of loving you: the least kind word or glance, You give this youth, will kindle him with love: Then, like a burning vessel set adrift, You'll send him down amain before the wind, To fire the heart of jealous Antony. CLEOPATRA. Can I do this? Ah, no, my love's so true, That I can neither hide it where it is, Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy. ALEXAS. Force yourself. The event will be, your lover will return, Doubly desirous to possess the good Which once he feared to lose. CLEOPATRA. I must attempt it; But oh, with what regret! [Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.] VENTIDIUS. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach. CLEOPATRA. [to DOLABELLA.] Discoursing with my women! might not I Share in your entertainment? CHARMION. You have been The subject of it, madam. CLEOPATRA. How! and how! IRAS. Such praises of your beauty! CLEOPATRA. Mere poetry. Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia. DOLABELLA. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt; Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: I, who have seen--had I been born a poet, Should choose a nobler name. CLEOPATRA. You flatter me. But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you. I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words. DOLABELLA. No, madam; yet he sent me-- CLEOPATRA. Well, he sent you-- DOLABELLA. Of a less pleasing errand. CLEOPATRA. How less pleasing? Less to yourself, or me? DOLABELLA. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it. CLEOPATRA. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.-- Hold up, my spirits. [Aside.]--Well, now your mournful matter; For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too. DOLABELLA. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office, To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you. CLEOPATRA. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should. VENTIDIUS. Most delicate advances! Women! women! Dear, damned, inconstant sex! CLEOPATRA. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is't not so? DOLABELLA. I wish I could not answer to that question. CLEOPATRA. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: I should have been more grieved another time. Next I'm to lose my kingdom--Farewell, Egypt! Yet, is there ary more? DOLABELLA. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason. CLEOPATRA. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune: And love may be expelled by other love, As poisons are by poisons. DOLABELLA. You o'erjoy me, madam, To find your griefs so moderately borne. You've heard the worst; all are not false like him. CLEOPATRA. No; Heaven forbid they should. DOLABELLA. Some men are constant. CLEOPATRA. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain. DOLABELLA. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope. VENTIDIUS. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough: But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider. [Exit.] DOLABELLA. I came prepared To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: But you have met it with a cheerfulness, That makes my task more easy; and my tongue, Which on another's message was employed, Would gladly speak its own. CLEOPATRA. Hold, Dolabella. First tell me, were you chosen by my lord? Or sought you this employment? DOLABELLA. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend, He charged me with his words. CLEOPATRA. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, DEPART. DOLABELLA. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words; With fiery eyes, and contracted brows, He coined his face in the severest stamp; And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Aetna, In sounds scarce human--"Hence away for ever, Let her begone, the blot of my renown, And bane of all my hopes!" [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.] "Let her be driven, as far as men can think, From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre." CLEOPATRA. Oh, I can bear no more! DOLABELLA. Help, help!--O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch! What have I done! CHARMION. Help, chafe her temples, Iras. IRAS. Bend, bend her forward quickly. CHARMION. Heaven be praised, She comes again. CLEOPATRA. Oh, let him not approach me. Why have you brought me back to this loathed being; The abode of falsehood, violated vows, And injured love? For pity, let me go; For, if there be a place of long repose, I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord Can never break that quiet; nor awake The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb Such words as fright her hence.--Unkind, unkind! DOLABELLA. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak; [Kneeling.] That sure desires belief; I injured him: My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen How often he came back, and every time With something more obliging and more kind, To add to what he said; what dear farewells; How almost vanquished by his love he parted, And leaned to what unwillingly he left! I, traitor as I was, for love of you (But what can you not do, who made me false?) I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished criminal. CLEOPATRA. With how much ease believe we what we wish! Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty, I have contributed, and too much love Has made me guilty too. The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned, To call back fleeting love by jealousy; But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose, Than so ignobly trifle with his heart. DOLABELLA. I find your breast fenced round from human reach, Transparent as a rock of solid crystal; Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend, What endless treasure hast thou thrown away; And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence! CLEOPATRA. Could you not beg An hour's admittance to his private ear? Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds And yet foreknows no hospitable inn Is near to succour hunger, eats his fill, Before his painful march; So would I feed a while my famished eyes Before we part; for I have far to go, If death be far, and never must return. VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind VENTIDIUS. From hence you may discover--oh, sweet, sweet! Would you indeed? The pretty hand in earnest? DOLABELLA. I will, for this reward. [Takes her hand.] Draw it not back. 'Tis all I e'er will beg. VENTIDIUS. They turn upon us. OCTAVIA. What quick eyes has guilt! VENTIDIUS. Seem not to have observed them, and go on. [They enter.] DOLABELLA. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius? VENTIDIUS. No. I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman. DOLABELLA. Know you his business? VENTIDIUS. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar. DOLABELLA. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA.] OCTAVIA. Most glorious impudence! VENTIDIUS. She looked, methought, As she would say--Take your old man, Octavia; Thank you, I'm better here.-- Well, but what use Make we of this discovery? OCTAVIA. Let it die. VENTIDIUS. I pity Dolabella; but she's dangerous: Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms, To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery; And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, Unmarked of those that hear. Then she's so charming, Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, They bless her wanton eyes: Even I, who hate her, With a malignant joy behold such beauty; And, while I curse, desire it. Antony Must needs have some remains of passion still, Which may ferment into a worse relapse, If now not fully cured. I know, this minute, With Caesar he's endeavouring her peace. OCTAVIA. You have prevailed:--But for a further purpose [Walks off.] I'll prove how he will relish this discovery. What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: It must not, shall not be. VENTIDIUS. His guards appear. Let me begin, and you shall second me. Enter ANTONY ANTONY. Octavia, I was looking you, my love: What, are your letters ready? I have given My last instructions. OCTAVIA. Mine, my lord, are written. ANTONY. Ventidius. [Drawing him aside.] VENTIDIUS. My lord? ANTONY. A word in private.-- When saw you Dolabella? VENTIDIUS. Now, my lord, He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him. ANTONY. Speak softly.--'Twas by my command he went, To bear my last farewell. VENTIDIUS. It looked indeed [Aloud.] Like your farewell. ANTONY. More softly.--My farewell? What secret meaning have you in those words Of--My farewell? He did it by my order. VENTIDIUS. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose [Aloud.] You bid him do it with all gentleness, All kindness, and all--love. ANTONY. How she mourned, The poor forsaken creature! VENTIDIUS. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting As she did Caesar's, as she would another's, Were a new love to come. ANTONY. Thou dost belie her; [Aloud.] Most basely, and maliciously belie her. VENTIDIUS. I thought not to displease you; I have done. OCTAVIA. You seemed disturbed, my Lord. [Coming up.] ANTONY. A very trifle. Retire, my love. VENTIDIUS. It was indeed a trifle. He sent-- ANTONY. No more. Look how thou disobey'st me; [Angrily.] Thy life shall answer it. OCTAVIA. Then 'tis no trifle. VENTIDIUS. [to OCTAVIA.] 'Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it, As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret. ANTONY. She saw it! VENTIDIUS. Yes: She saw young Dolabella-- ANTONY. Young Dolabella! VENTIDIUS. Young, I think him young, And handsome too; and so do others think him. But what of that? He went by your command, Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message; For she received it graciously; she smiled; And then he grew familiar with her hand, Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; At last she took occasion to talk softly, And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; At which, he whispered kisses back on hers; And then she cried aloud--That constancy Should be rewarded. OCTAVIA. This I saw and heard. ANTONY. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw So playful with my friend? Not Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Even she, my lord. ANTONY. My Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Your Cleopatra; Dolabella's Cleopatra; every man's Cleopatra. ANTONY. Thou liest. VENTIDIUS. I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change? You know she's not much used to lonely nights. ANTONY. I'll think no more on't. I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.-- You needed not have gone this way, Octavia. What harms it you that Cleopatra's just? She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive: Urge it no further, love. OCTAVIA. Are you concerned, That she's found false? ANTONY. I should be, were it so; For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world Should tax my former choice, that I loved one Of so light note; but I forgive you both. VENTIDIUS. What has my age deserved, that you should think I would abuse your ears with perjury? If Heaven be true, she's false. ANTONY. Though heaven and earth Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted. VENTIDIUS. I'll bring you, then, a witness From hell, to prove her so.--Nay, go not back; [Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back.] For stay you must and shall. ALEXAS. What means my lord? VENTIDIUS. To make you do what most you hate,--speak truth. You are of Cleopatra's private counsel, Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; Are conscious of each nightly change she makes, And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon, Can tell what signs she passes through, what day. ALEXAS. My noble lord! VENTIDIUS. My most illustrious pander, No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, But a plain homespun truth, is what I ask. I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know, By your confession, what more passed betwixt them; How near the business draws to your employment; And when the happy hour. ANTONY. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it offend Or please Ventidius, care not: Justify Thy injured queen from malice: Dare his worst. OCTAVIA. [aside.] See how he gives him courage! how he fears To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, Willing to be misled! ALEXAS. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty, Urged by desert and greatness of the lover, So far, divine Octavia, may my queen Stand even excused to you for loving him Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ventidius, May her past actions hope a fair report. ANTONY. 'Tis well, and truly spoken: mark, Ventidius. ALEXAS. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion Stands not excused, but wholly justified. Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, To choose where she would reign: She thought a Roman only could deserve her, And, of all Romans, only Antony; And, to be less than wife to you, disdained Their lawful passion. ANTONY. 'Tis but truth. ALEXAS. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, Have drawn her from the due regard of honour, At last Heaven opened her unwilling eyes To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia, Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. The sad effects of this improsperous war Confirmed those pious thoughts. VENTIDIUS. [aside.] Oh, wheel you there? Observe him now; the man begins to mend, And talk substantial reason.--Fear not, eunuch; The emperor has given thee leave to speak. ALEXAS. Else had I never dared to offend his ears With what the last necessity has urged On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered. ANTONY. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not Pronounce that fatal word! OCTAVIA. Must I bear this? Good Heaven, afford me patience. [Aside.] VENTIDIUS. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half-man, proceed. ALEXAS. Yet Dolabella Has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord, Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, Rejected, as she is, by him she loved---- ANTONY. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more: Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes; Then join thou too, and help to torture her! [Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.] OCTAVIA. 'Tis not well. Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, To show this passion, this extreme concernment, For an abandoned, faithless prostitute. ANTONY. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered: Leave me, I say. OCTAVIA. My lord! ANTONY. I bid you leave me. Sie sind überzeugt von sich selbst. Sie verteidigen die Sache des anderen: Welchen Zeugen habt ihr dafür, dass ihr nur meine Eifersucht wecken wolltet? CLEOPATRA. Uns selbst und den Himmel. ANTONY. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship! You have no longer place in human breasts, These two have driven you out: Avoid my sight! I would not kill the man whom I have loved, And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: I do not know how long I can be tame; For, if I stay one minute more, to think How I am wronged, my justice and revenge Will cry so loud within me, that my pity Will not be heard for either. DOLABELLA. Heaven has but Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights To pardon erring man: Sweet mercy seems Its darling attribute, which limits justice; As if there were degrees in infinite, And infinite would rather want perfection Than punish to extent. ANTONY. I can forgive A foe; but not a mistress and a friend. Treason is there in its most horrid shape, Where trust is greatest; and the soul resigned, Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more; Hence from my sight for ever! CLEOPATRA. How? for ever! I cannot go one moment from your sight, And must I go for ever? My joys, my only joys, are centred here: What place have I to go to? My own kingdom? That I have lost for you: Or to the Romans? They hate me for your sake: Or must I wander The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, Banished for love of you; banished from you? Ay, there's the banishment! Oh, hear me; hear me, With strictest justice: For I beg no favour; And if I have offended you, then kill me, But do not banish me. ANTONY. I must not hear you. I have a fool within me takes your part; But honour stops my ears. CLEOPATRA. For pity hear me! Would you cast off a slave who followed you? Who crouched beneath your spurn?--He has no pity! See, if he gives one tear to my departure; One look, one kind farewell: O iron heart! Let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us, If he did ever love! ANTONY. No more: Alexas! DOLABELLA. A perjured villain! ANTONY. [to CLEOPATRA.] Your Alexas; yours. CLEOPATRA. Oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous design, To engage you in my love by jealousy. Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak. ANTONY. I have; I have. CLEOPATRA. And if he clear me not-- ANTONY. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! Watches your eye, to say or to unsay, Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved. CLEOPATRA. Then must we part? Farewell, my cruel lord! The appearance is against me; and I go, Unjustified, for ever from your sight. How I have loved, you know; how yet I love, My only comfort is, I know myself: I love you more, even now you are unkind, Then when you loved me most; so well, so truly I'll never strive against it; but die pleased, To think you once were mine. ANTONY. Good heaven, they weep at parting! Must I weep too? that calls them innocent. I must not weep; and yet I must, to think That I must not forgive.-- Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, Who made me so: Live from each other's sight: Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth, And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves: View nothing common but the sun and skies. Now, all take several ways; And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore; That you were false, and I could trust no more. [Exeunt severally.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Cleopatra nähert sich Dolabella und er schmeichelt ihr. Cleopatra antwortet: "Du schmeichelst mir./Aber es ist die Schwäche deiner Nation: Alle in deinem Land/Sind Schmeichler und allesamt falsch." Als Dolabella beginnt, ihr die Nachrichten zu überbringen, fängt sie an, ihn zu verführen. "Manche Männer sind treu", sagt Dolabella, indem er darauf anspielt, dass er in seinen Gefühlen standhaft ist und ein treuerer Liebhaber wäre als Antonius. Dies frustriert Ventidius, der aus dem Zimmer flieht, um zu überlegen, wie er die Verführung stoppen kann. Von Emotionen überwältigt, erzählt Dolabella Cleopatra, dass Antonius harte Worte für sie hatte, woraufhin sie beinahe in Ohnmacht fällt. Er klärt schnell auf, dass er gelogen hat und Antonius nur freundliche Worte für sie übrig hatte. Dadurch enthüllt Cleopatra, dass sie seine Liebe durch ihre Sanftmut und den Versuch, Antonius eifersüchtig zu machen, eingeladen hat. Als Cleopatra um mehr Zeit mit Antonius bittet, betreten Ventidius und Octavia den Raum. Dolabella nimmt Cleopatras Hand und sagt dann Ventidius, dass er Antonius finden muss. Als Dolabella und Cleopatra den Raum verlassen, diskutieren Octavia und Ventidius darüber, dass Antonius immer noch zärtliche Gefühle für Cleopatra hat. Octavia ist über diese Erkenntnis verärgert und bereit, die Verbindung zu zerstören. Als Antonius eintritt, zieht er Ventidius beiseite und fragt nach Dolabellas Nachrichten. Ventidius deutet an, dass Cleopatra nicht besonders betrübt war, von seiner Abreise zu hören. Octavia schließt sich dem Gespräch an, um zu bestätigen, dass Dolabella und Cleopatra in dem Moment, als die Nachricht übertragen wurde, sehr vertraut schienen. Antonius glaubt ihnen nicht und beharrt darauf, dass sie so etwas nie tun würde. Als Alexas hereinkommt, fragt Ventidius ihn, ob Cleopatra und Dolabella eine Affäre haben, und er lügt und sagt, dass sie tatsächlich in Dolabella verliebt ist. Bestürzt darüber, dass Antonius seine Liebe zu Cleopatra nicht überwunden hat, schwört Octavia, ihn endgültig zu verlassen und nie zurückzukehren. "Du wirst von diesem Furor nicht länger gequält werden", sagt sie und verlässt ihn für immer. Antonius beklagt, dass er seine Gefühle für Cleopatra nicht verbergen konnte. Dolabella tritt ein und informiert Antonius: "Sie liebt dich, sogar bis zur Verrücktheit", bevor er ihm Cleopatra selbst präsentiert. Antonius beschuldigt sie beide des Verrats, und sie flehen ihn um Vergebung an. Cleopatra sagt ihm, dass sie nicht vorgeben konnte, Dolabella zu lieben, um ihn eifersüchtig zu machen. Trotzdem glaubt Antonius ihnen nicht und beklagt den Verrat sowohl eines Freundes als auch einer Geliebten.

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. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter King. King. I have sent to seek him and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him. He's lov'd of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes; And where 'tis so, th' offender's scourge is weigh'd, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev'd, Or not at all. Enter Rosencrantz. How now O What hath befall'n? Ros. Where the dead body is bestow'd, my lord, We cannot get from him. King. But where is he? Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure. King. Bring him before us. Ros. Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my lord. Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern [with Attendants]. King. Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius? Ham. At supper. King. At supper? Where? Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service- two dishes, but to one table. That's the end. King. Alas, alas! Ham. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. King. What dost thou mean by this? Ham. Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. King. Where is Polonius? Ham. In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there, seek him i' th' other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stair, into the lobby. King. Go seek him there. [To Attendants.] Ham. He will stay till you come. [Exeunt Attendants.] King. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,- Which we do tender as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done,- must send thee hence With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself. The bark is ready and the wind at help, Th' associates tend, and everything is bent For England. Ham. For England? King. Ay, Hamlet. Ham. Good. King. So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes. Ham. I see a cherub that sees them. But come, for England! Farewell, dear mother. King. Thy loving father, Hamlet. Ham. My mother! Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England! Exit. King. Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard. Delay it not; I'll have him hence to-night. Away! for everything is seal'd and done That else leans on th' affair. Pray you make haste. Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern] And, England, if my love thou hold'st at aught,- As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us,- thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process, which imports at full, By letters congruing to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me. Till I know 'tis done, Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun. Exit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der König spricht zu einer Gruppe von Bediensteten und berichtet ihnen von Polonius' Tod und seinem Vorhaben, Hamlet nach England zu schicken. Rosencrantz und Guildenstern erscheinen mit Hamlet, der unter Arrest steht. Auf Drängen von Claudius, den Ort von Polonius' Leiche preiszugeben, verhält sich Hamlet abwechselnd albern, verschmitzt und clever, indem er sagt, dass Polonius von Würmern gefressen wird und dass der König einen Boten schicken könnte, um Polonius im Himmel zu finden oder ihn selbst in der Hölle suchen könnte. Schließlich enthüllt Hamlet, dass Polonius' Leiche unter der Treppe nahe der Schlosslobby liegt, und der König schickt seine Bediensteten dorthin, um nachzusehen. Der König sagt Hamlet, dass er sofort nach England aufbrechen muss, und Hamlet stimmt begeistert zu. Er geht ab und Claudius schickt Rosencrantz und Guildenstern, um sicherzustellen, dass er sofort auf das Schiff steigt. Allein mit seinen Gedanken äußert Claudius die Hoffnung, dass England den versiegelten Befehlen gehorchen wird, die er mit Rosencrantz und Guildenstern gesendet hat. Die Befehle besagen, dass Prinz Hamlet getötet werden soll.

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: He became aware that the furnace roar of the battle was growing louder. Great brown clouds had floated to the still heights of air before him. The noise, too, was approaching. The woods filtered men and the fields became dotted. As he rounded a hillock, he perceived that the roadway was now a crying mass of wagons, teams, and men. From the heaving tangle issued exhortations, commands, imprecations. Fear was sweeping it all along. The cracking whips bit and horses plunged and tugged. The white-topped wagons strained and stumbled in their exertions like fat sheep. The youth felt comforted in a measure by this sight. They were all retreating. Perhaps, then, he was not so bad after all. He seated himself and watched the terror-stricken wagons. They fled like soft, ungainly animals. All the roarers and lashers served to help him to magnify the dangers and horrors of the engagement that he might try to prove to himself that the thing with which men could charge him was in truth a symmetrical act. There was an amount of pleasure to him in watching the wild march of this vindication. Presently the calm head of a forward-going column of infantry appeared in the road. It came swiftly on. Avoiding the obstructions gave it the sinuous movement of a serpent. The men at the head butted mules with their musket stocks. They prodded teamsters indifferent to all howls. The men forced their way through parts of the dense mass by strength. The blunt head of the column pushed. The raving teamsters swore many strange oaths. The commands to make way had the ring of a great importance in them. The men were going forward to the heart of the din. They were to confront the eager rush of the enemy. They felt the pride of their onward movement when the remainder of the army seemed trying to dribble down this road. They tumbled teams about with a fine feeling that it was no matter so long as their column got to the front in time. This importance made their faces grave and stern. And the backs of the officers were very rigid. As the youth looked at them the black weight of his woe returned to him. He felt that he was regarding a procession of chosen beings. The separation was as great to him as if they had marched with weapons of flame and banners of sunlight. He could never be like them. He could have wept in his longings. He searched about in his mind for an adequate malediction for the indefinite cause, the thing upon which men turn the words of final blame. It--whatever it was--was responsible for him, he said. There lay the fault. The haste of the column to reach the battle seemed to the forlorn young man to be something much finer than stout fighting. Heroes, he thought, could find excuses in that long seething lane. They could retire with perfect self-respect and make excuses to the stars. He wondered what those men had eaten that they could be in such haste to force their way to grim chances of death. As he watched his envy grew until he thought that he wished to change lives with one of them. He would have liked to have used a tremendous force, he said, throw off himself and become a better. Swift pictures of himself, apart, yet in himself, came to him--a blue desperate figure leading lurid charges with one knee forward and a broken blade high--a blue, determined figure standing before a crimson and steel assault, getting calmly killed on a high place before the eyes of all. He thought of the magnificent pathos of his dead body. These thoughts uplifted him. He felt the quiver of war desire. In his ears, he heard the ring of victory. He knew the frenzy of a rapid successful charge. The music of the trampling feet, the sharp voices, the clanking arms of the column near him made him soar on the red wings of war. For a few moments he was sublime. He thought that he was about to start for the front. Indeed, he saw a picture of himself, dust-stained, haggard, panting, flying to the front at the proper moment to seize and throttle the dark, leering witch of calamity. Then the difficulties of the thing began to drag at him. He hesitated, balancing awkwardly on one foot. He had no rifle; he could not fight with his hands, said he resentfully to his plan. Well, rifles could be had for the picking. They were extraordinarily profuse. Also, he continued, it would be a miracle if he found his regiment. Well, he could fight with any regiment. He started forward slowly. He stepped as if he expected to tread upon some explosive thing. Doubts and he were struggling. He would truly be a worm if any of his comrades should see him returning thus, the marks of his flight upon him. There was a reply that the intent fighters did not care for what happened rearward saving that no hostile bayonets appeared there. In the battle-blur his face would, in a way be hidden, like the face of a cowled man. But then he said that his tireless fate would bring forth, when the strife lulled for a moment, a man to ask of him an explanation. In imagination he felt the scrutiny of his companions as he painfully labored through some lies. Eventually, his courage expended itself upon these objections. The debates drained him of his fire. He was not cast down by this defeat of his plan, for, upon studying the affair carefully, he could not but admit that the objections were very formidable. Furthermore, various ailments had begun to cry out. In their presence he could not persist in flying high with the wings of war; they rendered it almost impossible for him to see himself in a heroic light. He tumbled headlong. He discovered that he had a scorching thirst. His face was so dry and grimy that he thought he could feel his skin crackle. Each bone of his body had an ache in it, and seemingly threatened to break with each movement. His feet were like two sores. Also, his body was calling for food. It was more powerful than a direct hunger. There was a dull, weight like feeling in his stomach, and, when he tried to walk, his head swayed and he tottered. He could not see with distinctness. Small patches of green mist floated before his vision. While he had been tossed by many emotions, he had not been aware of ailments. Now they beset him and made clamor. As he was at last compelled to pay attention to them, his capacity for self-hate was multiplied. In despair, he declared that he was not like those others. He now conceded it to be impossible that he should ever become a hero. He was a craven loon. Those pictures of glory were piteous things. He groaned from his heart and went staggering off. A certain mothlike quality within him kept him in the vicinity of the battle. He had a great desire to see, and to get news. He wished to know who was winning. He told himself that, despite his unprecedented suffering, he had never lost his greed for a victory, yet, he said, in a half-apologetic manner to his conscience, he could not but know that a defeat for the army this time might mean many favorable things for him. The blows of the enemy would splinter regiments into fragments. Thus, many men of courage, he considered, would be obliged to desert the colors and scurry like chickens. He would appear as one of them. They would be sullen brothers in distress, and he could then easily believe he had not run any farther or faster than they. And if he himself could believe in his virtuous perfection, he conceived that there would be small trouble in convincing all others. He said, as if in excuse for this hope, that previously the army had encountered great defeats and in a few months had shaken off all blood and tradition of them, emerging as bright and valiant as a new one; thrusting out of sight the memory of disaster, and appearing with the valor and confidence of unconquered legions. The shrilling voices of the people at home would pipe dismally for a time, but various generals were usually compelled to listen to these ditties. He of course felt no compunctions for proposing a general as a sacrifice. He could not tell who the chosen for the barbs might be, so he could center no direct sympathy upon him. The people were afar and he did not conceive public opinion to be accurate at long range. It was quite probable they would hit the wrong man who, after he had recovered from his amazement would perhaps spend the rest of his days in writing replies to the songs of his alleged failure. It would be very unfortunate, no doubt, but in this case a general was of no consequence to the youth. In a defeat there would be a roundabout vindication of himself. He thought it would prove, in a manner, that he had fled early because of his superior powers of perception. A serious prophet upon predicting a flood should be the first man to climb a tree. This would demonstrate that he was indeed a seer. A moral vindication was regarded by the youth as a very important thing. Without salve, he could not, he thought, wear the sore badge of his dishonor through life. With his heart continually assuring him that he was despicable, he could not exist without making it, through his actions, apparent to all men. If the army had gone gloriously on he would be lost. If the din meant that now his army's flags were tilted forward he was a condemned wretch. He would be compelled to doom himself to isolation. If the men were advancing, their indifferent feet were trampling upon his chances for a successful life. As these thoughts went rapidly through his mind, he turned upon them and tried to thrust them away. He denounced himself as a villain. He said that he was the most unutterably selfish man in existence. His mind pictured the soldiers who would place their defiant bodies before the spear of the yelling battle fiend, and as he saw their dripping corpses on an imagined field, he said that he was their murderer. Again he thought that he wished he was dead. He believed that he envied a corpse. Thinking of the slain, he achieved a great contempt for some of them, as if they were guilty for thus becoming lifeless. They might have been killed by lucky chances, he said, before they had had opportunities to flee or before they had been really tested. Yet they would receive laurels from tradition. He cried out bitterly that their crowns were stolen and their robes of glorious memories were shams. However, he still said that it was a great pity he was not as they. A defeat of the army had suggested itself to him as a means of escape from the consequences of his fall. He considered, now, however, that it was useless to think of such a possibility. His education had been that success for that mighty blue machine was certain; that it would make victories as a contrivance turns out buttons. He presently discarded all his speculations in the other direction. He returned to the creed of soldiers. When he perceived again that it was not possible for the army to be defeated, he tried to bethink him of a fine tale which he could take back to his regiment, and with it turn the expected shafts of derision. But, as he mortally feared these shafts, it became impossible for him to invent a tale he felt he could trust. He experimented with many schemes, but threw them aside one by one as flimsy. He was quick to see vulnerable places in them all. Furthermore, he was much afraid that some arrow of scorn might lay him mentally low before he could raise his protecting tale. He imagined the whole regiment saying: "Where's Henry Fleming? He run, didn't 'e? Oh, my!" He recalled various persons who would be quite sure to leave him no peace about it. They would doubtless question him with sneers, and laugh at his stammering hesitation. In the next engagement they would try to keep watch of him to discover when he would run. Wherever he went in camp, he would encounter insolent and lingeringly cruel stares. As he imagined himself passing near a crowd of comrades, he could hear some one say, "There he goes!" Then, as if the heads were moved by one muscle, all the faces were turned toward him with wide, derisive grins. He seemed to hear some one make a humorous remark in a low tone. At it the others all crowed and cackled. He was a slang phrase. 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.

Das Getöse der Schlacht verwandelt sich in ein "Furnace Roar" und Henry kommt an eine Reihe von Soldaten und Wagen, die sich langsam die Straße entlangbewegen. Er beobachtet eine Kolonne Infanterie, die sich beeilt, das Schlachtfeld zu erreichen, und spürt, dass er eine Prozession von auserwählten Wesen betrachtet. Die begeisterten Soldaten verstärken Henrys Gefühle der Trostlosigkeit und unterstreichen, seiner Meinung nach, seine eigene Unzulänglichkeit. Er verspürt einen kurzen Anflug von gewaltsamer Begeisterung und ist beinahe bereit, sich selbst aufs Schlachtfeld zu begeben, redet sich aber schnell davon ab: Er hat kein Gewehr, er ist hungrig und durstig und sein Körper schmerzt. Dennoch hält er sich in der Nähe des Schlachtfeldes auf, in der Hoffnung, zu sehen, wer gewinnt. Er denkt, dass wenn seine Seite verliert, dies seine Handlungen teilweise rechtfertigen und die fast prophetische Wahrnehmungsfähigkeit beweisen wird, die ihn befähigt hat, diese Niederlage vorherzusagen. Er erleichtert sein Schuldgefühl, indem er bedenkt, dass seine Armee in der Vergangenheit jede Niederlage überwunden hat. Dennoch fühlt er sich zutiefst schuldig und bezeichnet sich selbst als schrecklichen Schurken und "den selbstsüchtigsten Menschen überhaupt". Henry glaubt nicht, dass die Soldaten in Blau die Schlacht verlieren können. Daher beschließt er, eine Geschichte zu erfinden, um seine Handlungen vor seinen Kameraden zu rechtfertigen, wenn sie ins Lager zurückkehren, damit sie ihn nicht verachten, wenn er sich ihnen wieder anschließt. Er ist jedoch nicht in der Lage, eine ausreichende Ausrede zu finden, und fürchtet, dass er dazu verurteilt ist, die Verachtung seiner Kameraden zu ertragen und dass sein Name zum Synonym für Feigheit 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: Unter gewissen Umständen gibt es wenige Stunden im Leben, die angenehmer sind als die Stunde, die der Zeremonie des Nachmittagstees gewidmet ist. Es gibt Umstände, in denen die Situation an sich delightful ist, ob du nun am Tee teilnimmst oder nicht - manche Menschen tun das natürlich nie. Die Personen, an die ich denke, die ich jetzt enthülle, boten eine bewundernswerte Kulisse für eine unschuldige Freizeitbeschäftigung. Die Utensilien des kleinen Festes waren auf dem Rasen eines alten englischen Landhauses platziert, mitten an einem prächtigen Sommer-Nachmittag. Ein Teil des Nachmittags war bereits vorbei, aber vieles lag noch vor uns, und das, was noch vor uns lag, war von feinster und seltenster Qualität. Die eigentliche Dämmerung würde erst in vielen Stunden eintreten, aber das Flutlicht des Sommers begann sich schon zurückzuziehen, die Luft war mild geworden und die Schatten lagen lang auf dem glatten, dichten Rasen. Sie verlängerten sich jedoch langsam, und die Szene drückte jenes Gefühl der noch kommenden Muße aus, das vielleicht die Hauptquelle des Genusses einer solchen Szene zu dieser Stunde ist. Von fünf Uhr bis acht Uhr ist an bestimmten Anlässen eine kleine Ewigkeit; aber bei einer solchen Gelegenheit konnte die Zeitspanne nur eine Ewigkeit des Vergnügens sein. Die daran beteiligten Personen genossen ihre Freude in aller Ruhe, und sie gehörten nicht dem Geschlecht an, das normalerweise die regelmäßigen Anhänger der erwähnten Zeremonie stellt. Die Schatten auf dem perfekten Rasen waren gerade und eckig; sie waren die Schatten eines alten Mannes, der in einem tiefen Korbstuhl in der Nähe des niedrigen Tisches, auf dem der Tee serviert worden war, saß, und der Schatten von zwei jüngeren Männern, die vor ihm hin und her schlenderten und sich dabei in unverbundenen Gesprächen befanden. Der alte Mann hatte seine Tasse in der Hand; es war eine ungewöhnlich große Tasse, von einem anderen Muster als der Rest des Sets und in leuchtenden Farben bemalt. Er leerte sie mit großer Umsicht und hielt sie lange Zeit dicht am Kinn mit dem Gesicht zum Haus. Seine Begleiter hatten entweder ihren Tee beendet oder waren gleichgültig gegenüber ihrem Privileg; sie rauchten Zigaretten, während sie weiterhin spazierten. Einer von ihnen sah von Zeit zu Zeit, während er vorbei ging, mit einer gewissen Aufmerksamkeit den älteren Herrn an, der, unwissend über die Beobachtung, seine Augen auf die reiche rote Vorderseite seines Anwesens richtete. Das Haus, das über den Rasen hinwegragte, war ein Bauwerk, das eine solche Betrachtung belohnen sollte und das charakteristischste Objekt in dem besonders englischen Bild darstellte, das ich zu skizzieren versuchte. Es stand auf einem kleinen Hügel oberhalb des Flusses - der Fluss war die Themse, etwa vierzig Meilen von London entfernt. Eine langgiebelige rote Ziegelsteinfront, deren Farbe von Zeit und Wetter allerlei malerische Spielchen getrieben hatte, nur um sie zu verbessern und zu veredeln, präsentierte auf dem Rasen ihre Flecken aus Efeu, ihre gruppierten Kamine, ihre von Ranken umrankten Fenster. Das Haus hatte einen Namen und eine Geschichte; der alte Herr, der seinen Tee trank, hätte sich gefreut, Ihnen diese Dinge zu erzählen: Wie es unter Eduard dem Sechsten erbaut worden war, Elisabeth I. eine Nacht lang Gastfreundschaft geboten hatte (deren königliche Person sich auf einem riesigen, prächtigen und furchterregend eckigen Bett ausgestreckt hatte, das immer noch die größte Ehre der Schlafzimmer darstellte), im englischen Bürgerkrieg stark in Mitleidenschaft gezogen und beschädigt worden war und dann, während der Restauration, repariert und erheblich vergrößert wurde; und wie es schließlich, nachdem es im 18. Jahrhundert umgebaut und entstellt worden war, in sorgsame Obhut eines schlauen amerikanischen Bankiers übergeben worden war, der es ursprünglich gekauft hatte, weil es (aufgrund von Umständen, die zu kompliziert sind, um sie darzulegen) zu einem Schnäppchen angeboten wurde: er hatte es mit viel Murren über seine Hässlichkeit, seine Antiquität und seine Unbequemlichkeit gekauft und sich nach zwanzig Jahren bewusst geworden war, dass er eine echte ästhetische Leidenschaft dafür entwickelt hatte, so dass er alle seine Punkte kannte und Ihnen genau sagen konnte, wo Sie stehen sollten, um sie in Kombination zu sehen, und genau die Stunde, zu der die Schatten seiner verschiedenen Vorsprünge, die so sanft auf das warme, ermüdende Mauerwerk fielen, die richtige Größe hatten. Außerdem konnte er, wie gesagt, die meisten aufeinanderfolgenden Besitzer und Bewohner aufzählen, von denen einige allgemein bekannt waren; er tat dies jedoch mit einer undemonstrativen Überzeugung, dass die jüngste Phase seines Schicksals nicht die geringste Ehre war. Die Vorderseite des Hauses, die den betreffenden Teil des Rasens überblickte, war nicht die Hauseingangsfront; diese lag in einem ganz anderen Viertel. Hier herrschte absolutes Privatleben und der weite Teppich aus Rasen, der den flachen Gipfel des Hügels bedeckte, schien nur die Verlängerung eines luxuriösen Innenraums zu sein. Die großen, stillen Eichen und Buchen warfen einen so dichten Schatten wie Samtvorhänge; und der Ort war wie ein Raum mit gepolsterten Sitzen, mit reichfarbigen Teppichen, mit Büchern und Papieren, die auf dem Rasen lagen, eingerichtet. Der Fluss war einige Entfernung entfernt; dort, wo das Gelände begann abzufallen, hörte der Rasen, im eigentlichen Sinne des Wortes, auf. Aber es war dennoch ein schöner Spaziergang ans Wasser hinunter. Der alte Herr am Teetisch, der vor dreißig Jahren aus Amerika gekommen war, hatte sein amerikanisches Aussehen an der Spitze seines Gepäcks mitgenommen; und er hatte es nicht nur mitgebracht, sondern er hatte es in bester Ordnung gehalten, so dass er es bei Bedarf mit vollstem Vertrauen wieder in sein eigenes Land hätte mitnehmen können. Gegenwärtig war er jedoch offensichtlich nicht wahrscheinlich, sich zu versetzen; seine Reisen waren vorbei und er nahm die Ruhe vor der großen Ruhe. Er hatte ein schmales, glatt rasiertes Gesicht mit gleichmäßig verteilten Gesichtszügen und einem Ausdruck gelassener Schärfe. Offensichtlich war dies ein Gesicht, in dem die Bandbreite der Darstellung nicht groß war, so dass der Ausdruck zufriedener Klugheit umso mehr als Verdienst angesehen werden konnte. Es schien zu sagen, dass er im Leben erfolgreich gewesen war, aber es schien auch zu sagen, dass sein Erfolg nicht exklusiv und missgünstig gewesen war, sondern viel von der Unbedenklichkeit des Misserfolgs hatte. Er hatte sicherlich viel Erfahrung mit Menschen gehabt, aber in dem leichten Lächeln, das auf seiner hageren, geräumigen Wange spielte und sein humorvolles Auge erhellte, lag eine fast ländliche Einfachheit, als er schließlich seine große Teetasse langsam und sorgfältig auf den Tisch legte. Er war ordentlich gekleidet in gut gebürstetem Schwarz; aber ein Tuch war auf seine Knie gefaltet, und seine Füße steckten in dicken "Vielleicht fühlt sich ja jemand für Sie", sagte der jüngere Mann und lachte. "Oh, ich hoffe, es wird immer jemand für mich fühlen! Fühlen Sie nicht für mich, Lord Warburton?" "Oh ja, sehr stark", sagte der Herr, der als Lord Warburton angesprochen wurde, prompt. "Ich muss sagen, Sie sehen wunderbar bequem aus." "Nun ja, ich denke, in den meisten Belangen bin ich das auch." Und der alte Mann schaute auf seinen grünen Schal hinunter und strich ihn glatt über seine Knie. "Tatsache ist, ich bin schon so viele Jahre bequem, dass ich mich wahrscheinlich so daran gewöhnt habe, dass ich es nicht einmal merke." "Ja, das ist das Ärgerliche an der Bequemlichkeit", sagte Lord Warburton. "Wir merken es nur, wenn wir unbequem sind." "Es scheint mir, wir sind ziemlich wählerisch", bemerkte sein Begleiter. "Oh ja, da besteht kein Zweifel, wir sind wählerisch", murmelte Lord Warburton. Und dann verharrten die drei Männer eine Weile in Stille; die beiden Jüngeren standen da und schauten auf den anderen hinab, der schon bald nach mehr Tee bat. "Ich denke, Sie wären sehr unglücklich mit diesem Schal", fuhr Lord Warburton fort, während sein Begleiter dem alten Mann erneut die Tasse füllte. "Oh nein, er muss den Schal haben!" rief der Herr im Samtanzug. "Kommen Sie bitte nicht auf solche Ideen." "Er gehört meiner Frau", sagte der alte Mann einfach. "Oh, wenn es aus sentimentalen Gründen ist -" Und Lord Warburton machte eine entschuldigende Geste. "Ich nehme an, wenn sie kommt, muss ich ihn ihr geben", fuhr der alte Mann fort. "Sie sollen bitte nichts dergleichen tun. Sie sollen ihn behalten und Ihre armen alten Beine bedecken." "Nun, Sie sollen meine Beine nicht verunglimpfen", sagte der alte Mann. "Ich denke, sie sind genauso gut wie Ihre." "Oh, Sie dürfen meine Beine ruhig verunglimpfen", antwortete ihm sein Sohn und reichte ihm den Tee. "Nun gut, wir sind beide lahme Enten; ich denke nicht, dass da ein großer Unterschied besteht." "Ich danke Ihnen sehr, dass Sie mich eine Ente genannt haben. Wie schmeckt Ihnen Ihr Tee?" "Nun, er ist eher heiß." "Das soll so sein." "Ach, da steckt sehr viel Verdienst dahinter", murmelte der alte Mann freundlich. "Er ist ein sehr guter Pfleger, Lord Warburton." "Ist er nicht etwas ungeschickt?", fragte sein Herr. "Oh nein, er ist nicht ungeschickt - in Anbetracht der Tatsache, dass er selbst ein Invalid ist. Er ist ein sehr guter Pfleger - für einen Krankenpfleger. Ich nenne ihn meinen Krankenpfleger, weil er selbst krank ist." "Ach, komm, Daddy!" rief der hässliche junge Mann. "Nun gut, du bist es; ich wünschte, du wärst es nicht. Aber ich nehme an, du kannst nichts dafür." "Ich könnte es versuchen: das ist eine Idee", sagte der junge Mann. "Bist du jemals krank gewesen, Lord Warburton?", fragte sein Vater. Lord Warburton überlegte einen Moment. "Ja, Sir, einmal, im Persischen Golf." "Er macht sich über dich lustig, Daddy", sagte der andere junge Mann. "Das ist eine Art von Witz." "Nun ja, es scheint heutzutage so viele Arten zu geben", antwortete Daddy gelassen. "Du siehst jedenfalls nicht so aus, als wärst du krank gewesen, Lord Warburton." "Er ist vom Leben krank; er hat es mir gerade erzählt; redete furchtbar darüber", sagte Lord Warburtons Freund. "Ist das wahr, Sir?", fragte der alte Mann ernsthaft. "Wenn dem so ist, hat Ihr Sohn mir keinen Trost gegeben. Er ist ein elender Kerl zum Reden - ein richtiger Zyniker. Es scheint, als ob er an nichts glaubt." "Das ist eine andere Art von Witz", sagte die Person, die des Zynismus beschuldigt wurde. "Das liegt daran, dass sein Gesundheitszustand so schlecht ist", erklärte sein Vater Lord Warburton. "Es beeinflusst seinen Geist und färbt seine Sicht der Dinge. Er hat das Gefühl, als hätte er nie eine Chance gehabt. Aber es ist fast ausschließlich theoretisch, wissen Sie. Es scheint seine Stimmung kaum zu beeinflussen. Ich habe ihn kaum je gesehen, wenn er nicht gut gelaunt war - so wie jetzt. Er bringt mich oft auf andere Gedanken." Der so beschriebene junge Mann schaute Lord Warburton an und lachte. "Ist das eine überschwängliche Lobeshymne oder ein Vorwurf mangelnder Ernsthaftigkeit? Würden Sie es gerne sehen, wie ich meine Theorien umsetze, Daddy?" "Verdammt, da würden wir schon einige seltsame Dinge erleben!" rief Lord Warburton. "Ich hoffe, du hast nicht denselben Ton angeschlagen", sagte der alte Mann. "Lord Warburtons Ton ist schlimmer als meiner; er gibt sich gelangweilt. Ich bin ganz und gar nicht gelangweilt; ich finde das Leben nur allzu interessant." "Ach, zu interessant; du solltest nicht zulassen, dass es so ist, weißt du!" "Ich bin nie gelangweilt, wenn ich hierher komme", sagte Lord Warburton. "Man bekommt hier ungewöhnlich gute Gespräche." "Ist das wieder eine andere Art von Witz?", fragte der alte Mann. "Man sollte überhaupt nirgendwo Langeweile haben. Als ich in deinem Alter war, hatte ich noch nie von so etwas gehört." "Du musst dich erst spät entwickelt haben." "Nein, ich habe mich sehr früh entwickelt; das war genau der Grund. Als ich zwanzig Jahre alt war, war ich wirklich sehr weit entwickelt. Ich habe wie verrückt gearbeitet. Du wärst auch nicht gelangweilt, wenn du etwas zu tun hättest; aber ihr jungen Männer seid zu faul. Ihr denkt zu viel an euer Vergnügen. Ihr seid zu wählerisch und zu träge und zu reich." "Oh, sag mal", rief Lord Warburton, "du bist wohl nicht gerade der geeignete Mensch, um einen Mitmenschen der Überreichheit zu beschuldigen!" "Meinst du wegen meiner Banktätigkeit?", fragte der alte Mann. "Wegen dessen, wenn du möchtest; und weil du - hast du nicht? - so unbegrenzte Mittel hast." "Er ist nicht sehr reich", plädierte der andere junge Mann gnädigerweise. "Er hat viel Geld gespendet." "Nun, ich nehme an, es war sein eigenes Geld", sagte Lord Warburton, "und in diesem Fall könnte es einen besseren Beweis für Reichtum geben? Lass einen öffentlichen Wohltäter nicht über seine Vorliebe für Vergnügen sprechen." "Papa ist sehr an dem Vergnügen anderer Leute interessiert." Der alte Mann schüttelte den Kopf. "Ich behaupte nicht, dass ich irgendetwas zum Vergnügen meiner Zeitgenossen beigetragen habe." "Mein lieber Vater, du bist zu bescheiden!" "Das ist eine Art von Witz, Sir", sagte Lord Warburton. "Ihr jungen Männer habt zu viele Witze. Wenn es keine Witze gibt, habt ihr nichts mehr." "Zum Glück gibt es immer noch mehr Witze", bemerkte der hässliche junge Mann. "Ich glaube das nicht - ich glaube, die Dinge werden ernster. Das werdet ihr jungen Männer noch feststellen." "Die zunehmende Ernsthaftigkeit der Dinge, das ist dann die große Chance für Witze." "Sie werden grausam sein", sagte der alte Mann. "Ich bin überzeugt, es wird große Veränderungen geben, und nicht alles wird zum Besseren sein." "Ich stimme Ihnen vollkommen zu, Sir", erklärte Lord Warburton. "Ich bin sehr sicher, dass es große Veränderungen geben wird und dass allerlei seltsame Dinge Sein Sohn brach in Gelächter aus. "Er wird denken, dass du das als Provokation meinst! Mein lieber Vater, du hast dreißig Jahre lang mit den Engländern gelebt und viele ihrer Ausdrücke übernommen. Aber du hast nie gelernt, was sie nicht sagen!" "Ich sage, was ich will", erwiderte der alte Mann mit vollkommener Gelassenheit. "Ich habe die Ehre, Ihre Nichte kennenzulernen", sagte Lord Warburton. "Ich glaube, das ist das erste Mal, dass ich von ihr höre." "Sie ist eine Nichte meiner Frau; Mrs. Touchett bringt sie nach England." Dann erklärte der junge Mr. Touchett. "Meine Mutter, wissen Sie, hat den Winter in Amerika verbracht und wir erwarten sie zurück. Sie schreibt, dass sie eine Nichte entdeckt hat und sie eingeladen hat, mit ihr zu kommen." "Ich verstehe - sehr nett von ihr", sagte Lord Warburton. "Ist die junge Dame interessant?" "Wir wissen kaum mehr über sie als Sie; meine Mutter ist nicht ins Detail gegangen. Sie kommuniziert hauptsächlich über Telegramme mit uns und ihre Telegramme sind ziemlich undurchsichtig. Man sagt Frauen könnten nicht wissen, wie man sie schreibt, aber meine Mutter hat die Kunst der Kürze vollkommen gemeistert. 'Müde von Amerika, schrecklich heiß, kehre mit Nichte nach England zurück, erstes Schiff, anständige Kabine.' So lauten die Nachrichten, die wir von ihr bekommen - das war die letzte, die kam. Aber davor gab es eine andere, in der ich glaube, die erste Erwähnung der Nichte stand. 'Hotel gewechselt, sehr schlecht, frecher Angestellter, Adresse hier. Nichte meiner Schwester mitgenommen, die letztes Jahr gestorben ist, geht nach Europa, zwei Schwestern, völlig unabhängig.' Über das haben mein Vater und ich fast aufgehört, uns den Kopf zu zerbrechen; es scheint so viele Interpretationsmöglichkeiten zu lassen." "Eines ist darin sehr klar", sagte der alte Mann, "sie hat dem Hotel-Angestellten die Leviten gelesen." "Da bin ich mir nicht einmal sicher, seitdem er sie vom Platz vertrieben hat. Wir haben zuerst gedacht, dass der erwähnte Schwester nur die Schwester des Angestellten sein könnte; aber die anschließende Erwähnung einer Nichte scheint zu beweisen, dass sich die Anspielung auf eine meiner Tanten bezieht. Dann gab es die Frage, wem die beiden anderen Schwestern gehören; es handelt sich wahrscheinlich um zwei Töchter meiner verstorbenen Tante. Aber wer ist 'völlig unabhängig', und in welchem Sinn wird der Ausdruck verwendet? - das ist noch nicht geklärt. Bezieht sich der Ausdruck insbesondere auf die junge Dame, die meine Mutter adoptiert hat, oder charakterisiert er ihre Schwestern gleichermaßen? Und wird er in moralischer oder finanzieller Hinsicht verwendet? Bedeutet es, dass sie wohlhabend zurückgelassen wurde oder dass sie keine Verpflichtungen eingehen möchte? Oder bedeutet es einfach, dass sie ihren eigenen Weg gehen will?" "Was immer es sonst noch bedeuten mag, es wird sicherlich auch das bedeuten", bemerkte Mr. Touchett. "Sie werden es selbst sehen", sagte Lord Warburton. "Wann kommt Mrs. Touchett an?" "Wir sind völlig im Dunkeln; sobald sie eine anständige Kabine findet. Es könnte sein, dass sie noch darauf wartet; andererseits könnte sie schon in England angelandet sein." "In diesem Fall hätte sie wahrscheinlich an Sie telegrafiert." "Sie telegrafiert nie, wenn man es erwartet - nur wenn man es nicht tut", sagte der alte Mann. "Sie kommt gerne unerwartet vorbei; sie denkt, dass sie mich dabei erwischt, etwas falsch zu machen. Bisher ist sie mir nie begegnet, aber sie lässt sich nicht entmutigen." "Es ist ihr Anteil am Familiennaturell, von dem sie spricht." Ihr Sohn schätzte dies positiver ein. "Was auch immer der Stolz dieser jungen Damen sein mag, ihrer Mutter kommt er gleich. Sie tut gerne alles selbst und hat keinen Glauben an die Hilfe anderer. Sie hält mich für genauso nutzlos wie eine Briefmarke ohne Gummi und würde es mir nie verzeihen, wenn ich es wagen sollte, nach Liverpool zu ihr zu fahren." "Können Sie mich zumindest wissen lassen, wann Ihre Cousine ankommt?" fragte Lord Warburton. "Nur unter der Bedingung, die ich genannt habe - dass Sie sich nicht in sie verlieben!" antwortete Mr. Touchett. "Das finde ich hart, finden Sie etwa, dass ich nicht gut genug bin?" "Ich finde Sie zu gut - denn ich würde es nicht gerne sehen, wenn sie Sie heiratet. Sie ist nicht hierher gekommen, um einen Ehemann zu suchen, hoffe ich; so viele junge Damen tun das, als gäbe es keine guten in der Heimat. Außerdem ist sie wahrscheinlich verlobt; amerikanische Mädchen sind normalerweise verlobt, glaube ich. Außerdem bin ich mir überhaupt nicht sicher, dass Sie ein bemerkenswerter Ehemann wären." "Sehr wahrscheinlich ist sie verlobt; ich habe viele amerikanische Mädchen gekannt und sie waren immer verlobt; aber ich konnte wirklich nicht sehen, dass es einen Unterschied machte, bei Gott! Was meinen guten Ehemann angeht", fuhr Mr. Touchetts Besucher fort, "daran bin ich mir ebenfalls nicht sicher. Man kann es aber versuchen!" "Versuchen Sie es so viel Sie wollen, aber nicht bei meiner Nichte", lächelte der alte Mann, der der Idee breit humorvoll entgegenstand. "Ach, nun gut, vielleicht ist sie ja auch nicht der Mühe wert, es zu versuchen!" "Ja, der Ältere - der da sitzt", sagte Ralph. Das Mädchen lachte. "Ich nehme an, es ist nicht der Andere. Wer ist der Andere?" "Er ist ein Freund von uns - Lord Warburton." "Oh, ich hoffte, es gäbe einen Lord; es ist genau wie in einem Roman!" Und dann, "Oh, du liebenswertes Wesen!" rief sie plötzlich aus, beugte sich hinunter und hob den kleinen Hund wieder auf. Sie blieb stehen, wo sie sich getroffen hatten, machte kein Angebot, auf Mr. Touchett zuzugehen oder mit ihm zu sprechen. Während sie dort stand, schlank und charmant, fragte sich ihr Gesprächspartner, ob sie erwartete, dass der alte Mann zu ihr kommt und ihr seine Aufwartung macht. Amerikanische Mädchen waren es gewohnt, viel Respekt zu bekommen, und es war angedeutet worden, dass dieses hier einen starken Willen hatte. Tatsächlich konnte Ralph das in ihrem Gesicht erkennen. "Willst du nicht zu meinem Vater kommen und ihn kennenlernen?", wagte er trotzdem zu fragen. "Er ist alt und gebrechlich - er verlässt seinen Stuhl nicht." "Oh, der arme Mann, es tut mir sehr leid!" rief das Mädchen sofort und kam sogleich näher. "Von Ihrer Mutter hatte ich den Eindruck, dass er ziemlich aktiv sei." Ralph Touchett schwieg einen Moment. "Sie hat ihn seit einem Jahr nicht mehr gesehen." "Nun, er hat einen schönen Platz zum Sitzen. Komm her, kleiner Hund." "Es ist ein lieblicher alter Ort", sagte der junge Mann und sah seitlich zu seiner Nachbarin. "Wie heißt er?" fragte sie und ihre Aufmerksamkeit richtete sich erneut auf den Terrier. "Der Name meines Vaters?" "Ja", sagte die junge Dame amüsiert, "aber sag ihm nicht, dass ich dich gefragt habe." Inzwischen waren sie an dem Ort angekommen, an dem der alte Herr Touchett saß, und er stand langsam von seinem Stuhl auf, um sich vorzustellen. "Meine Mutter ist angekommen", sagte Ralph, "und das hier ist Miss Archer." Der alte Mann legte seine beiden Hände auf ihre Schultern, schaute sie einen Moment voller Güte an und küsste sie galant. "Es ist mir eine große Freude, Sie hier zu sehen. Aber ich wünschte, Sie hätten uns die Gelegenheit gegeben, Sie zu empfangen." "Oh, wir wurden empfangen", sagte das Mädchen. "Es waren etwa ein Dutzend Bedienstete in der Halle. Und da war eine alte Frau, die uns am Tor verbeugte." "Das können wir besser machen - wenn wir vorher Bescheid bekommen!" Der alte Mann stand lächelnd da, rieb sich die Hände und schüttelte langsam den Kopf über sie. "Aber Mrs. Touchett mag keine Empfänge." "Sie ist direkt auf ihr Zimmer gegangen." "Ja, und hat sich eingeschlossen. Das macht sie immer. Nun, ich nehme an, ich werde sie nächste Woche sehen." Und Mr. Touchett nahm langsam seine frühere Haltung wieder ein. "Vorher", sagte Miss Archer. "Sie kommt zum Abendessen - um acht Uhr. Aber vergiss nicht viertel vor sieben", fügte sie mit einem Lächeln an Ralph gerichtet hinzu. "Was passiert viertel vor sieben?" "Ich werde meine Mutter sehen", sagte Ralph. "Ah, glücklicher Junge!" kommentierte der alte Mann. "Sie müssen sich hinsetzen - Sie müssen Tee trinken", sagte er zu der Nichte seiner Frau. "Sie haben mir sofort Tee auf meinem Zimmer gebracht, als ich angekommen bin", antwortete die junge Dame. "Es tut mir leid, dass es Ihnen gesundheitlich nicht gut geht", fügte sie hinzu und richtete ihre Augen auf ihren ehrwürdigen Gastgeber. "Oh, ich bin ein alter Mann, mein Lieber; es ist Zeit, dass ich alt bin. Aber es wird mir guttun, Sie hier zu haben." Sie hatte wieder um sich geschaut - auf den Rasen, die großen Bäume, die schilfbestandene, silbern schimmernde Themse, das schöne alte Haus; und während sie diese Umgebung in Augenschein nahm, hatte sie Platz für ihre Begleiter gemacht; eine umfassende Beobachtungsfähigkeit, die sich leicht bei einer jungen Frau vorstellen lässt, die offensichtlich sowohl intelligent als auch aufgeregt ist. Sie hatte sich gesetzt und den kleinen Hund beiseite gelegt; ihre weißen Hände lagen gefaltet in ihrem Schoß auf ihrem schwarzen Kleid; ihr Kopf war aufrecht, ihr Blick wach, ihre geschmeidige Gestalt drehte sich mühelos mal hierhin, mal dorthin, im Einklang mit der Aufmerksamkeit, mit der sie offensichtlich Eindrücke aufnahm. Ihre Eindrücke waren zahlreich und wurden alle in einem klaren, stillen Lächeln widergespiegelt. "Ich habe noch nie etwas so Schönes gesehen." "Es sieht sehr gut aus", sagte Mr. Touchett. "Ich weiß, wie es auf Sie wirkt. Das habe ich alles durchgemacht. Aber Sie sind selbst sehr schön", fügte er höflich hinzu, keineswegs roh-scherzhaft, und mit dem glücklichen Bewusstsein, dass ihm sein hohes Alter das Privileg gab, solche Dinge zu sagen - selbst gegenüber jungen Personen, die möglicherweise darüber erschrecken könnten. Inwieweit dieses junge Mädchen erschrocken war, lässt sich nicht genau messen; sie erhob sich jedoch sofort mit einer Röte, die keine Widerlegung war. "Oh ja, natürlich bin ich liebenswert!" entgegnete sie mit einem schnellen Lachen. "Wie alt ist Ihr Haus? Ist es elisabethanisch?" "Es ist aus der frühen Tudor-Zeit", sagte Ralph Touchett. Sie drehte sich zu ihm um und beobachtete sein Gesicht. "Frühe Tudor-Zeit? Wie herrlich! Und ich nehme an, es gibt noch viele andere." "Es gibt viele, die viel besser sind." "Sag das nicht, mein Sohn!" protestierte der alte Mann. "Es gibt nichts Besseres als dieses." "Ich habe auch ein sehr gutes Haus; ich denke, in mancher Hinsicht ist es sogar besser", sagte Lord Warburton, der bisher noch nicht gesprochen hatte, aber Miss Archer aufmerksam im Auge behalten hatte. Er neigte sich leicht vor, lächelte; er hatte einen ausgezeichneten Umgang mit Frauen. Das Mädchen schätzte das sofort; sie hatte nicht vergessen, dass er Lord Warburton war. "Ich würde es Ihnen sehr gerne zeigen", fügte er hinzu. "Glauben Sie ihm nicht", rief der alte Mann. "Schauen Sie es nicht an! Es ist eine elende alte Bruchbude - mit diesem hier nicht zu vergleichen." "Ich weiß nicht - ich kann es nicht beurteilen", sagte das Mädchen und lächelte Lord Warburton an. Für diese Diskussion hatte Ralph Touchett überhaupt kein Interesse; er stand mit den Händen in den Taschen da und sah sehr danach aus, als würde er gerne seine Unterhaltung mit seiner neu gefundenen Cousine fortsetzen. "Mögen Sie Hunde sehr?", fragte er, um das Gespräch zu beginnen. Er schien zu erkennen, dass es ein unbeholfener Anfang für einen klugen Mann war. "Ja, sehr gerne." "Sie müssen den Terrier behalten, wissen Sie", fuhr er immer noch unbeholfen fort. "Solange ich hier bin, werde ich ihn mit Freude behalten." "Hoffentlich ist das für eine lange Zeit." "Sie sind sehr freundlich. Ich weiß es nicht genau. Meine Tante muss das entscheiden." "Ich werde das mit ihr klären - um viertel vor sieben." Und Ralph sah wieder auf seine Uhr. "Ich bin froh, überhaupt hier zu sein", sagte das Mädchen. "Ich glaube nicht, dass Sie sich gerne festlegen lassen." "Oh doch; wenn sie so entschieden werden wie ich es mir wünsche." "Ich werde das so entscheiden, wie ich es möchte", sagte Ralph. "Es ist höchst unerklärlich, dass wir dich nie gekannt haben." "Ich war da - ihr musstet nur kommen und mich besuchen." "Da? Was meinst du Lord Warburton stand mit Ralph Touchett alleine da und sagte ihm kurz darauf: "Du wolltest vorhin meine Vorstellung von einer interessanten Frau sehen. Hier ist sie!" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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An einem Nachmittag unterhalten sich Herr Touchett und sein Sohn Ralph bei Tee mit Lord Warburton. Herr Touchett ist geschwächt und bleibt in seinem Stuhl sitzen. Er und Ralph beraten gerade Lord Warburton, sich für eine Frau zu interessieren. Lord Warburton sagt, dass er nicht daran interessiert ist, zu heiraten, bis er eine wirklich interessante Frau trifft. Herr Touchett warnt ihn dann davor, sich in Isabel Archer zu verlieben, der Nichte von Frau Touchett, die sie aus Amerika nach England bringt. Frau Touchett hat per Telegramm mitgeteilt, dass sie eine recht interessante und eigenständige junge Nichte mitbringt, aber das Telegramm verriet nichts weiter. Während die Männer über Isabel diskutieren, kommt sie zufällig aus dem Haus. Sie und ihre Tante sind gerade angekommen und Isabel bekommt ihren ersten Blick auf Gardencourt. Ralph geht, um sie zu treffen, und Isabel erklärt, dass Frau Touchett direkt in ihr Zimmer gegangen ist und zum Abendessen herunterkommen wird. Ralph führt seine Cousine zu Herrn Touchett und Lord Warburton. Herr Touchett hofft, dass Isabel lange bei ihnen bleiben wird, aber Isabel sagt, dass seine Frau das arrangieren müsse. Herr Touchett fragt sich, ob Isabel die Art von Person ist, die gerne alles für sie arrangiert hat. Isabel sagt ihm, dass sie tatsächlich sehr gerne ihre Freiheit hat und ihre Unabhängigkeit schätzt. Nachdem Lord Warburton Isabel einige Minuten lang im Gespräch beobachtet hat, sagt er Ralph, dass sie seine Vorstellung von einer sehr interessanten Frau 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: A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look. "Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?" "No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much." She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did." Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now."-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" "Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Harriet besucht Emma einige Tage später, um ein Geständnis abzulegen. Sie hat ein Paket mit Gegenständen dabei, die sie an Mr. Elton erinnern, darunter eine kleine Schachtel mit einem Pflaster, das dazu verwendet wurde, einen kleinen Schnitt von Mr. Elton zu bedecken. Harriet behauptet, dass sie nun damit fertig ist, sich über Mr. Elton Gedanken zu machen, und schwört, niemals zu heiraten, da die Person, die sie bevorzugt, ihr überlegen ist. Emma gibt Harriet etwas Hoffnung, dass sie diesen namenlosen Mann heiraten könnte.

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 heralds left their pricking up and down, Now ringen trumpets loud and clarion. There is no more to say, but east and west, In go the speares sadly in the rest, In goth the sharp spur into the side, There see men who can just and who can ride; There shiver shaftes upon shieldes thick, He feeleth through the heart-spone the prick; Up springen speares, twenty feet in height, Out go the swordes to the silver bright; The helms they to-hewn and to-shred; Out burst the blood with stern streames red. Chaucer. Morning arose in unclouded splendour, and ere the sun was much above the horizon, the idlest or the most eager of the spectators appeared on the common, moving to the lists as to a general centre, in order to secure a favourable situation for viewing the continuation of the expected games. The marshals and their attendants appeared next on the field, together with the heralds, for the purpose of receiving the names of the knights who intended to joust, with the side which each chose to espouse. This was a necessary precaution, in order to secure equality betwixt the two bodies who should be opposed to each other. According to due formality, the Disinherited Knight was to be considered as leader of the one body, while Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had been rated as having done second-best in the preceding day, was named first champion of the other band. Those who had concurred in the challenge adhered to his party of course, excepting only Ralph de Vipont, whom his fall had rendered unfit so soon to put on his armour. There was no want of distinguished and noble candidates to fill up the ranks on either side. In fact, although the general tournament, in which all knights fought at once, was more dangerous than single encounters, they were, nevertheless, more frequented and practised by the chivalry of the age. Many knights, who had not sufficient confidence in their own skill to defy a single adversary of high reputation, were, nevertheless, desirous of displaying their valour in the general combat, where they might meet others with whom they were more upon an equality. On the present occasion, about fifty knights were inscribed as desirous of combating upon each side, when the marshals declared that no more could be admitted, to the disappointment of several who were too late in preferring their claim to be included. About the hour of ten o'clock, the whole plain was crowded with horsemen, horsewomen, and foot-passengers, hastening to the tournament; and shortly after, a grand flourish of trumpets announced Prince John and his retinue, attended by many of those knights who meant to take share in the game, as well as others who had no such intention. About the same time arrived Cedric the Saxon, with the Lady Rowena, unattended, however, by Athelstane. This Saxon lord had arrayed his tall and strong person in armour, in order to take his place among the combatants; and, considerably to the surprise of Cedric, had chosen to enlist himself on the part of the Knight Templar. The Saxon, indeed, had remonstrated strongly with his friend upon the injudicious choice he had made of his party; but he had only received that sort of answer usually given by those who are more obstinate in following their own course, than strong in justifying it. His best, if not his only reason, for adhering to the party of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Athelstane had the prudence to keep to himself. Though his apathy of disposition prevented his taking any means to recommend himself to the Lady Rowena, he was, nevertheless, by no means insensible to her charms, and considered his union with her as a matter already fixed beyond doubt, by the assent of Cedric and her other friends. It had therefore been with smothered displeasure that the proud though indolent Lord of Coningsburgh beheld the victor of the preceding day select Rowena as the object of that honour which it became his privilege to confer. In order to punish him for a preference which seemed to interfere with his own suit, Athelstane, confident of his strength, and to whom his flatterers, at least, ascribed great skill in arms, had determined not only to deprive the Disinherited Knight of his powerful succour, but, if an opportunity should occur, to make him feel the weight of his battle-axe. De Bracy, and other knights attached to Prince John, in obedience to a hint from him, had joined the party of the challengers, John being desirous to secure, if possible, the victory to that side. On the other hand, many other knights, both English and Norman, natives and strangers, took part against the challengers, the more readily that the opposite band was to be led by so distinguished a champion as the Disinherited Knight had approved himself. As soon as Prince John observed that the destined Queen of the day had arrived upon the field, assuming that air of courtesy which sat well upon him when he was pleased to exhibit it, he rode forward to meet her, doffed his bonnet, and, alighting from his horse, assisted the Lady Rowena from her saddle, while his followers uncovered at the same time, and one of the most distinguished dismounted to hold her palfrey. "It is thus," said Prince John, "that we set the dutiful example of loyalty to the Queen of Love and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the throne which she must this day occupy.--Ladies," he said, "attend your Queen, as you wish in your turn to be distinguished by like honours." So saying, the Prince marshalled Rowena to the seat of honour opposite his own, while the fairest and most distinguished ladies present crowded after her to obtain places as near as possible to their temporary sovereign. No sooner was Rowena seated, than a burst of music, half-drowned by the shouts of the multitude, greeted her new dignity. Meantime, the sun shone fierce and bright upon the polished arms of the knights of either side, who crowded the opposite extremities of the lists, and held eager conference together concerning the best mode of arranging their line of battle, and supporting the conflict. The heralds then proclaimed silence until the laws of the tourney should be rehearsed. These were calculated in some degree to abate the dangers of the day; a precaution the more necessary, as the conflict was to be maintained with sharp swords and pointed lances. The champions were therefore prohibited to thrust with the sword, and were confined to striking. A knight, it was announced, might use a mace or battle-axe at pleasure, but the dagger was a prohibited weapon. A knight unhorsed might renew the fight on foot with any other on the opposite side in the same predicament; but mounted horsemen were in that case forbidden to assail him. When any knight could force his antagonist to the extremity of the lists, so as to touch the palisade with his person or arms, such opponent was obliged to yield himself vanquished, and his armour and horse were placed at the disposal of the conqueror. A knight thus overcome was not permitted to take farther share in the combat. If any combatant was struck down, and unable to recover his feet, his squire or page might enter the lists, and drag his master out of the press; but in that case the knight was adjudged vanquished, and his arms and horse declared forfeited. The combat was to cease as soon as Prince John should throw down his leading staff, or truncheon; another precaution usually taken to prevent the unnecessary effusion of blood by the too long endurance of a sport so desperate. Any knight breaking the rules of the tournament, or otherwise transgressing the rules of honourable chivalry, was liable to be stript of his arms, and, having his shield reversed to be placed in that posture astride upon the bars of the palisade, and exposed to public derision, in punishment of his unknightly conduct. Having announced these precautions, the heralds concluded with an exhortation to each good knight to do his duty, and to merit favour from the Queen of Beauty and of Love. This proclamation having been made, the heralds withdrew to their stations. The knights, entering at either end of the lists in long procession, arranged themselves in a double file, precisely opposite to each other, the leader of each party being in the centre of the foremost rank, a post which he did not occupy until each had carefully marshalled the ranks of his party, and stationed every one in his place. It was a goodly, and at the same time an anxious, sight, to behold so many gallant champions, mounted bravely, and armed richly, stand ready prepared for an encounter so formidable, seated on their war-saddles like so many pillars of iron, and awaiting the signal of encounter with the same ardour as their generous steeds, which, by neighing and pawing the ground, gave signal of their impatience. As yet the knights held their long lances upright, their bright points glancing to the sun, and the streamers with which they were decorated fluttering over the plumage of the helmets. Thus they remained while the marshals of the field surveyed their ranks with the utmost exactness, lest either party had more or fewer than the appointed number. The tale was found exactly complete. The marshals then withdrew from the lists, and William de Wyvil, with a voice of thunder, pronounced the signal words--"Laissez aller!" The trumpets sounded as he spoke--the spears of the champions were at once lowered and placed in the rests--the spurs were dashed into the flanks of the horses, and the two foremost ranks of either party rushed upon each other in full gallop, and met in the middle of the lists with a shock, the sound of which was heard at a mile's distance. The rear rank of each party advanced at a slower pace to sustain the defeated, and follow up the success of the victors of their party. The consequences of the encounter were not instantly seen, for the dust raised by the trampling of so many steeds darkened the air, and it was a minute ere the anxious spectator could see the fate of the encounter. When the fight became visible, half the knights on each side were dismounted, some by the dexterity of their adversary's lance,--some by the superior weight and strength of opponents, which had borne down both horse and man,--some lay stretched on earth as if never more to rise,--some had already gained their feet, and were closing hand to hand with those of their antagonists who were in the same predicament,--and several on both sides, who had received wounds by which they were disabled, were stopping their blood by their scarfs, and endeavouring to extricate themselves from the tumult. The mounted knights, whose lances had been almost all broken by the fury of the encounter, were now closely engaged with their swords, shouting their war-cries, and exchanging buffets, as if honour and life depended on the issue of the combat. The tumult was presently increased by the advance of the second rank on either side, which, acting as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their companions. The followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert shouted--"Ha! Beau-seant! Beau-seant! [20] "--For the Temple--For the Temple!" The opposite party shouted in answer--"Desdichado! Desdichado!"--which watch-word they took from the motto upon their leader's shield. The champions thus encountering each other with the utmost fury, and with alternate success, the tide of battle seemed to flow now toward the southern, now toward the northern extremity of the lists, as the one or the other party prevailed. Meantime the clang of the blows, and the shouts of the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling defenceless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armour of the combatants was now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that was beautiful and graceful in the martial array had disappeared, and what was now visible was only calculated to awake terror or compassion. Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the vulgar spectators, who are naturally attracted by sights of horror, but even the ladies of distinction who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with a thrilling interest certainly, but without a wish to withdraw their eyes from a sight so terrible. Here and there, indeed, a fair cheek might turn pale, or a faint scream might be heard, as a lover, a brother, or a husband, was struck from his horse. But, in general, the ladies around encouraged the combatants, not only by clapping their hands and waving their veils and kerchiefs, but even by exclaiming, "Brave lance! Good sword!" when any successful thrust or blow took place under their observation. Such being the interest taken by the fair sex in this bloody game, that of the men is the more easily understood. It showed itself in loud acclamations upon every change of fortune, while all eyes were so riveted on the lists, that the spectators seemed as if they themselves had dealt and received the blows which were there so freely bestowed. And between every pause was heard the voice of the heralds, exclaiming, "Fight on, brave knights! Man dies, but glory lives!--Fight on--death is better than defeat!--Fight on, brave knights!--for bright eyes behold your deeds!" Amid the varied fortunes of the combat, the eyes of all endeavoured to discover the leaders of each band, who, mingling in the thick of the fight, encouraged their companions both by voice and example. Both displayed great feats of gallantry, nor did either Bois-Guilbert or the Disinherited Knight find in the ranks opposed to them a champion who could be termed their unquestioned match. They repeatedly endeavoured to single out each other, spurred by mutual animosity, and aware that the fall of either leader might be considered as decisive of victory. Such, however, was the crowd and confusion, that, during the earlier part of the conflict, their efforts to meet were unavailing, and they were repeatedly separated by the eagerness of their followers, each of whom was anxious to win honour, by measuring his strength against the leader of the opposite party. But when the field became thin by the numbers on either side who had yielded themselves vanquished, had been compelled to the extremity of the lists, or been otherwise rendered incapable of continuing the strife, the Templar and the Disinherited Knight at length encountered hand to hand, with all the fury that mortal animosity, joined to rivalry of honour, could inspire. Such was the address of each in parrying and striking, that the spectators broke forth into a unanimous and involuntary shout, expressive of their delight and admiration. But at this moment the party of the Disinherited Knight had the worst; the gigantic arm of Front-de-Boeuf on the one flank, and the ponderous strength of Athelstane on the other, bearing down and dispersing those immediately exposed to them. Finding themselves freed from their immediate antagonists, it seems to have occurred to both these knights at the same instant, that they would render the most decisive advantage to their party, by aiding the Templar in his contest with his rival. Turning their horses, therefore, at the same moment, the Norman spurred against the Disinherited Knight on the one side, and the Saxon on the other. It was utterly impossible that the object of this unequal and unexpected assault could have sustained it, had he not been warned by a general cry from the spectators, who could not but take interest in one exposed to such disadvantage. "Beware! beware! Sir Disinherited!" was shouted so universally, that the knight became aware of his danger; and, striking a full blow at the Templar, he reined back his steed in the same moment, so as to escape the charge of Athelstane and Front-de-Boeuf. These knights, therefore, their aim being thus eluded, rushed from opposite sides betwixt the object of their attack and the Templar, almost running their horses against each other ere they could stop their career. Recovering their horses however, and wheeling them round, the whole three pursued their united purpose of bearing to the earth the Disinherited Knight. Nothing could have saved him, except the remarkable strength and activity of the noble horse which he had won on the preceding day. This stood him in the more stead, as the horse of Bois-Guilbert was wounded, and those of Front-de-Boeuf and Athelstane were both tired with the weight of their gigantic masters, clad in complete armour, and with the preceding exertions of the day. The masterly horsemanship of the Disinherited Knight, and the activity of the noble animal which he mounted, enabled him for a few minutes to keep at sword's point his three antagonists, turning and wheeling with the agility of a hawk upon the wing, keeping his enemies as far separate as he could, and rushing now against the one, now against the other, dealing sweeping blows with his sword, without waiting to receive those which were aimed at him in return. But although the lists rang with the applauses of his dexterity, it was evident that he must at last be overpowered; and the nobles around Prince John implored him with one voice to throw down his warder, and to save so brave a knight from the disgrace of being overcome by odds. "Not I, by the light of Heaven!" answered Prince John; "this same springald, who conceals his name, and despises our proffered hospitality, hath already gained one prize, and may now afford to let others have their turn." As he spoke thus, an unexpected incident changed the fortune of the day. There was among the ranks of the Disinherited Knight a champion in black armour, mounted on a black horse, large of size, tall, and to all appearance powerful and strong, like the rider by whom he was mounted. This knight, who bore on his shield no device of any kind, had hitherto evinced very little interest in the event of the fight, beating off with seeming ease those combatants who attacked him, but neither pursuing his advantages, nor himself assailing any one. In short, he had hitherto acted the part rather of a spectator than of a party in the tournament, a circumstance which procured him among the spectators the name of "Le Noir Faineant", or the Black Sluggard. At once this knight seemed to throw aside his apathy, when he discovered the leader of his party so hard bestead; for, setting spurs to his horse, which was quite fresh, he came to his assistance like a thunderbolt, exclaiming, in a voice like a trumpet-call, "Desdichado, to the rescue!" It was high time; for, while the Disinherited Knight was pressing upon the Templar, Front-de-Boeuf had got nigh to him with his uplifted sword; but ere the blow could descend, the Sable Knight dealt a stroke on his head, which, glancing from the polished helmet, lighted with violence scarcely abated on the "chamfron" of the steed, and Front-de-Boeuf rolled on the ground, both horse and man equally stunned by the fury of the blow. "Le Noir Faineant" then turned his horse upon Athelstane of Coningsburgh; and his own sword having been broken in his encounter with Front-de-Boeuf, he wrenched from the hand of the bulky Saxon the battle-axe which he wielded, and, like one familiar with the use of the weapon, bestowed him such a blow upon the crest, that Athelstane also lay senseless on the field. Having achieved this double feat, for which he was the more highly applauded that it was totally unexpected from him, the knight seemed to resume the sluggishness of his character, returning calmly to the northern extremity of the lists, leaving his leader to cope as he best could with Brian de Bois-Guilbert. This was no longer matter of so much difficulty as formerly. The Templars horse had bled much, and gave way under the shock of the Disinherited Knight's charge. Brian de Bois-Guilbert rolled on the field, encumbered with the stirrup, from which he was unable to draw his foot. His antagonist sprung from horseback, waved his fatal sword over the head of his adversary, and commanded him to yield himself; when Prince John, more moved by the Templars dangerous situation than he had been by that of his rival, saved him the mortification of confessing himself vanquished, by casting down his warder, and putting an end to the conflict. It was, indeed, only the relics and embers of the fight which continued to burn; for of the few knights who still continued in the lists, the greater part had, by tacit consent, forborne the conflict for some time, leaving it to be determined by the strife of the leaders. The squires, who had found it a matter of danger and difficulty to attend their masters during the engagement, now thronged into the lists to pay their dutiful attendance to the wounded, who were removed with the utmost care and attention to the neighbouring pavilions, or to the quarters prepared for them in the adjoining village. Thus ended the memorable field of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, one of the most gallantly contested tournaments of that age; for although only four knights, including one who was smothered by the heat of his armour, had died upon the field, yet upwards of thirty were desperately wounded, four or five of whom never recovered. Several more were disabled for life; and those who escaped best carried the marks of the conflict to the grave with them. Hence it is always mentioned in the old records, as the Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms of Ashby. It being now the duty of Prince John to name the knight who had done best, he determined that the honour of the day remained with the knight whom the popular voice had termed "Le Noir Faineant." It was pointed out to the Prince, in impeachment of this decree, that the victory had been in fact won by the Disinherited Knight, who, in the course of the day, had overcome six champions with his own hand, and who had finally unhorsed and struck down the leader of the opposite party. But Prince John adhered to his own opinion, on the ground that the Disinherited Knight and his party had lost the day, but for the powerful assistance of the Knight of the Black Armour, to whom, therefore, he persisted in awarding the prize. To the surprise of all present, however, the knight thus preferred was nowhere to be found. He had left the lists immediately when the conflict ceased, and had been observed by some spectators to move down one of the forest glades with the same slow pace and listless and indifferent manner which had procured him the epithet of the Black Sluggard. After he had been summoned twice by sound of trumpet, and proclamation of the heralds, it became necessary to name another to receive the honours which had been assigned to him. Prince John had now no further excuse for resisting the claim of the Disinherited Knight, whom, therefore, he named the champion of the day. Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered with broken armour and the bodies of slain and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists again conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John's throne. "Disinherited Knight," said Prince John, "since by that title only you will consent to be known to us, we a second time award to you the honours of this tournament, and announce to you your right to claim and receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of Honour which your valour has justly deserved." The Knight bowed low and gracefully, but returned no answer. While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their voices in proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor--while ladies waved their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks joined in a clamorous shout of exultation, the marshals conducted the Disinherited Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena. On the lower step of this throne the champion was made to kneel down. Indeed his whole action since the fight had ended, seemed rather to have been upon the impulse of those around him than from his own free will; and it was observed that he tottered as they guided him the second time across the lists. Rowena, descending from her station with a graceful and dignified step, was about to place the chaplet which she held in her hand upon the helmet of the champion, when the marshals exclaimed with one voice, "It must not be thus--his head must be bare." The knight muttered faintly a few words, which were lost in the hollow of his helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that his casque might not be removed. Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the marshals paid no attention to his expressions of reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting the laces of his casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt features of a young man of twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair hair. His countenance was as pale as death, and marked in one or two places with streaks of blood. Rowena hatte ihn kaum erblickt, als sie einen leisen Schrei ausstieß; doch sofort rief sie die Energie ihres Charakters herauf und zwang sich geradezu, fortzufahren, während ihr Körper noch vor heftiger Emotion bebte. Sie setzte die prächtige Krone, die als verdiente Belohnung für den Tag vorgesehen war, auf das gesenkte Haupt des Siegers und sprach mit klarer und deutlicher Stimme die Worte: "Ich schenke dir diese Krone, edler Ritter, als Lohn für den heutigen Siegermut." Hier hielt sie einen Moment inne und fügte dann entschlossen hinzu: "Und auf Stirnen, die es mehr verdienen, könnte ein Kranz der Ritterlichkeit niemals gelegt werden!" Der Ritter senkte den Kopf und küsste die Hand der lieblichen Herrscherin, von der seine Tapferkeit belohnt worden war, und ließ sich dann noch weiter nach vorne fallen und lag ihr zu Füßen. Es herrschte allgemeine Bestürzung. Cedric, der vor dem plötzlichen Erscheinen seines verbannten Sohnes sprachlos war, stürzte nun voran, als wollte er ihn von Rowena trennen. Doch das hatten die Feldmarschälle bereits getan, die die Ursache von Ivanhoes Ohnmacht erahnt hatten und schnell seine Rüstung gelöst hatten. Dabei fanden sie heraus, dass der Kopf einer Lanze seinen Brustpanzer durchdrungen und eine Wunde an seiner Seite verursacht hatte. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Am zweiten Tag des Turniers kämpfen alle Ritter auf einmal, anstatt in Einzelkämpfen. Auf jeder Seite gibt es fünfzig Ritter. Athelstane hat sich auf die Seite des Templer-Ritters eingeschrieben. Das liegt daran, dass er Rowena als seine zukünftige Braut betrachtet und den Entehrten Ritter bestrafen möchte, weil dieser sie am vorherigen Tag gewählt hat. Während des brutalen Kampfes versuchen der Entehrte Ritter und De Bois-Guilbert ständig, sich gegenseitig zu finden, jedoch ohne Erfolg. Schließlich liefern sie sich doch einen Zweikampf. De Bois-Guilbert wird von Front-de-Boeuf und Athelstane unterstützt. Der Entehrte Ritter kämpft mit großer Geschicklichkeit, scheint jedoch von den überlegenen Kräften, die ihm gegenüberstehen, überwältigt zu werden. Doch dann reitet ein Ritter in schwarzer Rüstung auf einem schwarzen Pferd vor, besiegt Front-de-Boeuf und Athelstane und zieht sich dann aus dem Kampf zurück. Der Entehrte Ritter wirft daraufhin De Bois-Guilbert ab, springt von seinem eigenen Pferd und fordert den gefallenen De Bois-Guilbert zur Aufgabe auf. Aber bevor De Bois-Guilbert antworten kann, unterbricht Prinz John das Geschehen. So endet der Tag. Vier Ritter sind tot, über dreißig schwer verwundet, einige von ihnen erholen sich nie oder sind fürs Leben geschädigt. Prinz John verleiht die Ehren des Tages dem Schwarzen Ritter, der jedoch nicht aufzufinden ist. Deshalb ernennt der Prinz stattdessen den Entehrten Ritter. Als der Ritter seinen Preis von Rowena empfangen will, wird sein Helm abgenommen und er sieht so blass wie der Tod aus. Er bricht zu ihren Füßen zusammen und es stellt sich heraus, dass er eine Wunde in der Seite hat. Cedric erkennt zum Entsetzen, dass der Ritter sein verbannter Sohn ist. Der Wettkampf zwischen Ivanhoe und De Bois-Guilbert ist nur einer der Konflikte zwischen gegensätzlichen Paaren in dem Roman. Der andere Hauptkonflikt besteht zwischen Prinz John und König Richard. Johns unsympathischer Charakter wurde bereits in Kapitel VII angedeutet, und diese Kapitel helfen nicht dabei, den negativen Eindruck zu zerstreuen.

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: Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression--"I despise you." "Go and do something splendid that will make her love you." Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn't love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl's 'No' had not spoiled his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt that he was ready to 'hide his stricken heart, and still toil on'. As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being. Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects--beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge--and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer. When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman. Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself... "She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?" That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity for 'going to the devil', as he once forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady. Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it, boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not expect miracles." I dare say you don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to own it. Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heart wouldn't ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end. As the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before him... "Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, "No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if that fails, why then..." Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she--and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious. "So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for her, I'm afraid," and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before. But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies. The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'. Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother. If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory. Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself, with a venerable air... "I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been through it all, and I can sympathize." With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously. While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the next found her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her. He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense. He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself. A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable love and longing... "Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!" I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place and make him happy. He did not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence. In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting. "I couldn't help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak quite naturally. "I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and..." He could not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words. "You needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back, but I dread the going home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right back, need you?" "Not if you want me, dear." "I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while." Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she wanted--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed. "Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone. The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden. The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it all--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!" With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than her usual success. At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits. The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying, "Little children, love one another." In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance. He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls. They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something... "You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious." "I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement. Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water. "How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence just then. "So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?" very tenderly. "Yes, Laurie," very low. Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake. 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.

Laurie nimmt Amys Vortrag zu Herzen und beschließt, dass er Jo dazu bringen kann, ihn zu respektieren, auch wenn er sie nicht dazu bringen kann, ihn zu lieben. Er fährt nach Wien, um mit einigen musikalischen Freunden zu arbeiten, und versucht sich ans Komponieren. Er hat wenig Erfolg und beschließt schließlich - nach dem Besuch einer der großen Opern Mozarts - dass "Talent kein Genie ist." Er fängt an, nach einer Art Beschäftigung zu suchen, obwohl er nicht arbeiten muss, um seinen Lebensunterhalt zu verdienen. In der Zwischenzeit pflegt er einen lebhaften Briefwechsel sowohl mit Jo als auch mit Amy. Laurie merkt bald, dass er Jo tatsächlich "vergisst", bis zu dem Punkt, dass er in sich selbst nach der Leidenschaft für sie suchen muss, die er einst hatte. In einem letzten Versuch, zu überprüfen, dass sie niemals seine sein wird, schreibt er ihr erneut und fragt, ob sie es in ihrem Herzen finden kann, ihn zu lieben. Ihre Antwort ist, dass sie sich ganz Beth widmet und das Wort "Liebe" von ihm nicht mehr hören möchte. Seine Gedanken wenden sich dann immer mehr Amy zu. Amy erhält schließlich den erwarteten Heiratsantrag von Fred - aber sie lehnt ab. Sie hat erkannt, dass Geld haben oder die "Königin der Gesellschaft" sein nicht wirklich ist, was sie will. Von da an schreiben sie und Laurie mehrere Briefe pro Woche, während Laurie darauf wartet, dass sie ihn bittet zu kommen. Als die Nachricht von Beths Tod kommt, packt er sofort seine Sachen und geht nach Velvey, um bei Amy zu sein. Es ist bald offensichtlich, dass sie sich verliebt haben. Laurie plant einen romantischen Abend, an dem er ihr seine Gefühle mitteilen wird, aber stattdessen flutschen ihm die Worte metaphorisch heraus, während sie rudern. Amy bemerkt, wie gut sie zusammen rudern, und Laurie fragt sie, ob sie immer im gleichen Boot mit ihm rudern wird. Natürlich lautet ihre Antwort "ja".

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 kämpften, wie tapfere Männer, lange und gut, sie stapelten den Boden mit Moslem-Leichen, sie eroberten - aber Bozzaris fiel, blutend aus jeder Ader. Seine wenigen überlebenden Kameraden sahen sein Lächeln, als ihr stolzes Hurra ertönte, und das rote Feld gewonnen war; dann sahen sie in seinem Tod seine Augenlider ruhig schließen, wie Blumen beim Sonnenuntergang." HALLECK. Die Sonne fand die Lenape am darauffolgenden Tag als eine Nation in Trauer. Die Geräusche des Kampfes waren vorbei, und sie hatten ihre jahrhundertealte Groll genährt und ihre jüngste Auseinandersetzung mit den Mengwe durch die Zerstörung einer ganzen Gemeinschaft gerächt. Die schwarze und dunstige Atmosphäre, die über dem Ort schwebte, wo die Huronen ihr Lager aufgeschlagen hatten, kündigte von selbst das Schicksal dieses wandernden Stammes an, während Hunderte von Raben, die über den kahlen Gipfeln der Berge kämpften oder in lärmenden Schwärmen über die weiten Waldgebiete flogen, eine schreckliche Richtung auf den Ort des Kampfes deuteten. Kurz gesagt, jedes Auge, das mit den Zeichen eines Grenzkrieges vertraut war, hätte leicht alle diese untrüglichen Beweise für die gnadenlosen Folgen verfolgen können, die eine indianische Rache mit sich bringt. Dennoch stieg die Sonne für die Lenape als eine Nation der Trauernden auf. Kein Jubelruf, kein Triumphgesang war zu hören, keine Freudenkundgebungen für ihren Sieg. Der letzte Streuner war von seiner grausamen Aufgabe zurückgekehrt, nur um sich von den schrecklichen Emblemen seines blutigen Rufes zu befreien und sich den Klagen seines Volkes als ein geschlagener Mensch anzuschließen. Stolz und Freude waren der Demut gewichen, und die wildeste der menschlichen Leidenschaften wurde bereits von den tiefsten und unmissverständlichsten Trauerbekundungen abgelöst. Die Hütten waren verlassen, aber eine breite Reihe ernster Gesichter umgab einen Ort in ihrer Nähe, wohin alles Lebendige sich begeben hatte und wo nun alles in tiefer und ehrfürchtiger Stille versammelt war. Obwohl Wesen jeder Rangstufe und Altersgruppe, beiderlei Geschlechts und aller Berufe sich vereint hatten, um diese atmende Mauer von Körpern zu bilden, waren sie von einer einzigen Emotion beeinflusst. Jedes Auge war auf das Zentrum dieses Rings gerichtet, das die Objekte von so großem und gemeinsamem Interesse enthielt. Sechs Delaware-Mädchen, mit ihren langen, dunklen, fließenden Haaren, die lose über ihre Brüste fielen, standen abseits und gaben nur dann ein Zeichen ihrer Existenz, wenn sie gelegentlich duftende Kräuter und Waldblumen auf einem Bett aus duftenden Pflanzen streuten, das unter einem Pall von indianischen Roben alles stützte, was von der feurigen, edelsinnigen und großzügigen Cora übrig geblieben war. Ihre Gestalt war in viele Hüllen der gleichen einfachen Herstellung gehüllt, und ihr Gesicht war für immer vor dem Blick der Menschen verdeckt. Zu ihren Füßen saß der verlassene Munro. Sein gealterter Kopf neigte sich fast zur Erde, im gezwungenen Gehorsam gegenüber dem Schlag des Schicksals; aber eine verborgene Anguish kämpfte um seine gefurchte Stirn, die nur teilweise von den nachlässigen grauen Strähnen verborgen war, die vernachlässigt auf seine Schläfen gefallen waren. Gamut stand an seiner Seite, sein sanftmütiger Kopf entblößt von den Strahlen der Sonne, während seine wandernden und besorgten Augen gleichmäßig zwischen dem kleinen Buch, das so viele seltsame, aber heilige Maximen enthielt, und dem Wesen, in dessen Namen seine Seele Trost zu spenden versuchte, geteilt schienen. Heyward war auch in der Nähe, stützte sich gegen einen Baum und bemühte sich, jene plötzlichen Aufwallungen von Kummer zu unterdrücken, die seine ganze Mannhaftigkeit erforderten, um sie niederzuhalten. Aber traurig und melancholisch wie diese Gruppe leicht vorgestellt werden kann, war sie bei weitem weniger berührend als eine andere, die den gegenüberliegenden Raum desselben Bereichs einnahm. So, wie im Leben, mit seinem Körper und seinen Gliedmaßen in ernster und anständiger Haltung, erschien Uncas, gekleidet in den prächtigsten Schmuckstücke, die der Reichtum des Stammes bieten konnte. Reiche Federn nickten über seinem Kopf; Perlen, Plaketten, Armbänder und Medaillen schmückten seinen Körper in Hülle und Fülle; obwohl sein stumpfes Auge und seine leblosen Züge die leere Geschichte seines Stolzes allzu deutlich widerlegten. Direkt vor dem Leichnam wurde Chingachgook ohne Waffen, Farbe oder Schmuck aller Art, außer dem leuchtend blauen Wappen seiner Rasse, das unauslöschlich auf seinem nackten Oberkörper eingeprägt war, platziert. Während der langen Zeit, in der der Stamm so gesammelt war, hatte der mohikanische Krieger einen festen, besorgten Blick auf das kalte und unbewusste Gesicht seines Sohnes gerichtet. So gebannt und intensiv war dieser Blick und so unveränderlich seine Haltung, dass ein Fremder den Lebenden nicht von den Toten hätte unterscheiden können, wenn nicht gelegentlich ein aufgeregter Geist über das dunkle Gesicht des einen huschte und die tödliche Ruhe, die sich für immer auf den Zügen des anderen niedergelassen hatte. Der Späher stand in der Nähe und lehnte sich in gedankenverlorenem Zustand auf seine eigene verhängnisvolle und rächende Waffe; während Tamenund, gestützt von den Ältesten seines Volkes, einen hohen Platz einnahm, von dem aus er auf die stumme und traurige Versammlung seines Volkes herabblicken konnte. Direkt am inneren Rand des Kreises stand ein Soldat in der militärischen Kleidung einer fremden Nation; und außerhalb befand sich sein Kriegspferd, im Zentrum einer Gruppe von berittenen Dienern, die offenbar bereit waren, eine entfernte Reise anzutreten. Die Gewänder des Fremden wiesen ihn als einen aus, der eine verantwortungsvolle Position in der Nähe des Kapitäns der Kanadas innehatte; und der, wie es scheinen mochte, nachdem seine Friedensmission durch die heftige Impulsivität seiner Verbündeten vereitelt worden war, bereit war, ein schweigender und trauriger Zuschauer der Früchte eines Kampfes zu werden, den er zu spät antizipieren konnte. Der Tag neigte sich dem Ende seines ersten Viertels zu, und doch hatte die Menge seit ihrem Morgengrauen ihre atmende Stille aufrechterhalten. Kein lauterer Ton als ein unterdrücktes Schluchzen war unter ihnen zu hören, kein Glied war in dieser langen und schmerzhaften Zeit bewegt worden, außer um die einfachen und berührenden Opfer darzubringen, die von Zeit zu Zeit zur Erinnerung an die Toten gemacht wurden. Die Geduld und das ruhige Ertragen der indianischen Standhaftigkeit konnten allein ein solches Aussehen der Vergegenwärtigung unterstützen, das nun allen dunklen und reglosen Gestalten in Stein verwandelt schien. Schließlich streckte der Weise der Delawares einen Arm aus und lehnte sich auf die Schultern seiner Begleiter, und mit einer Luft, die so schwach war, als ob bereits ein anderes Zeitalter zwischen dem Mann, der seinem Volk am Vortag begegnet war, und dem, der jetzt auf seinem erhabenen Standort taumelte, vergangen wäre. "Männer der Lenape!" sagte er mit hohlen Tönen, die wie eine Stimme klangen, die mit einer prophetischen Mission beladen war, "das Ein Mädchen, ausgewählt für die Aufgabe durch ihren Rang und ihre Qualifikationen, begann mit bescheidenen Andeutungen auf die Qualitäten des verstorbenen Kriegers und verzierte ihre Ausdrücke mit jenen orientalischen Bildern, die die Indianer wahrscheinlich von den äußersten Regionen des anderen Kontinents mitgebracht hatten und die an sich eine Verbindung zu den alten Geschichten der beiden Welten darstellen. Sie nannte ihn den "Panther seines Stammes" und beschrieb ihn als jemanden, dessen Mokassin keine Spuren auf dem Tau hinterließ, dessen Sprung dem eines jungen Rehs glich, dessen Auge heller war als ein Stern in der dunklen Nacht und dessen Stimme im Kampf so laut war wie der Donner des Manitou. Sie erinnerte ihn an die Mutter, die ihn geboren hatte, und betonte eindringlich das Glück, das sie haben müsse, einen solchen Sohn zu besitzen. Sie bat ihn, ihr zu berichten, wenn sie sich in der Geisterwelt wieder träfen, dass die Delaware-Mädchen Tränen über dem Grab ihres Kindes vergossen hätten und sie gesegnet nannten. Dann, wechselten diejenigen, die ihr folgten, ihren Ton zu einer milderen und noch zarteren Melodie und erwähnten, mit der Zartheit und Sensibilität einer Frau, das fremde Mädchen, das die obere Erde zu einer Zeit verlassen hatte, die so nahe an seiner eigenen Abreise lag, dass der Wille des Großen Geistes zu offensichtlich war, um ignoriert zu werden. Sie ermahnten ihn, freundlich zu ihr zu sein und Rücksicht auf ihre Unkenntnis jener Künste zu nehmen, die für das Wohl eines Kriegers wie ihm so notwendig waren. Sie sprachen von ihrer unvergleichlichen Schönheit und ihrer edlen Entschlossenheit, ohne den Hauch von Neid und wie Engel sich über eine herausragende Exzellenz freuen würden; sie fügten hinzu, dass diese Gaben mehr als jede kleine Unvollkommenheit in ihrer Erziehung wettmachen sollten. Danach sprachen andere, in der richtigen Reihenfolge, zu dem Mädchen selbst in der leisen, weichen Sprache der Zärtlichkeit und Liebe. Sie ermahnten sie, fröhlichen Mutes zu sein und keine Angst um ihr zukünftiges Wohlergehen zu haben. Ein Jäger würde ihr Begleiter sein, der wüsste, wie er selbst für ihre kleinsten Bedürfnisse sorgen konnte, und ein Krieger würde an ihrer Seite sein, der sie vor jeder Gefahr beschützen konnte. Sie versprachen, dass ihr Weg angenehm sein würde und ihre Last leicht. Sie warnten sie vor nutzlosen Bedauern über die Freunde ihrer Jugend und die Orte, an denen ihre Vorfahren gelebt hatten, und versicherten ihr, dass die "gesegneten Jagdgründe der Lenape" Täler ebenso angenehm, Flüsse ebenso rein und Blumen ebenso süß enthielten wie der "Himmel der Bleichgesichter". Sie rieten ihr, auf die Bedürfnisse ihres Begleiters zu achten und niemals die Unterscheidung zu vergessen, die der Manitou so weise zwischen ihnen festgelegt hatte. Dann sangen sie mit vereinten Stimmen in einem wilden Ausbruch ihres Gesanges von der Beschaffenheit des Gemüts des Mohikaners. Sie bezeichneten ihn als edel, männlich und großzügig; alles, was sich für einen Krieger geziemte und alles, was ein Mädchen lieben könnte. Indem sie ihre Ideen in den entferntesten und subtilsten Bildern kleideten, verrieten sie, dass sie in der kurzen Zeit ihres Zusammenseins mit der intuitiven Wahrnehmungsgabe ihres Geschlechts die abweichenden Neigungen seiner Neigungen entdeckt hatten. Die Delaware-Mädchen hatten keinen Gefallen in seinen Augen gefunden! Er stammte von einem Volk ab, das einst Herrscher an den Ufern des Salzsees gewesen war, und sein Wunsch hatte ihn wieder zu einem Volk geführt, das um die Gräber seiner Vorfahren lebte. Warum sollte eine solche Vorliebe nicht gefördert werden! Dass sie von einem Blut war, das reiner und reicher war als das der anderen ihres Volkes, hätte jeder erkennen können; dass sie den Gefahren und Herausforderungen eines Lebens im Wald gewachsen war, hatte ihr Verhalten bewiesen; und nun, fügten sie hinzu, hatte der "weise der Erde" sie an einen Ort verpflanzt, wo sie geistige Verwandtschaft finden und für immer glücklich sein würde. Dann, mit einem weiteren Übergang von Stimme und Thema, wurden Anspielungen auf die Jungfrau gemacht, die in der benachbarten Hütte weinte. Sie wurde mit Schneeflocken verglichen; so rein, so weiß, so strahlend und so anfällig für das Schmelzen in der Hitze des Sommers oder das Erstarren in den Frost des Winters. Sie zweifelten nicht daran, dass sie in den Augen des jungen Häuptlings liebenswert sei, dessen Haut und dessen Kummer so sehr ihrem eigenen ähnelten; aber obwohl sie diese Vorliebe nicht ausdrückten, war offensichtlich, dass sie sie für weniger ausgezeichnet hielten als die Maid, die sie betrauerten. Dennoch sollten ihr keine Lobpreisungen vorenthalten werden, die ihre außergewöhnlichen Reize angemessen beanspruchen könnten. Ihre Locken wurden mit den wuchernden Ranken der Rebe verglichen, ihr Auge mit dem blauen Gewölbe des Himmels und die makelloseste Wolke mit ihrem leuchtenden Sonnenschein wurde als weniger attraktiv denn ihre Blüte anerkannt. Während dieser und ähnlicher Lieder war nichts anderes zu hören als das Murmeln der Musik, das durch gelegentliche Ausbrüche von Trauer, die man als Chor der Musik bezeichnen könnte, erleichtert bzw. schrecklich gemacht wurde. Die Delaware-Mädchen selbst hörten wie bezauberte Männer zu, und es war sehr offensichtlich, durch ihre wechselnden Gesichtsausdrücke, wie tief und wahr ihre Sympathie war. Selbst David war nicht abgeneigt, seine Ohren den so süßen Klängen zu leihen, und lange bevor der Gesang endete, kündigte sein Blick an, dass seine Seele gefesselt war. Der Scout, der als Einziger aller Weißen die Worte verstand, ließ sich ein wenig von seiner meditativen Haltung ablenken und neigte sein Gesicht zur Seite, um ihre Bedeutung zu verstehen, als die Mädchen fortfuhren. Aber als sie von den zukünftigen Aussichten von Cora und Uncas sprachen, schüttelte er den Kopf wie einer, der den Irrtum ihres einfachen Glaubens kannte, und nahm seine zurückgelehnte Haltung wieder ein, die er bis zum Ende der Zeremonie - wenn man das eine Zeremonie nennen konnte, in der Gefühl so tief verwurzelt war - aufrechterhielt. Glücklicherweise kannten Heyward und Munro die Bedeutung der wilden Klänge, die sie hörten, nicht. Chingachgook war eine einsame Ausnahme vom Interesse, das der indianische Teil des Publikums zeigte. Sein Blick veränderte sich während der gesamten Szene nicht und keine Muskel bewegte sich in seiner steinernen Miene, auch nicht bei den wildesten oder ergreifendsten Teilen der Klage. Die kalten und bewusstlosen Überreste seines Sohnes waren alles für ihn, und jeder andere Sinn außer dem Sehsinn schien eingefroren zu sein, damit seine Augen ihren letzten Blick auf diese Gesichtszüge werfen konnten, die er so lange geliebt hatte und die nun für immer aus seinem Blickfeld verschwinden würden. In dieser Phase des Begräbnisrituals trat ein Krieger, der für seine Taten im Kampf und vor allem für seine Dienste im letzten Gefecht berühmt war, ein Mann von strengem und ernstem Wesen, langsam aus der Menge und stellte sich nahe dem Toten auf. "Warum hast du uns verlassen, Stolz der Wapanachki?", sagte er und richtete sich mit seinen Worten an die tauben Ohren von Uncas, als ob der leere Lehm die Fähigkeiten des lebendigen Mannes bewahrt hätte, "deine Zeit war wie die des Sonnenscheins in den Bäumen; dein Ruhm heller als sein Licht zur Mittagszeit. Du bist gegangen, junger Krieger, aber hundert Wyandots entfernen die Dornen aus deinem Weg in die Geisterwelt. Wer, der dich im Kampf gesehen hat, würde glauben, dass du sterben könntest? Wer hat Uttawa je den Weg in den Kampf gezeigt, bevor du ihm voraus warst? Deine Füße waren wie die Flügel von Adlern; dein Arm schwerer als herabfallende Äste von Kiefern; und deine Stim Dann wurde ein tiefer, dumpfer Klang gehört, ähnlich der gedämpften Begleitung entfernter Musik, der gerade hoch genug in der Luft anstieg, um hörbar zu sein, und dennoch so undeutlich, dass sein Charakter und der Ort, von dem er stammte, gleichermaßen Gegenstand von Vermutungen waren. Es wurde jedoch von einem weiteren und einem weiteren Ton abgelöst, jeder in einer höheren Tonart, bis sie dem Ohr zuwuchsen, zunächst in lang gezogenen und oft wiederholten Ausrufen und schließlich in Worten. Die Lippen von Chingachgook waren so weit geöffnet, dass sie ankündigten, dass es sich um das Klagelied des Vaters handelte. Obwohl kein Auge sich zu ihm wandte und keinerlei Anzeichen von Ungeduld gezeigt wurden, war es offensichtlich, wie die Menge ihre Köpfe hob, um zuzuhören, dass sie die Klänge mit einer intensiven Aufmerksamkeit aufnahmen, die nur Tamenund selbst je zuvor hatte fordern können. Aber sie hörten vergeblich. Die Melodien stiegen gerade so laut an, dass sie verständlich wurden, und wurden dann schwächer und zitternder, bis sie schließlich auf dem Ohr verklangen, als würden sie von einem vorbeiziehenden Windhauch fortgetragen. Die Lippen des Sagamore schlossen sich, und er blieb schweigend auf seinem Platz sitzen, sah mit seinem gebohrten Auge und seiner reglosen Gestalt wie eine Kreatur aus, die von der Allmacht aus der Hand genommen worden war, mit der Gestalt, aber ohne den Geist eines Mannes. Die Delawares, die durch diese Anzeichen wussten, dass der Geist ihres Freundes nicht auf eine so gewaltige Anstrengung der Standhaftigkeit vorbereitet war, entspannten ihre Aufmerksamkeit und schienen mit angeborenem Feingefühl all ihre Gedanken den Begräbnisfeierlichkeiten der fremden Jungfrau zu widmen. Ein Zeichen wurde von einem der älteren Häuptlinge gegeben, an die Frauen weitergegeben, die sich in dem Teil des Kreises drängten, in dem die Leiche von Cora lag. Gehorsam dem Zeichen hoben die Mädchen die Bahre bis zur Höhe ihrer Köpfe und schritten mit langsamen und kontrollierten Schritten voran und sangen dabei ein weiteres klagendes Lied zum Lob der Verstorbenen. Gamut, der ein genauer Beobachter der Riten war, die er für so heidnisch hielt, beugte nun den Kopf über die Schulter des bewusstlosen Vaters und flüsterte: "Sie bewegen sich mit den Überresten deines Kindes; sollen wir nicht folgen und sie mit christlicher Bestattung begraben?" Munro fuhr zusammen, als ob die letzte Posaune in seinem Ohr erschallt hätte, und nachdem er einen ängstlichen und gehetzten Blick um sich geworfen hatte, stand er auf und folgte einfach dem Zug, mit der Haltung eines Soldaten, aber mit der ganzen Last des Leidens eines Elternteils. Seine Freunde drängten sich um ihn herum mit einer Trauer, die zu stark war, um als Mitgefühl bezeichnet zu werden - sogar der junge Franzose schloss sich der Prozession an, mit der Haltung eines Mannes, der sich vom frühen und melancholischen Schicksal einer so schönen Frau berührt fühlte. Aber als sich die letzte und demütigste Frau des Stammes in der wilden und dennoch geordneten Aufstellung mit einreihte, verkleinerten die Männer der Lenape ihren Kreis und bildeten sich erneut um die Person von Uncas, so still, so ernst und so unbeweglich wie zuvor. Der Ort, der für das Grab von Cora ausgewählt worden war, war ein kleiner Hügel, wo eine Gruppe junger und gesunder Kiefern Wurzeln geschlagen hatte und eine schwermütige und angemessene Schattierung über dem Ort bildete. Als sie ihn erreichten, legten die Mädchen ihre Last ab und warteten viele Minuten lang geduldig und mit typischer Geduld und ursprünglicher Schüchternheit darauf, dass irgendein Zeichen darauf hinwies, dass diejenigen, deren Gefühle am meisten betroffen waren, mit der Anordnung zufrieden waren. Schließlich sagte der Fährtenleser, der als einziger ihre Gewohnheiten verstand, in ihrer eigenen Sprache: "Meine Töchter haben gut gehandelt, die Weißen danken ihnen." Mit dieser Aussage in ihrem Sinne zufrieden, begannen die Mädchen, den Körper in eine Schale zu legen, die geschickt und nicht ungeschickt aus der Rinde der Birke gefertigt war, und senkten ihn dann in seine dunkle und endgültige Ruhestätte. Die Zeremonie, die Überreste abzudecken und die Spuren der frischen Erde mit Blättern und anderen natürlichen und üblichen Objekten zu verbergen, erfolgte mit denselben einfachen und stillen Formen. Aber als die Bemühungen der gütigen Wesen, die diese traurigen und freundlichen Handlungen vollbracht hatten, soweit abgeschlossen waren, zögerten sie und zeigten damit, dass sie nicht wussten, wie viel weiter sie gehen könnten. In diesem Stadium der Riten wandte sich der Fährtenleser erneut an sie: "Meine jungen Frauen haben genug getan", sagte er, "der Geist eines Weißen braucht weder Nahrung noch Kleidung, ihr Geschenk entspricht dem Himmel ihrer Hautfarbe. Ich sehe", fügte er hinzu und warf einen Blick auf David, der sein Buch in einer Weise vorbereitete, die darauf hindeutete, dass er den Weg im heiligen Gesang führen wollte, "dass einer, der sich besser mit den christlichen Sitten auskennt, gleich sprechen wird." Die Frauen standen bescheiden beiseite und wurden von den Hauptakteuren der Szene zu den demütigen und aufmerksamen Beobachtern dessen, was folgte. Während David damit beschäftigt war, die frommen Gefühle seines Geistes auf diese Weise auszudrücken, entging ihnen kein Zeichen des Erstaunens und kein Blick der Ungeduld. Sie hörten wie diejenigen, die die Bedeutung der fremden Worte kannten, und schien zu fühlen, was sie vermitteln sollten: eine Mischung aus Trauer, Hoffnung und Resignation. Angeregt von der Szene, die er gerade erlebt hatte, und vielleicht beeinflusst von seinen eigenen geheimen Emotionen, übertraf der Meistersänger seine üblichen Anstrengungen. Seine volle, kräftige Stimme konnte sich im Vergleich zu den weichen Tönen der Mädchen durchaus behaupten; und seine modulierten Melodien besaßen zumindest für die Ohren derer, an die sie sich besonders richteten, die zusätzliche Kraft der Verständlichkeit. Er beendete das Lied, wie er es begonnen hatte, inmitten einer ernsten und feierlichen Stille. Als jedoch die abschließende Kadenz in den Ohren seiner Zuhörer verklungen war, verrieten die geheimen, ängstlichen Blicke der Augen und die allgemeine, allerdings unterdrückte Bewegung der Versammlung, dass von dem Vater der Verstorbenen etwas erwartet wurde. Munro schien zu spüren, dass die Zeit gekommen war, dass er die größte Anstrengung unternehmen musste, zu der die menschliche Natur vielleicht fähig ist. Er nahm die grauen Haare ab und schaute mit fester und gesammelter Miene auf die scheue und stille Menge um sich herum. Dann deutete er mit seiner Hand an, dass der Fährtenleser zuhören solle, und sagte: "Sage diesen freundlichen und gütigen Frauen, dass ein gebrochener und schwacher Mann ihnen seinen Dank ausspricht. Sage ihnen, dass das Wesen, das wir alle verehren, wenn auch unter verschiedenen Namen, sich ihrer Mildtätigkeit erinnern wird; und dass die Zeit nicht fern ist, in der wir uns ohne Unterschied des Geschlechts, des Ranges oder Aber das Band, das durch ihre gemeinsame Katastrophe die Gefühle dieser einfachen Bewohner des Waldes mit den Fremden verband, die sie so kurzzeitig besucht hatten, war nicht so leicht zu brechen. Jahre vergingen, bevor die überlieferte Geschichte der weißen Jungfrau und des jungen Kriegers der Mohikaner aufhörte, die langen Nächte und langweiligen Märsche zu bekömmen oder ihre jugendlichen und mutigen Geister mit einem Verlangen nach Rache zu erfüllen. Auch die Nebendarsteller in diesen bedeutenden Ereignissen wurden nicht vergessen. Durch den Scout, der in den Jahren danach als Bindeglied zwischen ihnen und dem zivilisierten Leben diente, erfuhren sie in Antwort auf ihre Anfragen, dass der "Graue Kopf" schnell zu seinen Vätern gebracht wurde - wie man irrigerweise glaubte, von seinen militärischen Missgeschicken niedergedrückt; und dass die "Offene Hand" seine überlebende Tochter weit in die Siedlungen der "Bleichgesichter" gebracht hatte, wo ihre Tränen schließlich aufhörten zu fließen und von strahlenden Lächeln abgelöst wurden, die besser zu ihrer fröhlichen Natur passten. Aber dies waren Ereignisse einer späteren Zeit als der, die unsere Geschichte betrifft. Verlassen von allen seines Volkes, kehrte Hawkeye an den Ort zurück, zu dem seine eigenen Sympathien ihn führten, mit einer Kraft, die keine ideale Verbindung bieten konnte. Er kam gerade rechtzeitig, um einen letzten Blick auf die Züge von Uncas zu erhaschen, den die Delawaren bereits in seine letzten Hautwesten eingeschlossen hatten. Sie hielten inne, um den sehnsuchtsvollen und verweilenden Blick des robusten Holzfällers zu ermöglichen, und als dieser zu Ende war, wurde der Körper eingewickelt, um nie wieder geöffnet zu werden. Dann folgte ein Zug wie der andere, und die ganze Nation sammelte sich um das vorübergehende Grab des Häuptlings - vorübergehend, weil es angemessen war, dass seine Knochen eines Tages zu denen seines eigenen Volkes ruhen sollten. Die Bewegung war wie das Gefühl gleichzeitig und allgemein. Der gleiche Grabausdruck des Kummers, die gleiche starre Stille und die gleiche Rücksicht auf den Haupttrauernden wurden beobachtet, wie bereits beschrieben. Der Körper wurde in einer Ruhestellung abgelegt, dem aufgehenden Sonnenlicht zugewandt, mit Kriegs- und Jagdwerkzeugen in Reichweite für die letzte Reise. Eine Öffnung wurde in die Hülle gelassen, durch die das Grab vor der Erde geschützt wurde, damit der Geist bei Bedarf mit seinem irdischen Behälter kommunizieren konnte; und das Ganze wurde vor dem Instinkt geschützt und vor den Raubtieren bewahrt, mit einer eigenen Finesse der Eingeborenen. Dann hörten die manuellen Rituale auf, und alle Anwesenden widmeten sich dem spirituelleren Teil der Zeremonien. Chingachgook wurde wieder zum Objekt der allgemeinen Aufmerksamkeit. Er hatte noch nicht gesprochen, und von einem so berühmten Häuptling wurde etwas tröstliches und lehrreiches erwartet. Bewusst der Wünsche des Volkes hob der strenge und selbstbeherrschte Krieger sein Gesicht, das zuletzt in seinem Umhang verborgen gewesen war, und schaute mit einem festen Blick um sich. Seine fest zusammengepressten und ausdrucksstarken Lippen trennten sich dann, und zum ersten Mal während der langen Zeremonien war seine Stimme deutlich hörbar. "Warum trauern meine Brüder?" sagte er und betrachtete die dunkle Gruppe gebeugter Krieger, die ihn umgaben. "Warum weinen meine Töchter? Dass ein junger Mann in die glücklichen Jagdgründe gegangen ist; dass ein Häuptling seine Zeit mit Ehre erfüllt hat! Er war gut; er war pflichtbewusst; er war tapfer. Wer kann das bestreiten? Der Manitou brauchte solch einen Krieger, und er hat ihn gerufen. Was mich betrifft, den Sohn und Vater von Uncas, ich bin eine Brandfurche in einer Lichtung der Bleichgesichter. Mein Volk ist von den Ufern des Salzsees und den Hügeln der Delawaren gegangen. Aber wer kann sagen, dass die Schlange seines Stammes seine Weisheit vergessen hat? Ich bin allein -" "Nein, nein", rief Hawkeye, der mit einem sehnsüchtigen Blick auf die regungslosen Züge seines Freundes geschaut hatte, mit einer gewissen Gelassenheit, aber dessen Philosophie nicht länger aushielt; "nein, Sagamore, nicht allein. Die Gaben unserer Farben mögen unterschiedlich sein, aber Gott hat uns so zusammengebracht, dass wir denselben Weg gehen. Ich habe keine Verwandten, und ich kann auch sagen, wie du, dass ich keine Leute habe. Er war dein Sohn, und von Natur aus ein Rothaut; und es mag sein, dass dein Blut näher war - aber wenn ich jemals den Jungen vergesse, der so oft an meiner Seite im Krieg gekämpft und an meiner Seite im Frieden geschlafen hat, möge derjenige, der uns alle geschaffen hat, egal welche Farbe oder welche Gaben wir haben, mich vergessen! Der Junge hat uns für eine Zeit verlassen; aber, Sagamore, du bist nicht allein." Chingachgook ergriff die Hand, die der Scout in der Wärme des Gefühls über die frische Erde ausgestreckt hatte, und in dieser freundschaftlichen Haltung senkten diese beiden robusten und unerschrockenen Waldbewohner ihre Köpfe, während brennende Tränen zu ihren Füßen fielen und das Grab von Uncas wie Regentropfen bewässerten, die vom Himmel fielen. Inmitten der schrecklichen Stille, mit der ein solcher Ausbruch von Gefühlen, der von den beiden berühmtesten Kriegern der Region kam, aufgenommen wurde, erhob Tamenund seine Stimme, um die Menge zu zerstreuen. "Es ist genug", sagte er. "Geht, Kinder der Lenape, der Zorn des Manitou ist noch nicht vorbei. Warum sollte Tamenund bleiben? Die Bleichgesichter sind die Herren der Erde, und die Zeit der Rothäute ist noch nicht wiedergekommen. Mein Tag war zu lang. Am Morgen sah ich die Söhne von Unamis glücklich und stark; und dennoch, bevor die Nacht kam, habe ich es erlebt, den letzten Krieger des weisen Volkes der Mohikaner zu sehen." Der nordamerikanische Krieger ließ sich die Haare am ganzen Körper herausreißen; nur ein kleines Büschel blieb auf der Oberseite seines Kopfes übrig, damit sein Feind es nutzen könnte, um ihm bei seinem Fall die Kopfhaut abzuziehen. Die Skalpierung war der einzige zulässige Siegestrophäe. Daher wurde es für wichtiger erachtet, den Skalp zu erlangen als den Mann zu töten. Einige Stämme legten großen Wert auf die Ehre, einen toten Körper zu schlagen. Diese Praktiken sind bei den Indianern der Atlantikstaaten fast vollständig verschwunden. Das Jagdhemd ist eine malerische Kittelschürze, die kürzer ist und mit Fransen und Quasten verziert ist. Die Farben sollen die Nuancen des Holzes nachahmen, um sich zu verstecken. Viele Korps amerikanischer Scharfschützen waren so gekleidet; und das Outfit ist eines der markantesten der modernen Zeit. Das Jagdhemd ist oft weiß. Das Gewehr der Armee ist kurz; das des Jägers ist immer lang. Der Mississippi. Der Aufklärer bezieht sich auf eine Tradition, die bei den Stämmen der Atlantikstaaten sehr beliebt ist. Der Nachweis ihrer asiatischen Herkunft wird aus den Umständen abgeleitet, obwohl große Unsicherheit über die gesamte Geschichte der Indianer besteht. Die Szene dieser Geschichte spielte sich im 42. Breitengrad ab, wo die Dämmerung nie lange andauert. Der Leser wird sich daran erinnern, dass New York ursprünglich eine Kolonie der Niederlande war. Die Hauptdörfer der Indianer werden von den Weißen in New York immer noch "Burgen" genannt. "Oneida Castle" ist nicht mehr als eine verstreute Ansiedlung; aber der Name ist allgemein bekannt. Im Vulgärsprech werden die Gewürze eines Gerichts vom Amerikaner als "Relish" bezeichnet, indem die Sache anstelle ihrer Wirkung verwendet wird. Diese regionalen Begriffe werden oft von den Sprechern entsprechend ihrer Position im Leben verwendet. Die meisten von ihnen werden lokal verwendet, andere hingegen sind ganz speziell für die jeweilige Gruppe von Menschen, zu denen die Figur gehört. Im vorliegenden Fall verwendet der Aufklärer das Wort in direktem Bezug auf das Salz, mit dem seine Gruppe so glücklich ausgestattet war. Die Glenn-Fälle befinden sich am Hudson, etwa vierzig oder fünfzig Meilen oberhalb des Staus, oder des Ortes, an dem dieser Fluss für Sloops schiffbar wird. Die Beschreibung dieses malerischen und bemerkenswerten kleinen Wasserfalls, wie sie der Aufklärer gibt, ist ausreichend korrekt, obwohl die Nutzung des Wassers für die Bedürfnisse des zivilisierten Lebens seine Schönheit beeinträchtigt hat. Die felsige Insel und die beiden Höhlen sind jedem Reisenden bekannt, da die erste einen Brückenpfeiler trägt, der jetzt über den Fluss unmittelbar über dem Wasserfall führt. Zur Erklärung von Hawkeyes Geschmack sollte man bedenken, dass die Menschen immer das meiste schätzen, was sie am wenigsten genießen. So werden in einem neuen Land die Wälder und andere Objekte, die in einem alten Land mit hohen Kosten erhalten würden, einfach mit dem Ziel, sie zu "verbessern", wie es genannt wird, beseitigt. Die Bedeutung der indianischen Wörter wird von der Betonung und den Tonlagen stark beeinflusst. "Mingo" war der Delaware-Begriff für die Fünf Nationen. "Maquas" war der Name, den die Niederländer ihnen gaben. Die Franzosen nannten sie seit ihrem ersten Kontakt mit ihnen die Irokesen. Es ist seit langem üblich, dass die Weißen wichtige Männer der Indianer durch die Überreichung von Medaillen zu gewinnen versuchen, die anstelle ihrer eigenen groben Schmuckstücke getragen werden. Diejenigen, die von den Engländern gegeben wurden, tragen im Allgemeinen das Bild des regierenden Königs, und diejenigen, die von den Amerikanern gegeben wurden, das des Präsidenten. Viele Tiere der amerikanischen Wälder suchen die Orte auf, an denen Salzquellen zu finden sind. Diese werden in der Landessprache "licks" oder "salt licks" genannt, weil das Vierbein oft gezwungen ist, die Erde abzulecken, um die Salzpartikel zu erhalten. Diese Licks sind beliebte Treffpunkte der Jäger, die ihr Spiel in der Nähe der Wege belauern, die zu ihnen führen. Die Szene der vorangegangenen Ereignisse liegt an dem Ort, an dem heute das Dorf Ballston steht; eines der beiden wichtigsten Kurorte Amerikas. Vor einigen Jahren war der Schriftsteller in der Nähe der Ruinen von Fort Oswego unterwegs, das an den Ufern des Ontariosees liegt. Sein Ziel waren Hirsche, und seine Jagd führte ihn durch einen Wald, der mit nur geringen Unterbrechungen fünfzig Meilen landeinwärts reichte. Unerwartet stieß er auf sechs oder acht Leitern, die im Wald in geringer Entfernung voneinander lagen. Sie waren grob gemacht und sehr verfallen. Er wunderte sich, was so viele dieser Instrumente an einem solchen Ort zusammengerufen haben könnte, und suchte einen nahegelegenen alten Mann nach einer Erklärung. Während des Krieges von 1776 wurde Fort Oswego von den Briten gehalten. Eine Expedition war zweihundert Meilen durch die Wildnis geschickt worden, um das Fort zu überraschen. Es scheint, dass die Amerikaner, als sie den benannten Ort erreichten, der sich nur eine oder zwei Meilen vom Fort entfernt befand, zum ersten Mal erfuhren, dass man sie erwartete und in großer Gefahr waren, abgeschnitten zu werden. Sie warfen ihre Sturmleitern weg und flohen schnell. Diese Leitern hatten dreißig Jahre lang unberührt an dem Ort gelegen, an dem sie so weggeworfen worden waren. Baron Dieskau, ein Deutscher im Dienst Frankreichs. Einige Jahre vor der Zeit der Erzählung wurde dieser Offizier von Sir William Johnson aus Johnstown, New York, an den Ufern des Lake George besiegt. Siehe Anhang, Notiz H. Offensichtlich der verstorbene De Witt Clinton, der 1828 Gouverneur von New York war. Die Fähigkeiten des amerikanischen Spottdrossels sind allgemein bekannt. Aber der echte Spottdrossel ist nicht so weit nördlich wie im Bundesstaat New York zu finden, wo er jedoch zwei weniger gute Alternativen hat; die Katzendrossel, die häufig vom Aufklärer erwähnt wird, und den volkstümlich als Bodenpflüger bezeichneten Vogel. Jeder dieser letzten beiden Vögel ist dem Nachtigall oder der Lerche überlegen, obwohl im Allgemeinen die amerikanischen Vögel weniger musikalisch sind als die europäischen. Die Schönheiten des Lake George sind jedem amerikanischen Touristen bekannt. In der Höhe der Berge, die ihn umgeben, und in den künstlichen Details steht er hinter den feinsten der Schweizer und italienischen Seen zurück, während er ihnen in Kontur und Reinheit des Wassers vollständig ebenbürtig ist; und in der Anzahl und Anordnung seiner Inseln und Inselchen ihnen allen überlegen ist. Es soll einige hundert Inseln in einem See von weniger als dreißig Meilen Länge geben. Die Engstellen, die, in Wahrheit, zwei Seen miteinander verbinden, sind so überfüllt mit Inseln, dass zwischen ihnen oft nur wenige Fuß breite Durchgänge bleiben. Der See selbst variiert in der Breite von eins bis drei Meilen. Der Bundesstaat New York ist bekannt für die Anzahl und Schönheit seiner Seen. Eine seiner Grenzen liegt an dem riesigen Ontariosee, während Champlain sich fast hundert Meilen an einer anderen erstreckt. Oneida, Cayuga, Canandaigua, Seneca und George sind alles Seen von dreißig Meilen Länge, während die kleineren Seen zahllos sind. An den meisten dieser Seen gibt es heute schöne Dörfer, und auf vielen von ihnen verkehren Dampfschiffe. Diese Reden der Tiere sind bei den Indianern häufig. Sie sprechen ihre Opfer oft auf diese Weise an und schelten sie wegen Feigheit oder loben ihre Der amerikanische Wald ermöglicht den Durchgang von Pferden, da es wenig Unterholz und nur wenige verwinkelte Dornen gibt. Die Taktik von Hawkeye ist diejenige, die sich in den Schlachten zwischen den Weißen und den Indianern immer als erfolgreich erwiesen hat. Wayne, in seiner berühmten Kampagne am Miami, stellte sich der Feuersalve seiner Feinde in Linie und ließ dann seine Dragoner seine Flanken umrunden, woraufhin die Indianer aus ihren Verstecken vertrieben wurden, bevor sie Zeit hatten, ihre Waffen nachzuladen. Einer der auffälligsten Häuptlinge, der in der Schlacht von Miami kämpfte, versicherte dem Verfasser, dass die Rothäute nicht gegen die Krieger mit "langen Messern und Lederstrümpfen" kämpfen konnten. Damit meinte er die Dragoner mit ihren Säbeln und Stiefeln. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Morgen trauern die Delawaren um ihre Toten. Munro hält Coras Körper fest und Chingachgook starrt betrübt auf seinen toten Sohn. Tamenund hält eine weise Rede und ein rituelles Singen ehrt die Toten. Die Mädchen aus Delaware singen, dass Uncas und Cora im glücklichen Jagdgrund zusammen sein werden, und Chingachgook singt das Lied eines Vaters für seinen gefallenen Sohn. Nachdem die Gruppe Cora begraben hat, bittet Munro Hawkeye, der die Sprache der Delawaren spricht, den Indianern zwei Hoffnungen zu überbringen: dass Gott die Freundlichkeit der Delawaren nicht vergessen wird und dass sie eines Tages an einem Ort zusammen sein werden, an dem Rasse und Hautfarbe keine Rolle spielen. Hawkeye erklärt jedoch, dass diese Gefühle unangemessen sind und bedankt sich einfach bei den Delawaren für ihre Tapferkeit. Die weißen Charaktere verlassen Hawkeye ohne ihn, und Uncas erhält gemäß dem Brauch der Delawaren eine würdige Beerdigung. Chingachgook beklagt, dass er nun allein ist, aber Hawkeye argumentiert, dass Uncas ihn nur für eine Zeit verlassen hat. Tamenund sagt, dass er den letzten Krieger der Rasse der Mohikaner leben sehen 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: From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,--I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she drop about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not long endure me under the same roof with her; for her glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rooted aversion. Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me as little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to desist, and ran from me tittering execrations, and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heard him in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how "that nasty Jane Eyre" had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly-- "Don't talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your sisters should associate with her." Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at all deliberating on my words-- "They are not fit to associate with me." Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of my crib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one syllable during the remainder of the day. "What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?" was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control. "What?" said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it. "My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead." Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast. November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately ringletted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bearing the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doated on this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, believing it to be happy likewise. Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me something by way of supper--a bun or a cheese-cake--then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, "Good night, Miss Jane." When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable knack of narrative; so, at least, I judge from the impression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion; but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas of principle or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall. It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning: Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet been summoned to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the vending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young lady all the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a handsome profit thereby. As to her money, she first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of interest--fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy. Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of which she had found a store in a drawer in the attic. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under- nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll's house furniture scattered there; an abrupt command from Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which the window was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass through which I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and petrified under the influence of a hard frost. From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road, and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. I watched it ascending the drive with indifference; carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the casement. The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window-sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery. "Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this morning?" I gave another tug before I answered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread: the sash yielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the cherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I replied-- "No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting." "Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing now? You look quite red, as if you had been about some mischief: what were you opening the window for?" I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the washstand, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; disciplined my head with a bristly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast-room. I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs. Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs. Reed's presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude. I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation; the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me; I _must_ enter. "Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. "What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?--a man or a woman?" The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at--a black pillar!--such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft by way of capital. Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words: "This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you." _He_, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, "Her size is small: what is her age?" "Ten years." "So much?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for some minutes. Presently he addressed me--"Your name, little girl?" "Jane Eyre, sir." In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim. "Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?" Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst." "Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;" and bending from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Reed's. "Come here," he said. I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth! "No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?" "They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer. "And what is hell? Can you tell me that?" "A pit full of fire." "And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?" "No, sir." "What must you do to avoid it?" I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: "I must keep in good health, and not die." "How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since,--a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is to be feared the same could not be said of you were you to be called hence." Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself far enough away. "I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of ever having been the occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress." "Wohltäterin! Wohltäterin!", sagte ich innerlich. "Sie nennen alle Mrs. Reed meine Wohltäterin; wenn das so ist, dann ist eine Wohltäterin eine unangenehme Sache." "Sagst du deine Gebete morgens und abends?", fuhr mein Fragesteller fort. "Ja, Sir." "Li "I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I." Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell freezingly on mine. "What more have you to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child. That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued-- "I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty." "How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?" "How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the _truth_. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back--roughly and violently thrust me back--into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating with distress, 'Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!' And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me--knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. _You_ are deceitful!" {How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth: p30.jpg} Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped- for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her face as if she would cry. "Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?" "No, Mrs. Reed." "Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to be your friend." "Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done." "Jane, you don't understand these things: children must be corrected for their faults." "Deceit is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice. "But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and now return to the nursery--there's a dear--and lie down a little." "I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here." "I will indeed send her to school soon," murmured Mrs. Reed _sotto voce_; and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment. I was left there alone--winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood awhile on the rug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang of remorse and the chill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet emblem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: the same ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead, would have represented as meetly my subsequent condition, when half-an-hour's silence and reflection had shown me the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness of my hated and hating position. Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed's pardon; but I knew, partly from experience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every turbulent impulse of my nature. I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce speaking; fain find nourishment for some less fiendish feeling than that of sombre indignation. I took a book--some Arabian tales; I sat down and endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of the subject; my own thoughts swam always between me and the page I had usually found fascinating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation which was quite sequestrated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, "onding on snaw," canopied all; thence flakes felt it intervals, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea without melting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over and over again, "What shall I do?--what shall I do?" All at once I heard a clear voice call, "Miss Jane! where are you? Come to lunch!" It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step came tripping down the path. "You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when you are called?" Bessie's presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transitory anger; and I _was_ disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just put my two arms round her and said, "Come, Bessie! don't scold." The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her. "You are a strange child, Miss Jane," she said, as she looked down at me; "a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I suppose?" I nodded. "And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?" "What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me." "Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder." "What! to get more knocks?" "Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that's certain. My mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one of her own to be in your place.--Now, come in, and I've some good news for you." "I don't think you have, Bessie." "Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers; for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with you." "Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go." "Na gut, ich werde es tun; aber sei ein sehr gutes Mädchen und hab keine Angst vor mir. Erschrick nicht, wenn ich zufällig etwas schärfer rede; das ist so ärgerlich." "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich je wieder Angst vor dir haben werde, Bessie, weil ich mich an dich gewöhnt habe und bald eine andere Gruppe von Menschen fürchten werde." "Wenn du sie fürchtest, werden sie dich nicht mögen." So wie du, Bessie?" "Ich mag dich nicht schlecht, Miss; ich glaube, ich mag dich mehr als alle anderen." "Das zeigst du nicht." "Du scharfes Ding! Du hast eine ganz neue Art zu sprechen. Was macht dich so risikofreudig und mutig?" "Nun, ich werde bald von dir weg sein, und außerdem" - ich wollte etwas über das erzählen, was zwischen mir und Mrs. Reed passiert war, aber nach reiflicher Überlegung hielt ich es für besser, in dieser Hinsicht zu schweigen. "Und du freust dich also, mich zu verlassen?" "Ganz und gar nicht, Bessie; tatsächlich bin ich im Moment eher traurig." "Im Moment! und eher! Wie kühl meine kleine Dame das sagt! Ich vermute, wenn ich dich jetzt um einen Kuss bitten würde, würdest du ihn mir nicht geben: du würdest sagen, dass du es _eher_ nicht tun würdest." "Ich werde dich küssen und willkommen heißen: Senk deinen Kopf." Bessie beugte sich hinunter; wir umarmten uns gegenseitig, und ich folgte ihr ins Haus, vollkommen getröstet. Dieser Nachmittag verging in Frieden und Harmonie; und abends erzählte mir Bessie einige ihrer zauberhaftesten Geschichten und sang mir einige ihrer süßesten Lieder. Sogar für mich hatte das Leben seine Sonnenstrahlen. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Nach ihrem Gespräch mit Mr. Lloyd erwartet Jane, dass sie bald zur Schule geschickt wird. Aber die einzige Veränderung, die Jane nach ihrer Erfahrung im Roten Zimmer bemerkt, ist, dass die Grenze zwischen Jane und den Reed-Kindern fester ist. Am 15. Januar, nach drei Monaten des Wartens auf eine Veränderung, wird Jane endlich ins Frühstückszimmer gerufen. Hier findet sie Mr. Brocklehurst auf sie wartend vor. Wie eine schwarze Säule stehend, befragt Mr. Brocklehurst Jane über die Hölle, Sünde und die Bibel. Tante Reeds schlimmste Vermutungen über ihren Charakter werden bestätigt, als Jane gegenüber Brocklehurst erklärt, dass die "Psalmen nicht interessant sind." Als letzten Stich gegen Jane erklärt Mrs. Reed, dass ihre Nichte eine Lügnerin ist, und Brocklehurst verspricht, die anderen Mitglieder der Schule auf Janes arglistige Natur aufmerksam zu machen. Jane empört sich über Mrs. Reeds Aussagen über ihren Charakter und als die beiden alleine sind, rächt sich Jane an ihrer Tante. Wütend und verletzt erklärt Jane, dass sie keine Lügnerin ist, dass sie froh ist, dass Mrs. Reed nicht mit ihr verwandt ist und schließlich, dass Mrs. Reed ein hartherziges Wesen ist. Jane empfindet ein Gefühl des Triumphs und der Verherrlichung, und Mrs. Reed verlässt das Zimmer beschämt. Das Kapitel endet mit einem Gespräch zwischen Jane und Bessie. Jane bittet Bessie, nett zu sein während ihrer letzten Tage in Gateshead. Bessie behauptet, dass sie Jane mehr mag als die Reed-Kinder und gesteht, dass sogar ihre Mutter bemerkt hat, wie oft Jane von den Reeds misshandelt wurde. Zur Feier ihrer neuen Freundschaft erzählt Bessie Jane einige ihrer bezauberndsten Geschichten und singt ihre süßesten Lieder.

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 9. Ein anderer Teil der Ebene Schallender Rückzug. Ruf. AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR, DIOMEDES und der Rest treten ein und marschieren. AGAMEMNON. Hört! Hört! Was ist das für ein Ruf? NESTOR. Stille, Trommeln! SOLDATEN. [Im Inneren] Achilles! Achilles! Hector ist getötet. Achilles! DIOMEDES. Das Gerücht besagt, Hector sei getötet, und zwar von Achilles. AJAX. Wenn dem so ist, lasst uns dennoch nicht prahlen; Großer Hector war ein ebenso guter Mann wie er. AGAMEMNON. Marschiert geduldig weiter. Lasst jemanden geschickt werden, Um Achilles zu bitten, uns in unserem Zelt zu sehen. Wenn uns die Götter in seinem Tod begünstigt haben; Großes Troja gehört uns, und unsere scharfen Kriege sind beendet. Abgang. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes und der Rest treten auf. Sie marschieren und rufen laut. Agamemnon fragt sich, worum es bei den Rufen geht. Nestor bringt die Trommler zum Schweigen. Die Soldaten beginnen den Gesang, dass Achilles Hector getötet hat. Diomedes sagt, Gerüchten zufolge hat Achilles Hector getötet. Ajax sagt, wenn das wirklich wahr ist, dann ohne vergebliches Prahlen, denn Hector war ein genauso großer Mann wie Achilles. Agamemnon bittet die anderen, leise weiterzumarschieren. Er bittet darum, dass jemand Achilles zu seinem Zelt rufen soll. Er sagt, dass wenn Hector tatsächlich gestorben ist und in seinem Tod die Götter auf der Seite der Griechen sind, Troja ihnen gehört und unsere blutigen Kriege beendet sind. Sie verlassen die Szene.

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 nächsten Tag, als sie aufstand, sah sie den Angestellten auf dem Platz. Sie hatte einen Morgenmantel an. Er sah auf und verbeugte sich. Sie nickte schnell und schloss das Fenster wieder. Leon wartete den ganzen Tag auf sechs Uhr abends, ging dann aber zum Gasthof und fand dort nur Monsieur Binet, der bereits am Tisch saß. Das Abendessen am Vortag war ein bedeutendes Ereignis für ihn gewesen; noch nie zuvor hatte er zwei Stunden lang ununterbrochen mit einer "Dame" gesprochen. Wie konnte er also die Anzahl an Dingen erklären, die er zuvor nicht so gut hätte sagen können? Normalerweise war er schüchtern und hielt sich zurück, was sowohl von Bescheidenheit als auch von Verstellung geprägt war. In Yonville galt er als "gut erzogen". Er hörte den Argumenten der älteren Menschen zu und schien nicht besonders politisch interessiert zu sein - etwas Ungewöhnliches für einen jungen Mann. Außerdem hatte er einige Fähigkeiten; er malte mit Wasserfarben, konnte den Violinschlüssel lesen und sprach gerne nach dem Abendessen über Literatur, wenn er nicht Karten spielte. Monsieur Homais respektierte ihn für seine Bildung; Madame Homais mochte ihn für seine Freundlichkeit, denn er nahm oft die kleinen Homais mit in den Garten - kleine Kinder, die immer schmutzig waren, stark verwöhnt und etwas lympha... But Madame Bovary, senior, cried out loudly against this name of a sinner. As to Monsieur Homais, he had a preference for all those that recalled some great man, an illustrious fact, or a generous idea, and it was on this system that he had baptized his four children. Thus Napoleon represented glory and Franklin liberty; Irma was perhaps a concession to romanticism, but Athalie was a homage to the greatest masterpiece of the French stage. For his philosophical convictions did not interfere with his artistic tastes; in him the thinker did not stifle the man of sentiment; he could make distinctions, make allowances for imagination and fanaticism. In this tragedy, for example, he found fault with the ideas, but admired the style; he detested the conception, but applauded all the details, and loathed the characters while he grew enthusiastic over their dialogue. When he read the fine passages he was transported, but when he thought that mummers would get something out of them for their show, he was disconsolate; and in this confusion of sentiments in which he was involved he would have liked at once to crown Racine with both his hands and discuss with him for a good quarter of an hour. At last Emma remembered that at the chateau of Vaubyessard she had heard the Marchioness call a young lady Berthe; from that moment this name was chosen; and as old Rouault could not come, Monsieur Homais was requested to stand godfather. His gifts were all products from his establishment, to wit: six boxes of jujubes, a whole jar of racahout, three cakes of marshmallow paste, and six sticks of sugar-candy into the bargain that he had come across in a cupboard. On the evening of the ceremony there was a grand dinner; the cure was present; there was much excitement. Monsieur Homais towards liqueur-time began singing "Le Dieu des bonnes gens." Monsieur Leon sang a barcarolle, and Madame Bovary, senior, who was godmother, a romance of the time of the Empire; finally, M. Bovary, senior, insisted on having the child brought down, and began baptizing it with a glass of champagne that he poured over its head. This mockery of the first of the sacraments made the Abbe Bournisien angry; old Bovary replied by a quotation from "La Guerre des Dieux"; the cure wanted to leave; the ladies implored, Homais interfered; and they succeeded in making the priest sit down again, and he quietly went on with the half-finished coffee in his saucer. Monsieur Bovary, senior, stayed at Yonville a month, dazzling the natives by a superb policeman's cap with silver tassels that he wore in the morning when he smoked his pipe in the square. Being also in the habit of drinking a good deal of brandy, he often sent the servant to the Lion d'Or to buy him a bottle, which was put down to his son's account, and to perfume his handkerchiefs he used up his daughter-in-law's whole supply of eau-de-cologne. The latter did not at all dislike his company. He had knocked about the world, he talked about Berlin, Vienna, and Strasbourg, of his soldier times, of the mistresses he had had, the grand luncheons of which he had partaken; then he was amiable, and sometimes even, either on the stairs, or in the garden, would seize hold of her waist, crying, "Charles, look out for yourself." Then Madame Bovary, senior, became alarmed for her son's happiness, and fearing that her husband might in the long-run have an immoral influence upon the ideas of the young woman, took care to hurry their departure. Perhaps she had more serious reasons for uneasiness. Monsieur Bovary was not the man to respect anything. One day Emma was suddenly seized with the desire to see her little girl, who had been put to nurse with the carpenter's wife, and, without looking at the calendar to see whether the six weeks of the Virgin were yet passed, she set out for the Rollets' house, situated at the extreme end of the village, between the highroad and the fields. It was mid-day, the shutters of the houses were closed and the slate roofs that glittered beneath the fierce light of the blue sky seemed to strike sparks from the crest of the gables. A heavy wind was blowing; Emma felt weak as she walked; the stones of the pavement hurt her; she was doubtful whether she would not go home again, or go in somewhere to rest. At this moment Monsieur Leon came out from a neighbouring door with a bundle of papers under his arm. He came to greet her, and stood in the shade in front of the Lheureux's shop under the projecting grey awning. Madame Bovary said she was going to see her baby, but that she was beginning to grow tired. "If--" said Leon, not daring to go on. "Have you any business to attend to?" she asked. And on the clerk's answer, she begged him to accompany her. That same evening this was known in Yonville, and Madame Tuvache, the mayor's wife, declared in the presence of her servant that "Madame Bovary was compromising herself." To get to the nurse's it was necessary to turn to the left on leaving the street, as if making for the cemetery, and to follow between little houses and yards a small path bordered with privet hedges. They were in bloom, and so were the speedwells, eglantines, thistles, and the sweetbriar that sprang up from the thickets. Through openings in the hedges one could see into the huts, some pigs on a dung-heap, or tethered cows rubbing their horns against the trunk of trees. The two, side by side walked slowly, she leaning upon him, and he restraining his pace, which he regulated by hers; in front of them a swarm of midges fluttered, buzzing in the warm air. They recognized the house by an old walnut-tree which shaded it. Low and covered with brown tiles, there hung outside it, beneath the dormer-window of the garret, a string of onions. Faggots upright against a thorn fence surrounded a bed of lettuce, a few square feet of lavender, and sweet peas strung on sticks. Dirty water was running here and there on the grass, and all round were several indefinite rags, knitted stockings, a red calico jacket, and a large sheet of coarse linen spread over the hedge. At the noise of the gate the nurse appeared with a baby she was suckling on one arm. With her other hand she was pulling along a poor puny little fellow, his face covered with scrofula, the son of a Rouen hosier, whom his parents, too taken up with their business, left in the country. "Go in," she said; "your little one is there asleep." The room on the ground-floor, the only one in the dwelling, had at its farther end, against the wall, a large bed without curtains, while a kneading-trough took up the side by the window, one pane of which was mended with a piece of blue paper. In the corner behind the door, shining hob-nailed shoes stood in a row under the slab of the washstand, near a bottle of oil with a feather stuck in its mouth; a Matthieu Laensberg lay on the dusty mantelpiece amid gunflints, candle-ends, and bits of amadou. Finally, the last luxury in the apartment was a "Fame" blowing her trumpets, a picture cut out, no doubt, from some perfumer's prospectus and nailed to the wall with six wooden shoe-pegs. Emma's child was asleep in a wicker-cradle. She took it up in the wrapping that enveloped it and began singing softly as she rocked herself to and fro. Leon walked up and down the room; it seemed strange to him to see this beautiful woman in her nankeen dress in the midst of all this poverty. Madam Bovary reddened; he turned away, thinking perhaps there had been an impertinent look in his eyes. Then she put back the little girl, who had just been sick over her collar. The nurse at once came to dry her, protesting that it wouldn't show. "She gives me other doses," she said: "I am always a-washing of her. If you would have the goodness to order Camus, the grocer, to let me have a little soap, it would really be more convenient for you, as I needn't trouble you then." "Very well! very well!" said Emma. "Good morning, Madame Rollet," and she went out, wiping her shoes at the door. The good woman accompanied her to the end of the garden, talking all the time of the trouble she had getting up of nights. "I'm that worn out sometimes as I drop asleep on my chair. I'm sure you might at least give me just a pound of ground coffee; that'd last me a month, and I'd take it of a morning with some milk." After having submitted to her thanks, Madam Bovary left. She had gone a little way down the path when, at the sound of wooden shoes, she turned round. It was the nurse. "What is it?" Then the peasant woman, taking her aside behind an elm tree, began talking to her of her husband, who with his trade and six francs a year that the captain-- "Oh, be quick!" said Emma. "Well," the nurse went on, heaving sighs between each word, "I'm afraid he'll be put out seeing me have coffee alone, you know men--" "But you are to have some," Emma repeated; "I will give you some. You bother me!" "Oh, dear! my poor, dear lady! you see in consequence of his wounds he has terrible cramps in the chest. He even says that cider weakens him." "Do make haste, Mere Rollet!" "Well," the latter continued, making a curtsey, "if it weren't asking too much," and she curtsied once more, "if you would"--and her eyes begged--"a jar of brandy," she said at last, "and I'd rub your little one's feet with it; they're as tender as one's tongue." Once rid of the nurse, Emma again took Monsieur Leon's arm. She walked fast for some time, then more slowly, and looking straight in front of her, her eyes rested on the shoulder of the young man, whose frock-coat had a black-velvety collar. His brown hair fell over it, straight and carefully arranged. She noticed his nails which were longer than one wore them at Yonville. It was one of the clerk's chief occupations to trim them, and for this purpose he kept a special knife in his writing desk. They returned to Yonville by the water-side. In the warm season the bank, wider than at other times, showed to their foot the garden walls whence a few steps led to the river. It flowed noiselessly, swift, and cold to the eye; long, thin grasses huddled together in it as the current drove them, and spread themselves upon the limpid water like streaming hair; sometimes at the tip of the reeds or on the leaf of a water-lily an insect with fine legs crawled or rested. The sun pierced with a ray the small blue bubbles of the waves that, breaking, followed each other; branchless old willows mirrored their grey backs in the water; beyond, all around, the meadows seemed empty. It was the dinner-hour at the farms, and the young woman and her companion heard nothing as they walked but the fall of their steps on the earth of the path, the words they spoke, and the sound of Emma's dress rustling round her. The walls of the gardens with pieces of bottle on their coping were hot as the glass windows of a conservatory. Wallflowers had sprung up between the bricks, and with the tip of her open sunshade Madame Bovary, as she passed, made some of their faded flowers crumble into a yellow dust, or a spray of overhanging honeysuckle and clematis caught in its fringe and dangled for a moment over the silk. They were talking of a troupe of Spanish dancers who were expected shortly at the Rouen theatre. "Are you going?" she asked. "If I can," he answered. Had they nothing else to say to one another? Yet their eyes were full of more serious speech, and while they forced themselves to find trivial phrases, they felt the same languor stealing over them both. It was the whisper of the soul, deep, continuous, dominating that of their voices. Surprised with wonder at this strange sweetness, they did not think of speaking of the sensation or of seeking its cause. Coming joys, like tropical shores, throw over the immensity before them their inborn softness, an odorous wind, and we are lulled by this intoxication without a thought of the horizon that we do not even know. In one place the ground had been trodden down by the cattle; they had to step on large green stones put here and there in the mud. She often stopped a moment to look where to place her foot, and tottering on a stone that shook, her arms outspread, her form bent forward with a look of indecision, she would laugh, afraid of falling into the puddles of water. When they arrived in front of her garden, Madame Bovary opened the little gate, ran up the steps and disappeared. Leon returned to his office. His chief was away; he just glanced at the briefs, then cut himself a pen, and at last took up his hat and went out. He went to La Pature at the top of the Argueil hills at the beginning of the forest; he threw himself upon the ground under the pines and watched the sky through his fingers. "How bored I am!" he said to himself, "how bored I am!" He thought he was to be pitied for living in this village, with Homais for a friend and Monsieru Guillaumin for master. The latter, entirely absorbed by his business, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and red whiskers over a white cravat, understood nothing of mental refinements, although he affected a stiff English manner, which in the beginning had impressed the clerk. As to the chemist's spouse, she was the best wife in Normandy, gentle as a sheep, loving her children, her father, her mother, her cousins, weeping for other's woes, letting everything go in her household, and detesting corsets; but so slow of movement, such a bore to listen to, so common in appearance, and of such restricted conversation, that although she was thirty, he only twenty, although they slept in rooms next each other and he spoke to her daily, he never thought that she might be a woman for another, or that she possessed anything else of her sex than the gown. And what else was there? Binet, a few shopkeepers, two or three publicans, the cure, and finally, Monsieur Tuvache, the mayor, with his two sons, rich, crabbed, obtuse persons, who farmed their own lands and had feasts among themselves, bigoted to boot, and quite unbearable companions. But from the general background of all these human faces Emma's stood out isolated and yet farthest off; for between her and him he seemed to see a vague abyss. In the beginning he had called on her several times along with the druggist. Charles had not appeared particularly anxious to see him again, and Leon did not know what to do between his fear of being indiscreet and the desire for an intimacy that seemed almost impossible. Kannst du eine passende 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.

Am nächsten Morgen sieht Emma Leon durch ihr Schlafzimmerfenster; sie verbeugen sich vor einander. Leon, der hofft, dass die Bovarys wieder zum Abendessen in der Herberge auftauchen werden, kann es kaum abwarten, bis sechs Uhr. Doch die Abendessenszeit kommt und Emma ist nirgendwo zu finden. Er ist zutiefst enttäuscht. Offensichtlich ist Leon nicht gerade ein Frauenheld. Sein Gespräch mit Emma am vorherigen Abend war die intimste Situation, in der er je mit einer "Dame" war. Jeder in der Stadt mag ihn wegen seiner vielen guten Eigenschaften, aber er fühlte eine andere Art von Verbindung zu Emma. Homais erweist sich als sehr, sehr aufmerksamer Nachbar. Er hilft Emma bei allem Möglichen im Haus und ist so freundlich. Allerdings ist er nicht gerade Ned Flanders. Es scheint, dass sein freundlicher Typ-von-nebenan-Akt nur Fassade ist; er wurde zuvor beschuldigt, ohne jegliche Zulassung illegal Medizin zu praktizieren und wurde mit rechtlichen Schritten bedroht. Viele Stadtbewohner, einschließlich des Bürgermeisters, sind hinter ihm her, also ist er vorsichtig, Charles auf seiner Seite zu halten. Übrigens, der arme Charles ist nicht so glücklich. Er hat noch keine Patienten und verbringt die meiste Zeit im Haus herum. Er macht sich Sorgen um Geld - der Umzug von Tostes war teuer und das ganze Geld, das Emma mit in die Ehe gebracht hat, ist weg. Das Einzige, was Charles aufheitert, ist der Gedanke an Emma's Schwangerschaft. Er fühlt, dass sein ganzes Leben jetzt vollständig ist, da ein Baby in Sicht ist. Emma hingegen durchlief eine ganze Bandbreite von Emotionen, von erstaunt bis bitter, bevor sie gleichgültig wurde. Sie beschließt, dass, wenn sie ein Baby haben muss, es ein Junge sein sollte, so dass es die Kraft haben kann, den Regeln zu entkommen, die Frauen regieren. Stattdessen ist es ein Mädchen. Emma fällt in Ohnmacht, vermutlich vor Enttäuschung und den Strapazen der Geburt. Madame Homais und Madame Lefrancois stürzen herein, um zu sehen, wie es läuft. Alle sind aufgeregt, außer Emma. Emma kann nicht einmal einen Namen für das arme Kind ausdenken. Sie hat allerlei romantische Vorstellungen darüber, wie sie ihre Tochter nennen will. Homais hat allerlei verrückte Ideen, natürlich, nachdem er seine Kinder alle möglichen verrückten Dinge genannt hat. Emma entscheidet sich schließlich willkürlich für "Berthe". Die kleine Berthe wird getauft. Ihr Patenonkel ist Homais, da Emmas Vater es nicht zum Zeitpunkt der Geburt geschafft hat, und ihre Patin ist die alte Madame Bovary, die mit ihrem Ehemann zu Besuch ist. Charles' Vater versteht sich ziemlich gut mit Emma, die sich für seine Geschichten aus der Armee interessiert. Charles' Mutter macht sich Sorgen, dass ihr Ehemann einen schlechten Einfluss auf Emma haben wird, und sie verabschieden sich ziemlich schnell. Eines Tages, als Emma das Baby besuchen will, trifft sie auf Leon. Sie lädt ihn ein, mitzukommen, was unter den Tratschtanten der Stadt für einen Skandal sorgt. Die Amme lebt in einer unschönen kleinen Hütte. Leon ist überrascht vom Anblick der schönen Dame in einem feinen Kleid, umgeben von Elend. Das Baby macht einen spektakulären Auftritt, indem es prompt auf Emma spuckt. Die Besucher machen sich auf den Weg. Als sie gehen, kommt Madame Rollet auf Emma zu und drängelt sich eine Zusage für etwas Branntwein heraus. Emma und Leon kehren nach Yonville zurück. Offensichtlich haben sie bereits eine intensive Verbindung. Als sie zurück in die Stadt kommen, geht Emma nach Hause, während Leon umherwandert und über seine Langeweile und die Einfallslosigkeit der anderen Menschen in der Stadt nachdenkt. Er hat ziemlich einen Schwarm für unsere junge Madame Bovary.

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 VI. Derselbe Ort. Eine Ebene vor dem Schloss. [Hinein, mit Trommel und Farben, kommen Malcolm, alter Siward, Macduff, usw., und ihre Armee, mit Zweigen.] MALCOLM. Jetzt nahe genug; Eure Blätterdächer werft ab, Und zeigt euch so, wie ihr seid.--Du, würdiger Onkel, Sollst gemeinsam mit meinem edlen Cousin, deinem Sohn, Unsere erste Schlacht anführen: Würdiger Macduff und wir Werden das übernehmen, was sonst noch zu tun bleibt, Gemäß unserer Anweisung. SIWARD. Lebt wohl.-- Wenn wir heute Nacht nur die Macht des Tyrannen finden, Lasst uns geschlagen sein, wenn wir nicht kämpfen können. MACDUFF. Lasst alle unsere Trompeten sprechen; gebt ihnen allen Atem, Diese lärmenden Vorboten von Blut und Tod. [Abgang.] 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.

Die Rebellenarmee hat Macbeths Burg in Dunsinane erreicht. Malcolm befiehlt Siward und seinem Sohn, die Männer in die Burg zu führen. Malcolm und Macduff werden zurückbleiben, um alle anderen zu erledigen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: DAS ZENTRALE ARBEITSBÜRO Dieses Büro befindet sich in der Sozialzentrale in Whitechapel, einem großen Gebäude, das bereits 1878 erworben wurde. Hier kann man den Raum sehen, in dem General Booth einige seiner ersten Gebetsversammlungen abhielt, und eine kleine Kammer, in der er sich mit den Offizieren beriet, die die Väter der Armee waren. Auch gibt es einen Ort, an dem er unbemerkt sitzen und der Predigt seiner Untergebenen lauschen konnte, um ihre Fähigkeiten beurteilen zu können. Der große Saal gehört nun zu einem weiteren Unterstand, der 232 Betten und Pritschen beherbergt. Ich habe diesen Ort inspiziert, aber da er sich in keiner wichtigen Einzelheit von anderen unterscheidet, werde ich ihn nicht beschreiben. Der Offizier, der für das Arbeitsbüro zuständig ist, informierte mich darüber, dass jede Woche Hunderte von Männern dort Arbeit suchen, von denen viele in die verschiedenen Aufzüge und Unterstände geschickt werden. Die Armee hat große Schwierigkeiten, außerhalb Beschäftigung für diese Männer zu finden, einfach deshalb, weil es sehr wenig davon gibt. Außerdem wird dieses Problem nun durch die Eröffnung der Regierungsarbeitsbüros nicht verringert. Über diese Büros sagte der Manager, dass sie sehr nützlich sind, aber nicht in der Lage, Arbeit für viele zu finden, die sich dort bewerben. Tatsächlich kommen viele Männer von dort zur Heilsarmee. Die harte Tatsache ist, dass es mehr leere Hände gibt als Arbeit für sie, selbst wenn es um ehrliche und fähige Leute geht. Daher ist die Armee in den meisten Fällen darauf angewiesen, ihre eigenen Einrichtungen und die Hadleigh-Landkolonie zu nutzen, um eine Art Beschäftigung für Arbeitslose zu bieten. Natürlich reicht diese Beschäftigung bei Weitem nicht aus, so dass viele arme Menschen leer ausgehen oder auf Unterstützung durch Wohltätigkeit angewiesen sind. Ich schlug vor, dass es sich lohnen könnte, eine Fahrschule für Chauffeure einzurichten, und die anwesenden Offiziere sagten, sie würden die Sache prüfen. Leider wäre ein solches Experiment jedoch angesichts der aktuellen Preise für Motorfahrzeuge kostspielig. Anbei die Statistiken des Arbeitsbüros für den Monat Mai 1910: LONDON Anträge auf temporäre Beschäftigung: 479 An temporäre Beschäftigung vermittelt: 183 Anträge auf Aufzugstellen: 864 An Aufzugstellen vermittelt: 260 An Unterstände vermittelt: 32 PROVINZEN Anträge auf temporäre Beschäftigung: 461 An temporäre Beschäftigung vermittelt: 160 Anträge auf Aufzugstellen: 417 An Aufzugstellen vermittelt: 202 An Unterstände vermittelt: 20 An feste Stellen vermittelt: 35 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.

Prior wurde zur Bestrafung dafür, dass er zu spät gekommen ist und respektlos mit der Matrone gesprochen hat, zwei Wochen lang ins Krankenhaus geschickt. Bei seiner Sitzung mit Rivers beschwert er sich über die Schwere der Strafe. Sie diskutieren über die möglichen Gründe, warum Offiziere nicht so oft unter Stummheit leiden wie einfache Soldaten. Rivers glaubt, dass es ein Konflikt zwischen "etwas sagen wollen und wissen, dass die Konsequenzen katastrophal sein werden" ist. Er glaubt auch, dass Offiziere ein komplexeres geistiges Leben haben, weil sie besser ausgebildet worden sind. Prior fragt Rivers, warum er stottert. Rivers ist überrascht und sagt, dass es keine bekannte Ursache gibt; es könnte genetisch sein. Prior schlägt vor, dass es vielleicht Rivers ist, der krank ist; vielleicht gibt es etwas, das er seit fünfzig Jahren versucht nicht zu sagen. In dieser Nacht versucht Rivers, einige Büroarbeiten zu erledigen und zu entscheiden, welche Patienten fit genug sind, um zurück in den Krieg geschickt zu werden, als Prior hereinkommt, um sich für sein unhöfliches Verhalten am Morgen zu entschuldigen. Prior gesteht Rivers, dass er ihm noch nicht von seinen Träumen erzählt hat, weil seine üblichen Kriegstraumata manchmal seltsamerweise mit Sex durchmischt sind. Rivers schlägt vor, dass jetzt ein guter Zeitpunkt wäre, um Hypnose auszuprobieren, und Prior stimmt zu. Unter Hypnose erinnert sich Prior daran, wie er eines Morgens im Schützengraben zum Dienst aufwacht. Als er den Weg entlanggeht, um nach den anderen Männern zu schauen, hört er eine Granate über ihm explodieren. Er dreht sich um und sieht, dass von zwei seiner Männer, die gerade Frühstück gemacht haben, nichts mehr übrig ist. Als er zu ihnen läuft und ihre Überreste in einen Beutel schaufelt, nimmt er ein Auge auf und erbricht. Nachdem er alles aufgeräumt hat, geht er dann, um den Tod der beiden Männer zu melden. Als er aus der Hypnose geholt wird, fühlt sich Prior intensiv wütend. Er fühlt sich verantwortlich für den Tod seiner beiden Männer. Er erinnert sich an die Geschichte eines Offiziers, der befiehlt, dass seine Truppen auf ein anderes Regiment schießen, nur um dann herauszufinden, dass es Engländer und keine Deutschen sind. Er sagt, er weiß, wie sich dieser Offizier gefühlt haben muss. Rivers tröstet Prior, dass es keine bestimmte Art von Mann gibt, der zusammenbricht. Später in dieser Nacht, als Rivers sich aufs Bett vorbereitet, reflektiert er über den Tag. Er war es gewohnt, von seinen Patienten wie ein Vater behandelt zu werden, aber er war verstört, dass ein Patient vor Jahren ihn mit einer "männlichen Mutter" verglichen hatte. Er ist darüber verärgert, dass die Qualität der Fürsorge weiblich bleibt, auch wenn sie von einem Mann ausgeführt wird, aber er erkennt an, dass die Beziehung unter Männern in den Schützengräben häuslich und oft sehr mütterlich ist. Er denkt auch über die Paradoxien des Krieges nach: dass etwas so männlich sein sollte und doch so häuslich endet, dass Männer in Löcher "mobilisiert" wurden, in denen sie sich kaum bewegen konnten, und dass "männliche Aktivität in feminine Passivität umgewandelt wurde". Als Rivers einschläft, wünscht er sich, er wäre noch jung genug, um in Frankreich zu dienen.

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: AVERY, OF BAYOU ROUGE--PECULIARITY OF DWELLINGS--EPPS BUILDS A NEW HOUSE--BASS, THE CARPENTER--HIS NOBLE QUALITIES--HIS PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND ECCENTRICITIES--BASS AND EPPS DISCUSS THE QUESTION OF SLAVERY--EPPS' OPINION OF BASS--I MAKE MYSELF KNOWN TO HIM--OUR CONVERSATION--HIS SURPRISE--THE MIDNIGHT MEETING ON THE BAYOU BANK--BASS' ASSURANCES--DECLARES WAR AGAINST SLAVERY--WHY I DID NOT DISCLOSE MY HISTORY--BASS WRITES LETTERS--COPY OF HIS LETTER TO MESSRS. PARKER AND PERRY--THE FEVER OF SUSPENSE--DISAPPOINTMENTS--BASS ENDEAVORS TO CHEER ME--MY FAITH IN HIM. In the month of June, 1852, in pursuance of a previous contract, Mr. Avery, a carpenter of Bayou Rouge, commenced the erection of a house for Master Epps. It has previously been stated that there are no cellars on Bayou Boeuf; on the other hand, such is the low and swampy nature of the ground, the great houses are usually built upon spiles. Another peculiarity is, the rooms are not plastered, but the ceiling and sides are covered with matched cypress boards, painted such color as most pleases the owner's taste. Generally the plank and boards are sawed by slaves with whip-saws, there being no waterpower upon which mills might be built within many miles. When the planter erects for himself a dwelling, therefore, there is plenty of extra work for his slaves. Having had some experience under Tibeats as a carpenter, I was taken from the field altogether, on the arrival of Avery and his hands. Among them was one to whom I owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude. Only for him, in all probability, I should have ended my days in slavery. He was my deliverer--a man whose true heart overflowed with noble and generous emotions. To the last moment of my existence I shall remember him with feelings of thankfulness. His name was Bass, and at that time he resided in Marksville. It will be difficult to convey a correct impression of his appearance or character. He was a large man, between forty and fifty years old, of light complexion and light hair. He was very cool and self-possessed, fond of argument, but always speaking with extreme deliberation. He was that kind of person whose peculiarity of manner was such that nothing he uttered ever gave offence. What would be intolerable, coming from the lips of another, could be said by him with impunity. There was not a man on Red River, perhaps, that agreed with him on the subject of politics or religion, and not a man, I venture to say, who discussed either of those subjects half as much. It seemed to be taken for granted that he would espouse the unpopular side of every local question, and it always created amusement rather than displeasure among his auditors, to listen to the ingenious and original manner in which he maintained the controversy. He was a bachelor--an "old bachelor," according to the true acceptation of the term--having no kindred living, as he knew of, in the world. Neither had he any permanent abiding place--wandering from one State to another, as his fancy dictated. He had lived in Marksville three or four years, and in the prosecution of his business as a carpenter; and in consequence, likewise, of his peculiarities, was quite extensively known throughout the parish of Avoyelles. He was liberal to a fault; and his many acts of kindness and transparent goodness of heart rendered him popular in the community, the sentiment of which he unceasingly combated. He was a native of Canada, from whence he had wandered in early life, and after visiting all the principal localities in the northern and western States, in the course of his peregrinations, arrived in the unhealthy region of the Red River. His last removal was from Illinois. Whither he has now gone, I regret to be obliged to say, is unknown to me. He gathered up his effects and departed quietly from Marksville the day before I did, the suspicions of his instrumentality in procuring my liberation rendering such a step necessary. For the commission of a just and righteous act he would undoubtedly have suffered death, had he remained within reach of the slave-whipping tribe on Bayou Boeuf. One day, while working on the new house, Bass and Epps became engaged in a controversy, to which, as will be readily supposed, I listened with absorbing interest. They were discussing the subject of Slavery. "I tell you what it is Epps," said Bass, "it's all wrong--all wrong, sir--there's no justice nor righteousness in it. I wouldn't own a slave if I was rich as Croesus, which I am not, as is perfectly well understood, more particularly among my creditors. _There's_ another humbug--the credit system--humbug, sir; no credit--no debt. Credit leads a man into temptation. Cash down is the only thing that will deliver him from evil. But this question of _Slavery_; what _right_ have you to your niggers when you come down to the point?" "What right!" said Epps, laughing; "why, I bought 'em, and paid for 'em." "Of _course_ you did; the law says you have the right to hold a nigger, but begging the law's pardon, it _lies_. Yes, Epps, when the law says that it's a _liar_, and the truth is not in it. Is every thing right because the law allows it? Suppose they'd pass a law taking away your liberty and making you a slave?" "Oh, that ain't a supposable case," said Epps, still laughing; "hope you don't compare me to a nigger, Bass." "Well," Bass answered gravely, "no, not exactly. But I have seen niggers before now as good as I am, and I have no acquaintance with any white man in these parts that I consider a whit better than myself. Now, in the sight of God, what is the difference, Epps, between a white man and a black one?" "All the difference in the world," replied Epps. "You might as well ask what the difference is between a white man and a baboon. Now, I've seen one of them critters in Orleans that knowed just as much as any nigger I've got. You'd call them feller citizens, I s'pose?"--and Epps indulged in a loud laugh at his own wit. "Look here, Epps," continued his companion; "you can't laugh me down in that way. Some men are witty, and some ain't so witty as they think they are. Now let me ask you a question. Are all men created free and equal as the Declaration of Independence holds they are?" "Yes," responded Epps, "but all men, niggers, and monkeys _ain't_;" and hereupon he broke forth into a more boisterous laugh than before. "There are monkeys among white people as well as black, when you come to that," coolly remarked Bass. "I know some white men that use arguments no sensible monkey would. But let that pass. These niggers are human beings. If they don't know as much as their masters, whose fault is it? They are not _allowed_ to know anything. You have books and papers, and can go where you please, and gather intelligence in a thousand ways. But your slaves have no privileges. You'd whip one of them if caught reading a book. They are held in bondage, generation after generation, deprived of mental improvement, and who can expect them to possess much knowledge? If they are not brought down to a level with the brute creation, you slaveholders will never be blamed for it. If they are baboons, or stand no higher in the scale of intelligence than such animals, you and men like you will have to answer for it. There's a sin, a fearful sin, resting on this nation, that will not go unpunished forever. There will be a reckoning yet--yes, Epps, there's a day coming that will burn as an oven. It may be sooner or it may be later, but it's a coming as sure as the Lord is just." "If you lived up among the Yankees in New-England," said Epps, "I expect you'd be one of them cursed fanatics that know more than the constitution, and go about peddling clocks and coaxing niggers to run away." "If I was in New-England," returned Bass, "I would be just what I am here. I would say that Slavery was an iniquity, and ought to be abolished. I would say there was no reason nor justice in the law, or the constitution that allows one man to hold another man in bondage. It would be hard for you to lose your property, to be sure, but it wouldn't be half as hard as it would be to lose your liberty. You have no more right to your freedom, in exact justice, than Uncle Abram yonder. Talk about black skin, and black blood; why, how many slaves are there on this bayou as white as either of us? And what difference is there in the color of the soul? Pshaw! the whole system is as absurd as it is cruel. You may own niggers and behanged, but I wouldn't own one for the best plantation in Louisiana." "You like to hear yourself talk, Bass, better than any man I know of. You would argue that black was white, or white black, if any body would contradict you. Nothing suits you in this world, and I don't believe you will be satisfied with the next, if you should have your choice in them." Conversations substantially like the foregoing were not unusual between the two after this; Epps drawing him out more for the purpose of creating a laugh at his expense, than with a view of fairly discussing the merits of the question. He looked upon Bass, as a man ready to say anything merely for the pleasure of hearing his own voice; as somewhat self-conceited, perhaps, contending against his faith and judgment, in order, simply, to exhibit his dexterity in argumentation. He remained at Epps' through the summer, visiting Marksville generally once a fortnight. The more I saw of him, the more I became convinced he was a man in whom I could confide. Nevertheless, my previous ill-fortune had taught me to be extremely cautious. It was not my place to speak to a white man except when spoken to, but I omitted no opportunity of throwing myself in his way, and endeavored constantly in every possible manner to attract his attention. In the early part of August he and myself were at work alone in the house, the other carpenters having left, and Epps being absent in the field. Now was the time, if ever, to broach the subject, and I resolved to do it, and submit to whatever consequences might ensue. We were busily at work in the afternoon, when I stopped suddenly and said-- "Master Bass, I want to ask you what part of the country you came from?" "Why, Platt, what put that into your head?" he answered. "You wouldn't know if I should tell you." After a moment or two he added--"I was born in Canada; now guess where that is." "Oh, I know where Canada is," said I, "I have been there myself." "Yes, I expect you are well acquainted all through that country," he remarked, laughing incredulously. "As sure as I live, Master Bass," I replied, "I have been there. I have been in Montreal and Kingston, and Queenston, and a great many places in Canada, and I have been in York State, too--in Buffalo, and Rochester, and Albany, and can tell you the names of the villages on the Erie canal and the Champlain canal." Bass turned round and gazed at me a long time without uttering a syllable. "How came you here?" he inquired, at length. "Master Bass," I answered, "if justice had been done, I never would have been here." "Well, how's this?" said he. "Who are you? You have been in Canada sure enough; I know all the places you mention. How did you happen to get here? Come, tell me all about it." "I have no friends here," was my reply, "that I can put confidence in. I am afraid to tell you, though I don't believe you would tell Master Epps if I should." He assured me earnestly he would keep every word I might speak to him a profound secret, and his curiosity was evidently strongly excited. It was a long story, I informed him, and would take some time to relate it. Master Epps would be back soon, but if he would see me that night after all were asleep, I would repeat it to him. He consented readily to the arrangement, and directed me to come into the building where we were then at work, and I would find him there. About midnight, when all was still and quiet, I crept cautiously from my cabin, and silently entering the unfinished building, found him awaiting me. After further assurances on his part that I should not be betrayed, I began a relation of the history of my life and misfortunes. He was deeply interested, asking numerous questions in reference to localities and events. Having ended my story I besought him to write to some of my friends at the North, acquainting them with my situation, and begging them to forward free papers, or take such steps as they might consider proper to secure my release. He promised to do so, but dwelt upon the danger of such an act in case of detection, and now impressed upon me the great necessity of strict silence and secresy. Before we parted our plan of operation was arranged. We agreed to meet the next night at a specified place among the high weeds on the bank of the bayou, some distance from master's dwelling. There he was to write down on paper the names and address of several persons, old friends in the North, to whom he would direct letters during his next visit to Marksville. It was not deemed prudent to meet in the new house, inasmuch as the light it would be necessary to use might possibly be discovered. In the course of the day I managed to obtain a few matches and a piece of candle, unperceived, from the kitchen, during a temporary absence of Aunt Phebe. Bass had pencil and paper in his tool chest. At the appointed hour we met on the bayou bank, and creeping among the high weeds, I lighted the candle, while he drew forth pencil and paper and prepared for business. I gave him the names of William Perry, Cephas Parker and Judge Marvin, all of Saratoga Springs, Saratoga county, New-York. I had been employed by the latter in the United States Hotel, and had transacted business with the former to a considerable extent, and trusted that at least one of them would be still living at that place. He carefully wrote the names, and then remarked, thoughtfully-- "It is so many years since you left Saratoga, all these men may be dead, or may have removed. You say you obtained papers at the custom house in New-York. Probably there is a record of them there, and I think it would be well to write and ascertain." I agreed with him, and again repeated the circumstances related heretofore, connected with my visit to the custom house with Brown and Hamilton. We lingered on the bank of the bayou an hour or more, conversing upon the subject which now engrossed our thoughts. I could no longer doubt his fidelity, and freely spoke to him of the many sorrows I had borne in silence, and so long. I spoke of my wife and children, mentioning their names and ages, and dwelling upon the unspeakable happiness it would be to clasp them to my heart once more before I died. I caught him by the hand, and with tears and passionate entreaties implored him to befriend me--to restore me to my kindred and to liberty--promising I would weary Heaven the remainder of my life with prayers that it would bless and prosper him. In the enjoyment of freedom--surrounded by the associations of youth, and restored to the bosom of my family--that promise is not yet forgotten, nor shall it ever be so long as I have strength to raise my imploring eyes on high. "Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair, And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there." He overwhelmed me with assurances of friendship and faithfulness, saying he had never before taken so deep an interest in the fate of any one. He spoke of himself in a somewhat mournful tone, as a lonely man, a wanderer about the world--that he was growing old, and must soon reach the end of his earthly journey, and lie down to his final rest without kith or kin to mourn for him, or to remember him--that his life was of little value to himself, and henceforth should be devoted to the accomplishment of my liberty, and to an unceasing warfare against the accursed shame of Slavery. After this time we seldom spoke to, or recognized each other. He was, moreover, less free in his conversation with Epps on the subject of Slavery. The remotest suspicion that there was any unusual intimacy--any secret understanding between us--never once entered the mind of Epps, or any other person, white or black, on the plantation. I am often asked, with an air of incredulity, how I succeeded so many years in keeping from my daily and constant companions the knowledge of my true name and history. The terrible lesson Burch taught me, impressed indelibly upon my mind the danger and uselessness of asserting I was a freeman. There was no possibility of any slave being able to assist me, while, on the other hand, there _was_ a possibility of his exposing me. When it is recollected the whole current of my thoughts, for twelve years, turned to the contemplation of escape, it will not be wondered at, that I was always cautious and on my guard. It would have been an act of folly to have proclaimed my _right_ to freedom; it would only have subjected me to severer scrutiny--probably have consigned me to some more distant and inaccessible region than even Bayou Boeuf. Edwin Epps was a person utterly regardless of a black man's rights or wrongs--utterly destitute of any natural sense of justice, as I well knew. It was important, therefore, not only as regarded my hope of deliverance, but also as regarded the few personal privileges I was permitted to enjoy, to keep from him the history of my life. The Saturday night subsequent to our interview at the water's edge, Bass went home to Marksville. The next day, being Sunday, he employed himself in his own room writing letters. One he directed to the Collector of Customs at New-York, another to Judge Marvin, and another to Messrs. Parker and Perry jointly. The latter was the one which led to my recovery. He subscribed my true name, but in the postscript intimated I was not the writer. The letter itself shows that he considered himself engaged in a dangerous undertaking--no less than running "the risk of his life, if detected." I did not see the letter before it was mailed, but have since obtained a copy, which is here inserted: "Bayou Boeuf, August 15, 1852. "Mr. WILLIAM PERRY or Mr. CEPHAS PARKER: "Gentlemen--It having been a long time since I have seen or heard from you, and not knowing that you are living, it is with uncertainty that I write to you, but the necessity of the case must be my excuse. "Having been born free, just across the river from you, I am certain you must know me, and I am here now a slave. I wish you to obtain free papers for me, and forward them to me at Marksville, Louisiana, Parish of Avoyelles, and oblige "Yours, SOLOMON NORTHUP. "The way I came to be a slave, I was taken sick in Washington City, and was insensible for some time. When I recovered my reason, I was robbed of my free-papers, and in irons on my way to this State, and have never been able to get any one to write for me until now; and he that is writing for me runs the risk of his life if detected." The allusion to myself in the work recently issued, entitled "A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," contains the first part of this letter, omitting the postscript. Neither are the full names of the gentlemen to whom it is directed correctly stated, there being a slight discrepancy, probably a typographical error. To the postscript more than to the body of the communication am I indebted for my liberation, as will presently be seen. When Bass returned from Marksville he informed me of what he had done. We continued our midnight consultations, never speaking to each other through the day, excepting as it was necessary about the work. As nearly as he was able to ascertain, it would require two weeks for the letter to reach Saratoga in due course of mail, and the same length of time for an answer to return. Within six weeks, at the farthest, we concluded, an answer would arrive, if it arrived at all. A great many suggestions were now made, and a great deal of conversation took place between us, as to the most safe and proper course to pursue on receipt of the free papers. They would stand between him and harm, in case we were overtaken and arrested leaving the country altogether. It would be no infringement of law, however much it might provoke individual hostility, to assist a freeman to regain his freedom. At the end of four weeks he was again at Marksville, but no answer had arrived. I was sorely disappointed, but still reconciled myself with the reflection that sufficient length of time had not yet elapsed--that there might have been delays--and that I could not reasonably expect one so soon. Six, seven, eight, and ten weeks passed by, however, and nothing came. I was in a fever of suspense whenever Bass visited Marksville, and could scarcely close my eyes until his return. Finally my master's house was finished, and the time came when Bass must leave me. The night before his departure I was wholly given up to despair. I had clung to him as a drowning man clings to the floating spar, knowing if it slips from his grasp he must forever sink beneath the waves. The all-glorious hope, upon which I had laid such eager hold, was crumbling to ashes in my hands. I felt as if sinking down, down, amidst the bitter waters of Slavery, from the unfathomable depths of which I should never rise again. The generous heart of my friend and benefactor was touched with pity at the sight of my distress. He endeavored to cheer me up, promising to return the day before Christmas, and if no intelligence was received in the meantime, some further step would be undertaken to effect our design. He exhorted me to keep up my spirits--to rely upon his continued efforts in my behalf, assuring me, in most earnest and impressive language, that my liberation should, from thenceforth, be the chief object of his thoughts. In his absence the time passed slowly indeed. I looked forward to Christmas with intense anxiety and impatience. I had about given up the expectation of receiving any answer to the letters. They might have miscarried, or might have been misdirected. Perhaps those at Saratoga, to whom they had been addressed, were all dead; perhaps, engaged in their pursuits, they did not consider the fate of an obscure, unhappy black man of sufficient importance to be noticed. My whole reliance was in Bass. The faith I had in him was continually re-assuring me, and enabled me to stand up against the tide of disappointment that had overwhelmed me. So wholly was I absorbed in reflecting upon my situation and prospects, that the hands with whom I labored in the field often observed it. Patsey would ask me if I was sick, and Uncle Abram, and Bob, and Wiley frequently expressed a curiosity to know what I could be thinking about so steadily. But I evaded their inquiries with some light remark, and kept my thoughts locked closely in my breast. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Im Juni 1852 kommt der Mann in den Bayou, dem Solomon seine Freiheit verdankt. Bass ist ein reisender Zimmermann aus Kanada, der im ganzen Land arbeitet; momentan lebt er in Marksville. Er ist edel, warmherzig, harmlos und fest entschlossen, die Sklaverei zu beenden. Die Leute im ganzen Süden finden ihn freundlich und sind von seinen starken Worten nicht beleidigt. Selbst Epps, der Bass einstellt, um an einem Haus zu arbeiten, mag Bass und lacht nur, als Bass ihm sagt, dass weiße Männer und schwarze Männer gleich seien, dass Sklaverei eine Sünde und ein Makel im Gewissen der Nation sei und dass das System absurd und grausam sei. Solomon hört, wie Bass Epps diese Dinge erzählt, und denkt, dass dieser Mann ihm vielleicht helfen kann, aber er ist immer noch misstrauisch. Schließlich fragt Solomon Bass an einem Tag, an dem sie alleine arbeiten, aus welchem Teil Kanadas er stammt. Bass sagt ihm, dass Solomon die Gegend nicht kennen würde, aber Solomon sagt ihm, dass er an vielen Orten war. Er nennt ihm die Namen von Orten in Kanada und im nördlichen New York. Bass ist schockiert und schweigt. Nachdem er gezögert hat, erzählt Solomon ihm seine ganze melancholische Geschichte. Bass bietet sofort an, Solomon zu helfen, indem er einen Brief an seine Freunde im Norden schickt. Sie treffen sich am nächsten Abend und Bass notiert die Namen von Leuten, die Solomon kennt und an die er Briefe schicken kann. Solomon erzählt Bass offen von seinem Leiden und Bass versichert ihm seine Freundschaft und Unterstützung. In den nächsten Wochen sind Bass und Solomon sehr vorsichtig, nie in Sichtweite anderer miteinander zu interagieren; es gibt keinen Verdacht auf Intimität zwischen ihnen. Bass geht nach Hause nach Marksville und schreibt die Briefe. Einer geht an Richter Marvin, einer an den Zollbeamten in New York und ein weiterer an Messrs. Perry und Parker. Er fügt Solomons Botschaft zusammen mit einer eigenen hinzu. Als Bass zu Epps' Platz zurückkehrt, sagt er Solomon, dass eine Antwort möglicherweise in höchstens sechs Wochen eintreffen würde. Leider vergehen sechs Wochen, dann zehn, ohne eine Antwort. Solomons Hoffnungen beginnen zu bröckeln. Bass bemüht sich, seine Stimmung zu heben, und verspricht einen weiteren Schritt zu unternehmen, wenn nötig. Solomon macht sich Sorgen, dass die Briefe verlorengegangen oder falsch adressiert waren oder dass die Leute, an die sie gerichtet waren, gestorben sind. Vielleicht kümmerten sie sich überhaupt nicht um 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: As the city clocks struck nine on Monday morning, Mrs Clennam was wheeled by Jeremiah Flintwinch of the cut-down aspect to her tall cabinet. When she had unlocked and opened it, and had settled herself at its desk, Jeremiah withdrew--as it might be, to hang himself more effectually--and her son appeared. 'Are you any better this morning, mother?' She shook her head, with the same austere air of luxuriousness that she had shown over-night when speaking of the weather. 'I shall never be better any more. It is well for me, Arthur, that I know it and can bear it.' Sitting with her hands laid separately upon the desk, and the tall cabinet towering before her, she looked as if she were performing on a dumb church organ. Her son thought so (it was an old thought with him), while he took his seat beside it. She opened a drawer or two, looked over some business papers, and put them back again. Her severe face had no thread of relaxation in it, by which any explorer could have been guided to the gloomy labyrinth of her thoughts. 'Shall I speak of our affairs, mother? Are you inclined to enter upon business?' 'Am I inclined, Arthur? Rather, are you? Your father has been dead a year and more. I have been at your disposal, and waiting your pleasure, ever since.' 'There was much to arrange before I could leave; and when I did leave, I travelled a little for rest and relief.' She turned her face towards him, as not having heard or understood his last words. 'For rest and relief.' She glanced round the sombre room, and appeared from the motion of her lips to repeat the words to herself, as calling it to witness how little of either it afforded her. 'Besides, mother, you being sole executrix, and having the direction and management of the estate, there remained little business, or I might say none, that I could transact, until you had had time to arrange matters to your satisfaction.' 'The accounts are made out,' she returned. 'I have them here. The vouchers have all been examined and passed. You can inspect them when you like, Arthur; now, if you please.' 'It is quite enough, mother, to know that the business is completed. Shall I proceed then?' 'Why not?' she said, in her frozen way. 'Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our dealings have been progressively on the decline. We have never shown much confidence, or invited much; we have attached no people to us; the track we have kept is not the track of the time; and we have been left far behind. I need not dwell on this to you, mother. You know it necessarily.' 'I know what you mean,' she answered, in a qualified tone. 'Even this old house in which we speak,' pursued her son, 'is an instance of what I say. In my father's earlier time, and in his uncle's time before him, it was a place of business--really a place of business, and business resort. Now, it is a mere anomaly and incongruity here, out of date and out of purpose. All our consignments have long been made to Rovinghams' the commission-merchants; and although, as a check upon them, and in the stewardship of my father's resources, your judgment and watchfulness have been actively exerted, still those qualities would have influenced my father's fortunes equally, if you had lived in any private dwelling: would they not?' 'Do you consider,' she returned, without answering his question, 'that a house serves no purpose, Arthur, in sheltering your infirm and afflicted--justly infirm and righteously afflicted--mother?' 'I was speaking only of business purposes.' 'With what object?' 'I am coming to it.' 'I foresee,' she returned, fixing her eyes upon him, 'what it is. But the Lord forbid that I should repine under any visitation. In my sinfulness I merit bitter disappointment, and I accept it.' 'Mother, I grieve to hear you speak like this, though I have had my apprehensions that you would--' 'You knew I would. You knew _me_,' she interrupted. Her son paused for a moment. He had struck fire out of her, and was surprised. 'Well!' she said, relapsing into stone. 'Go on. Let me hear.' 'You have anticipated, mother, that I decide for my part, to abandon the business. I have done with it. I will not take upon myself to advise you; you will continue it, I see. If I had any influence with you, I would simply use it to soften your judgment of me in causing you this disappointment: to represent to you that I have lived the half of a long term of life, and have never before set my own will against yours. I cannot say that I have been able to conform myself, in heart and spirit, to your rules; I cannot say that I believe my forty years have been profitable or pleasant to myself, or any one; but I have habitually submitted, and I only ask you to remember it.' Woe to the suppliant, if such a one there were or ever had been, who had any concession to look for in the inexorable face at the cabinet. Woe to the defaulter whose appeal lay to the tribunal where those severe eyes presided. Great need had the rigid woman of her mystical religion, veiled in gloom and darkness, with lightnings of cursing, vengeance, and destruction, flashing through the sable clouds. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, was a prayer too poor in spirit for her. Smite Thou my debtors, Lord, wither them, crush them; do Thou as I would do, and Thou shalt have my worship: this was the impious tower of stone she built up to scale Heaven. 'Have you finished, Arthur, or have you anything more to say to me? I think there can be nothing else. You have been short, but full of matter!' 'Mother, I have yet something more to say. It has been upon my mind, night and day, this long time. It is far more difficult to say than what I have said. That concerned myself; this concerns us all.' 'Us all! Who are us all?' 'Yourself, myself, my dead father.' She took her hands from the desk; folded them in her lap; and sat looking towards the fire, with the impenetrability of an old Egyptian sculpture. 'You knew my father infinitely better than I ever knew him; and his reserve with me yielded to you. You were much the stronger, mother, and directed him. As a child, I knew it as well as I know it now. I knew that your ascendancy over him was the cause of his going to China to take care of the business there, while you took care of it here (though I do not even now know whether these were really terms of separation that you agreed upon); and that it was your will that I should remain with you until I was twenty, and then go to him as I did. You will not be offended by my recalling this, after twenty years?' 'I am waiting to hear why you recall it.' He lowered his voice, and said, with manifest reluctance, and against his will: 'I want to ask you, mother, whether it ever occurred to you to suspect--' At the word Suspect, she turned her eyes momentarily upon her son, with a dark frown. She then suffered them to seek the fire, as before; but with the frown fixed above them, as if the sculptor of old Egypt had indented it in the hard granite face, to frown for ages. '--that he had any secret remembrance which caused him trouble of mind--remorse? Whether you ever observed anything in his conduct suggesting that; or ever spoke to him upon it, or ever heard him hint at such a thing?' 'I do not understand what kind of secret remembrance you mean to infer that your father was a prey to,' she returned, after a silence. 'You speak so mysteriously.' 'Is it possible, mother,' her son leaned forward to be the nearer to her while he whispered it, and laid his hand nervously upon her desk, 'is it possible, mother, that he had unhappily wronged any one, and made no reparation?' Looking at him wrathfully, she bent herself back in her chair to keep him further off, but gave him no reply. 'I am deeply sensible, mother, that if this thought has never at any time flashed upon you, it must seem cruel and unnatural in me, even in this confidence, to breathe it. But I cannot shake it off. Time and change (I have tried both before breaking silence) do nothing to wear it out. Remember, I was with my father. Remember, I saw his face when he gave the watch into my keeping, and struggled to express that he sent it as a token you would understand, to you. Remember, I saw him at the last with the pencil in his failing hand, trying to write some word for you to read, but to which he could give no shape. The more remote and cruel this vague suspicion that I have, the stronger the circumstances that could give it any semblance of probability to me. For Heaven's sake, let us examine sacredly whether there is any wrong entrusted to us to set right. No one can help towards it, mother, but you.' Still so recoiling in her chair that her overpoised weight moved it, from time to time, a little on its wheels, and gave her the appearance of a phantom of fierce aspect gliding away from him, she interposed her left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand towards her face, between herself and him, and looked at him in a fixed silence. 'In grasping at money and in driving hard bargains--I have begun, and I must speak of such things now, mother--some one may have been grievously deceived, injured, ruined. You were the moving power of all this machinery before my birth; your stronger spirit has been infused into all my father's dealings for more than two score years. You can set these doubts at rest, I think, if you will really help me to discover the truth. Will you, mother?' He stopped in the hope that she would speak. But her grey hair was not more immovable in its two folds, than were her firm lips. 'If reparation can be made to any one, if restitution can be made to any one, let us know it and make it. Nay, mother, if within my means, let _me_ make it. I have seen so little happiness come of money; it has brought within my knowledge so little peace to this house, or to any one belonging to it, that it is worth less to me than to another. It can buy me nothing that will not be a reproach and misery to me, if I am haunted by a suspicion that it darkened my father's last hours with remorse, and that it is not honestly and justly mine.' There was a bell-rope hanging on the panelled wall, some two or three yards from the cabinet. By a swift and sudden action of her foot, she drove her wheeled chair rapidly back to it and pulled it violently--still holding her arm up in its shield-like posture, as if he were striking at her, and she warding off the blow. A girl came hurrying in, frightened. 'Send Flintwinch here!' In a moment the girl had withdrawn, and the old man stood within the door. 'What! You're hammer and tongs, already, you two?' he said, coolly stroking his face. 'I thought you would be. I was pretty sure of it.' 'Flintwinch!' said the mother, 'look at my son. Look at him!' 'Well, I _am_ looking at him,' said Flintwinch. She stretched out the arm with which she had shielded herself, and as she went on, pointed at the object of her anger. 'In the very hour of his return almost--before the shoe upon his foot is dry--he asperses his father's memory to his mother! Asks his mother to become, with him, a spy upon his father's transactions through a lifetime! Has misgivings that the goods of this world which we have painfully got together early and late, with wear and tear and toil and self-denial, are so much plunder; and asks to whom they shall be given up, as reparation and restitution!' Although she said this raging, she said it in a voice so far from being beyond her control that it was even lower than her usual tone. She also spoke with great distinctness. 'Reparation!' said she. 'Yes, truly! It is easy for him to talk of reparation, fresh from journeying and junketing in foreign lands, and living a life of vanity and pleasure. But let him look at me, in prison, and in bonds here. I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed that I shall so make reparation for my sins. Reparation! Is there none in this room? Has there been none here this fifteen years?' Thus was she always balancing her bargains with the Majesty of heaven, posting up the entries to her credit, strictly keeping her set-off, and claiming her due. She was only remarkable in this, for the force and emphasis with which she did it. Thousands upon thousands do it, according to their varying manner, every day. 'Flintwinch, give me that book!' The old man handed it to her from the table. She put two fingers between the leaves, closed the book upon them, and held it up to her son in a threatening way. 'In the days of old, Arthur, treated of in this commentary, there were pious men, beloved of the Lord, who would have cursed their sons for less than this: who would have sent them forth, and sent whole nations forth, if such had supported them, to be avoided of God and man, and perish, down to the baby at the breast. But I only tell you that if you ever renew that theme with me, I will renounce you; I will so dismiss you through that doorway, that you had better have been motherless from your cradle. I will never see or know you more. And if, after all, you were to come into this darkened room to look upon me lying dead, my body should bleed, if I could make it, when you came near me.' In part relieved by the intensity of this threat, and in part (monstrous as the fact is) by a general impression that it was in some sort a religious proceeding, she handed back the book to the old man, and was silent. 'Now,' said Jeremiah; 'premising that I'm not going to stand between you two, will you let me ask (as I _have_ been called in, and made a third) what is all this about?' 'Take your version of it,' returned Arthur, finding it left to him to speak, 'from my mother. Let it rest there. What I have said, was said to my mother only.' 'Oh!' returned the old man. 'From your mother? Take it from your mother? Well! But your mother mentioned that you had been suspecting your father. That's not dutiful, Mr Arthur. Who will you be suspecting next?' 'Enough,' said Mrs Clennam, turning her face so that it was addressed for the moment to the old man only. 'Let no more be said about this.' 'Yes, but stop a bit, stop a bit,' the old man persisted. 'Let us see how we stand. Have you told Mr Arthur that he mustn't lay offences at his father's door? That he has no right to do it? That he has no ground to go upon?' 'I tell him so now.' 'Ah! Exactly,' said the old man. 'You tell him so now. You hadn't told him so before, and you tell him so now. Ay, ay! That's right! You know I stood between you and his father so long, that it seems as if death had made no difference, and I was still standing between you. So I will, and so in fairness I require to have that plainly put forward. Arthur, you please to hear that you have no right to mistrust your father, and have no ground to go upon.' He put his hands to the back of the wheeled chair, and muttering to himself, slowly wheeled his mistress back to her cabinet. 'Now,' he resumed, standing behind her: 'in case I should go away leaving things half done, and so should be wanted again when you come to the other half and get into one of your flights, has Arthur told you what he means to do about the business?' 'He has relinquished it.' 'In favour of nobody, I suppose?' Mrs Clennam glanced at her son, leaning against one of the windows. He observed the look and said, 'To my mother, of course. She does what she pleases.' 'And if any pleasure,' she said after a short pause, 'could arise for me out of the disappointment of my expectations that my son, in the prime of his life, would infuse new youth and strength into it, and make it of great profit and power, it would be in advancing an old and faithful servant. Jeremiah, the captain deserts the ship, but you and I will sink or float with it.' Jeremiah, whose eyes glistened as if they saw money, darted a sudden look at the son, which seemed to say, 'I owe _you_ no thanks for this; _you_ have done nothing towards it!' and then told the mother that he thanked her, and that Affery thanked her, and that he would never desert her, and that Affery would never desert her. Finally, he hauled up his watch from its depths, and said, 'Eleven. Time for your oysters!' and with that change of subject, which involved no change of expression or manner, rang the bell. But Mrs Clennam, resolved to treat herself with the greater rigour for having been supposed to be unacquainted with reparation, refused to eat her oysters when they were brought. They looked tempting; eight in number, circularly set out on a white plate on a tray covered with a white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered French roll, and a little compact glass of cool wine and water; but she resisted all persuasions, and sent them down again--placing the act to her credit, no doubt, in her Eternal Day-Book. This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the girl who had appeared when the bell was rung; the same who had been in the dimly-lighted room last night. Now that he had an opportunity of observing her, Arthur found that her diminutive figure, small features, and slight spare dress, gave her the appearance of being much younger than she was. A woman, probably of not less than two-and-twenty, she might have been passed in the street for little more than half that age. Not that her face was very youthful, for in truth there was more consideration and care in it than naturally belonged to her utmost years; but she was so little and light, so noiseless and shy, and appeared so conscious of being out of place among the three hard elders, that she had all the manner and much of the appearance of a subdued child. In a hard way, and in an uncertain way that fluctuated between patronage and putting down, the sprinkling from a watering-pot and hydraulic pressure, Mrs Clennam showed an interest in this dependent. Even in the moment of her entrance, upon the violent ringing of the bell, when the mother shielded herself with that singular action from the son, Mrs Clennam's eyes had had some individual recognition in them, which seemed reserved for her. As there are degrees of hardness in the hardest metal, and shades of colour in black itself, so, even in the asperity of Mrs Clennam's demeanour towards all the rest of humanity and towards Little Dorrit, there was a fine gradation. Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day--or at so little--from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was a mystery. Another of the moral phenomena of Little Dorrit. Besides her consideration money, her daily contract included meals. She had an extraordinary repugnance to dining in company; would never do so, if it were possible to escape. Would always plead that she had this bit of work to begin first, or that bit of work to finish first; and would, of a certainty, scheme and plan--not very cunningly, it would seem, for she deceived no one--to dine alone. Successful in this, happy in carrying off her plate anywhere, to make a table of her lap, or a box, or the ground, or even as was supposed, to stand on tip-toe, dining moderately at a mantel-shelf; the great anxiety of Little Dorrit's day was set at rest. It was not easy to make out Little Dorrit's face; she was so retiring, plied her needle in such removed corners, and started away so scared if encountered on the stairs. But it seemed to be a pale transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature, its soft hazel eyes excepted. A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands, and a shabby dress--it must needs have been very shabby to look at all so, being so neat--were Little Dorrit as she sat at work. For these particulars or generalities concerning Little Dorrit, Mr Arthur was indebted in the course of the day to his own eyes and to Mrs Affery's tongue. If Mrs Affery had had any will or way of her own, it would probably have been unfavourable to Little Dorrit. But as 'them two clever ones'--Mrs Affery's perpetual reference, in whom her personality was swallowed up--were agreed to accept Little Dorrit as a matter of course, she had nothing for it but to follow suit. Similarly, if the two clever ones had agreed to murder Little Dorrit by candlelight, Mrs Affery, being required to hold the candle, would no doubt have done it. In the intervals of roasting the partridge for the invalid chamber, and preparing a baking-dish of beef and pudding for the dining-room, Mrs Affery made the communications above set forth; invariably putting her head in at the door again after she had taken it out, to enforce resistance to the two clever ones. It appeared to have become a perfect passion with Mrs Flintwinch, that the only son should be pitted against them. In the course of the day, too, Arthur looked through the whole house. Dull and dark he found it. The gaunt rooms, deserted for years upon years, seemed to have settled down into a gloomy lethargy from which nothing could rouse them again. The furniture, at once spare and lumbering, hid in the rooms rather than furnished them, and there was no colour in all the house; such colour as had ever been there, had long ago started away on lost sunbeams--got itself absorbed, perhaps, into flowers, butterflies, plumage of birds, precious stones, what not. There was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old women might have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea; the dead-cold hearths showed no traces of having ever been warmed but in heaps of soot that had tumbled down the chimneys, and eddied about in little dusky whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what had once been a drawing-room, there were a pair of meagre mirrors, with dismal processions of black figures carrying black garlands, walking round the frames; but even these were short of heads and legs, and one undertaker-like Cupid had swung round on its own axis and got upside down, and another had fallen off altogether. The room Arthur Clennam's deceased father had occupied for business purposes, when he first remembered him, was so unaltered that he might have been imagined still to keep it invisibly, as his visible relict kept her room up-stairs; Jeremiah Flintwinch still going between them negotiating. His picture, dark and gloomy, earnestly speechless on the wall, with the eyes intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from them, seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted; but as to any yielding on the part of his mother, he had now no hope, and as to any other means of setting his distrust at rest, he had abandoned hope a long time. Down in the cellars, as up in the bed-chambers, old objects that he well remembered were changed by age and decay, but were still in their old places; even to empty beer-casks hoary with cobwebs, and empty wine-bottles with fur and fungus choking up their throats. There, too, among unusual bottle-racks and pale slants of light from the yard above, was the strong room stored with old ledgers, which had as musty and corrupt a smell as if they were regularly balanced, in the dead small hours, by a nightly resurrection of old book-keepers. The baking-dish was served up in a penitential manner on a shrunken cloth at an end of the dining-table, at two o'clock, when he dined with Mr Flintwinch, the new partner. Mr Flintwinch informed him that his mother had recovered her equanimity now, and that he need not fear her again alluding to what had passed in the morning. 'And don't you lay offences at your father's door, Mr Arthur,' added Jeremiah, 'once for all, don't do it! Now, we have done with the subject.' Mr Flintwinch had been already rearranging and dusting his own particular little office, as if to do honour to his accession to new dignity. He resumed this occupation when he was replete with beef, had sucked up all the gravy in the baking-dish with the flat of his knife, and had drawn liberally on a barrel of small beer in the scullery. Thus refreshed, he tucked up his shirt-sleeves and went to work again; and Mr Arthur, watching him as he set about it, plainly saw that his father's picture, or his father's grave, would be as communicative with him as this old man. 'Now, Affery, woman,' said Mr Flintwinch, as she crossed the hall. 'You hadn't made Mr Arthur's bed when I was up there last. Stir yourself. Bustle.' But Mr Arthur found the house so blank and dreary, and was so unwilling to assist at another implacable consignment of his mother's enemies (perhaps himself among them) to mortal disfigurement and immortal ruin, that he announced his intention of lodging at the coffee-house where he had left his luggage. Mr Flintwinch taking kindly to the idea of getting rid of him, and his mother being indifferent, beyond considerations of saving, to most domestic arrangements that were not bounded by the walls of her own chamber, he easily carried this point without new offence. Daily business hours were agreed upon, which his mother, Mr Flintwinch, and he, were to devote together to a necessary checking of books and papers; and he left the home he had so lately found, with depressed heart. But Little Dorrit? The business hours, allowing for intervals of invalid regimen of oysters and partridges, during which Clennam refreshed himself with a walk, were from ten to six for about a fortnight. Sometimes Little Dorrit was employed at her needle, sometimes not, sometimes appeared as a humble visitor: which must have been her character on the occasion of his arrival. His original curiosity augmented every day, as he watched for her, saw or did not see her, and speculated about her. Influenced by his predominant idea, he even fell into a habit of discussing with himself the possibility of her being in some way associated with it. At last he resolved to watch Little Dorrit and know more of her story. 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Am nächsten Tag erzählt Arthur seiner Mutter, dass er nicht länger für das Clennam-Haus des Schreckens arbeiten will - ähm, wir meinen natürlich das Clennam-Haus für Bankwesen oder irgendeine andere Art von unbestimmten Finanzgeschäften. Wie vorhergesagt, wird Frau C. wütend. Aber sie reißt sich zusammen und erklärt, dass dies genau die Art von gottgesandter Strafe ist, die sie verdient hat. Es macht ihr Spaß, eine Art Bilanz mit dem Himmel zu führen, mit ihren eigenen Sünden auf der einen Seite und den Strafen, die sie sich selbst auferlegt oder glaubt, auf der anderen Seite. Arthur fragt dann, ob es möglich ist, dass sein Vater irgendeine Art von Bedauern hatte, mit dem er sich nicht auseinandergesetzt hatte. Vielleicht eine Person, der er etwas Schlechtes angetan hatte? Jemanden, den ihre Firma abgezockt hat? Arthur bittet seine Mutter, ihm dabei zu helfen, das herauszufinden, und verspricht, dem Geschädigten aus eigener Tasche Wiedergutmachung zu zahlen. Frau Clennam ruft Flintwinch an und rastet dann aus. Wie kann Arthur seinen toten Vater etwas vorwerfen? Und wie soll sie ihren toten Ehemann ausspähen? Flintwinch mischt sich irgendwie nicht ein, aber er erzählt Arthur, dass sein Vater niemals etwas Falsches getan hat, und sagt, dass er ihn nicht beschuldigen oder verdächtigen soll. Dann lässt er Frau Clennam dasselbe Arthur erzählen. Little Dorrit bringt das Essen für Frau Clennam herein, aber Frau C. beschließt, sich selbst zu bestrafen, indem sie nicht isst. In der Zwischenzeit ist Arthur schockiert festzustellen, dass Little Dorrit nicht tatsächlich ein junges Mädchen ist, wie er dachte, sondern eine 22-jährige Frau, die so winzig ist, dass sie wie ein Kind aussieht. Affery erzählt Arthur einiges über Little Dorrit. Sie stickt zwölf Stunden am Tag im Clennam-Haus. Niemand weiß, was sie in den anderen zwölf Stunden macht. Sie weigert sich öffentlich oder vor anderen zu essen. Arthur bemerkt auch, dass seine Mutter Little Dorrit gegenüber etwas freundlicher ist als gegenüber anderen. Arthur entscheidet, dass das Haus so deprimierend ist, dass er lieber doch im Gasthaus bleibt. Außerdem beschließt er, Little Dorrit zu verfolgen, um mehr über sie herauszufinden. Und da das weit vor der Zeit ist, in der er sie einfach googlen oder ihre Facebook-Seite lesen könnte, muss er ihr tatsächlich physisch folgen.

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: While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious. Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else. The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small--_Catherine Earnshaw_, here and there varied to _Catherine Heathcliff_, and then again to _Catherine Linton_. In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw--Heathcliff--Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres--the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription--'Catherine Earnshaw, her book,' and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine's library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped, a pen-and-ink commentary--at least the appearance of one--covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,--rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics. 'An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute--his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious--H. and I are going to rebel--we took our initiatory step this evening. 'All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire--doing anything but reading their Bibles, I'll answer for it--Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our prayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending, "What, done already?" On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners. '"You forget you have a master here," says the tyrant. "I'll demolish the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull his hair as you go by: I heard him snap his fingers." Frances pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself on her husband's knee, and there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour--foolish palaver that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks: '"T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o'ered, und t' sound o' t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye! sit ye down, ill childer! there's good books eneugh if ye'll read 'em: sit ye down, and think o' yer sowls!" 'Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might receive from the far-off fire a dull ray to show us the text of the lumber he thrust upon us. I could not bear the employment. I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub! '"Maister Hindley!" shouted our chaplain. "Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy's riven th' back off 'Th' Helmet o' Salvation,' un' Heathcliff's pawsed his fit into t' first part o' 'T' Brooad Way to Destruction!' It's fair flaysome that ye let 'em go on this gait. Ech! th' owd man wad ha' laced 'em properly--but he's goan!" 'Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, "owd Nick" would fetch us as sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman's cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion--and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified--we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.' * * * * * * I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose. 'How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!' she wrote. 'My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I can't give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place--' * * * * * * I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title--'Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabez Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.' And while I was, half-consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! What else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don't remember another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering. I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim's staff: telling me that I could never get into the house without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel, which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there: we were journeying to hear the famous Jabez Branderham preach, from the text--'Seventy Times Seven;' and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had committed the 'First of the Seventy-First,' and were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated. We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks, twice or thrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated hollow, near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes of embalming on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept whole hitherto; but as the clergyman's stipend is only twenty pounds per annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to determine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor: especially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let him starve than increase the living by one penny from their own pockets. However, in my dream, Jabez had a full and attentive congregation; and he preached--good God! what a sermon; divided into _four hundred and ninety_ parts, each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he searched for them, I cannot tell. He had his private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the brother should sin different sins on every occasion. They were of the most curious character: odd transgressions that I never imagined previously. Oh, how weary I grow. How I writhed, and yawned, and nodded, and revived! How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed my eyes, and stood up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to inform me if he would _ever_ have done. I was condemned to hear all out: finally, he reached the '_First of the Seventy-First_.' At that crisis, a sudden inspiration descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez Branderham as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon. 'Sir,' I exclaimed, 'sitting here within these four walls, at one stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads of your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked up my hat and been about to depart--Seventy times seven times have you preposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four hundred and ninety-first is too much. Fellow-martyrs, have at him! Drag him down, and crush him to atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no more!' '_Thou art the Man_!' cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over his cushion. 'Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy visage--seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul--Lo, this is human weakness: this also may be absolved! The First of the Seventy-First is come. Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written. Such honour have all His saints!' With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim's staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no weapon to raise in self-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, my nearest and most ferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence of the multitude, several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell on other sconces. Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter rappings: every man's hand was against his neighbour; and Branderham, unwilling to remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at last, to my unspeakable relief, they woke me. And what was it that had suggested the tremendous tumult? What had played Jabez's part in the row? Merely the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I listened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than before. This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. 'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in--let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of _Linton_? I had read _Earnshaw_ twenty times for Linton)--'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, 'Let me in!' and maintained its tenacious grip, almost maddening me with fear. 'How can I!' I said at length. 'Let _me_ go, if you want me to let you in!' The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! 'Begone!' I shouted. 'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.' 'It is twenty years,' mourned the voice: 'twenty years. I've been a waif for twenty years!' Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright. To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself. At last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer, 'Is any one here?' I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff's accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet. With this intention, I turned and opened the panels. I shall not soon forget the effect my action produced. Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up. 'It is only your guest, sir,' I called out, desirous to spare him the humiliation of exposing his cowardice further. 'I had the misfortune to scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare. I'm sorry I disturbed you.' 'Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood! I wish you were at the--' commenced my host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible to hold it steady. 'And who showed you up into this room?' he continued, crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the maxillary convulsions. 'Who was it? I've a good mind to turn them out of the house this moment?' 'It was your servant Zillah,' I replied, flinging myself on to the floor, and rapidly resuming my garments. 'I should not care if you did, Mr. Heathcliff; she richly deserves it. I suppose that she wanted to get another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense. Well, it is--swarming with ghosts and goblins! You have reason in shutting it up, I assure you. No one will thank you for a doze in such a den!' 'What do you mean?' asked Heathcliff, 'and what are you doing? Lie down and finish out the night, since you _are_ here; but, for heaven's sake! don't repeat that horrid noise: nothing could excuse it, unless you were having your throat cut!' 'If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would have strangled me!' I returned. 'I'm not going to endure the persecutions of your hospitable ancestors again. Was not the Reverend Jabez Branderham akin to you on the mother's side? And that minx, Catherine Linton, or Earnshaw, or however she was called--she must have been a changeling--wicked little soul! She told me she had been walking the earth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal transgressions, I've no doubt!' Scarcely were these words uttered when I recollected the association of Heathcliff's with Catherine's name in the book, which had completely slipped from my memory, till thus awakened. I blushed at my inconsideration: but, without showing further consciousness of the offence, I hastened to add--'The truth is, sir, I passed the first part of the night in--' Here I stopped afresh--I was about to say 'perusing those old volumes,' then it would have revealed my knowledge of their written, as well as their printed, contents; so, correcting myself, I went on--'in spelling over the name scratched on that window-ledge. A monotonous occupation, calculated to set me asleep, like counting, or--' 'What _can_ you mean by talking in this way to _me_!' thundered Heathcliff with savage vehemence. 'How--how _dare_ you, under my roof?--God! he's mad to speak so!' And he struck his forehead with rage. I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my explanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and proceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation of 'Catherine Linton' before, but reading it often over produced an impression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination under control. Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the bed, as I spoke; finally sitting down almost concealed behind it. I guessed, however, by his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he struggled to vanquish an excess of violent emotion. Not liking to show him that I had heard the conflict, I continued my toilette rather noisily, looked at my watch, and soliloquised on the length of the night: 'Not three o'clock yet! I could have taken oath it had been six. Time stagnates here: we must surely have retired to rest at eight!' 'Always at nine in winter, and rise at four,' said my host, suppressing a groan: and, as I fancied, by the motion of his arm's shadow, dashing a tear from his eyes. 'Mr. Lockwood,' he added, 'you may go into my room: you'll only be in the way, coming down-stairs so early: and your childish outcry has sent sleep to the devil for me.' 'And for me, too,' I replied. 'I'll walk in the yard till daylight, and then I'll be off; and you need not dread a repetition of my intrusion. I'm now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.' 'Delightful company!' muttered Heathcliff. 'Take the candle, and go where you please. I shall join you directly. Keep out of the yard, though, the dogs are unchained; and the house--Juno mounts sentinel there, and--nay, you can only ramble about the steps and passages. But, away with you! I'll come in two minutes!' I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the narrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a piece of superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly, his apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the lattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion of tears. 'Come in! come in!' he sobbed. 'Cathy, do come. Oh, do--_once_ more! Oh! my heart's darling! hear me _this_ time, Catherine, at last!' The spectre showed a spectre's ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my station, and blowing out the light. There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this raving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off, half angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my ridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; though _why_ was beyond my comprehension. I descended cautiously to the lower regions, and landed in the back-kitchen, where a gleam of fire, raked compactly together, enabled me to rekindle my candle. Nothing was stirring except a brindled, grey cat, which crept from the ashes, and saluted me with a querulous mew. Two benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the hearth; on one of these I stretched myself, and Grimalkin mounted the other. We were both of us nodding ere any one invaded our retreat, and then it was Joseph, shuffling down a wooden ladder that vanished in the roof, through a trap: the ascent to his garret, I suppose. He cast a sinister look at the little flame which I had enticed to play between the ribs, swept the cat from its elevation, and bestowing himself in the vacancy, commenced the operation of stuffing a three-inch pipe with tobacco. My presence in his sanctum was evidently esteemed a piece of impudence too shameful for remark: he silently applied the tube to his lips, folded his arms, and puffed away. I let him enjoy the luxury unannoyed; and after sucking out his last wreath, and heaving a profound sigh, he got up, and departed as solemnly as he came. A more elastic footstep entered next; and now I opened my mouth for a 'good-morning,' but closed it again, the salutation unachieved; for Hareton Earnshaw was performing his orison _sotto voce_, in a series of curses directed against every object he touched, while he rummaged a corner for a spade or shovel to dig through the drifts. He glanced over the back of the bench, dilating his nostrils, and thought as little of exchanging civilities with me as with my companion the cat. I guessed, by his preparations, that egress was allowed, and, leaving my hard couch, made a movement to follow him. He noticed this, and thrust at an inner door with the end of his spade, intimating by an inarticulate sound that there was the place where I must go, if I changed my locality. It opened into the house, where the females were already astir; Zillah urging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows; and Mrs. Heathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, reading a book by the aid of the blaze. She held her hand interposed between the furnace-heat and her eyes, and seemed absorbed in her occupation; desisting from it only to chide the servant for covering her with sparks, or to push away a dog, now and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face. I was surprised to see Heathcliff there also. He stood by the fire, his back towards me, just finishing a stormy scene with poor Zillah; who ever and anon interrupted her labour to pluck up the corner of her apron, and heave an indignant groan. 'And you, you worthless--' he broke out as I entered, turning to his daughter-in-law, and employing an epithet as harmless as duck, or sheep, but generally represented by a dash--. 'There you are, at your idle tricks again! The rest of them do earn their bread--you live on my charity! Put your trash away, and find something to do. You shall pay me for the plague of having you eternally in my sight--do you hear, damnable jade?' 'I'll put my trash away, because you can make me if I refuse,' answered the young lady, closing her book, and throwing it on a chair. 'But I'll not do anything, though you should swear your tongue out, except what I please!' Heathcliff lifted his hand, and the speaker sprang to a safer distance, obviously acquainted with its weight. Having no desire to be entertained by a cat-and-dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, as if eager to partake the warmth of the hearth, and innocent of any knowledge of the interrupted dispute. Each had enough decorum to suspend further hostilities: Heathcliff placed his fists, out of temptation, in his pockets; Mrs. Heathcliff curled her lip, and walked to a seat far off, where she kept her word by playing the part of a statue during the remainder of my stay. That was not long. I declined joining their breakfast, and, at the first gleam of dawn, took an opportunity of escaping into the free air, now clear, and still, and cold as impalpable ice. My landlord halloed for me to stop ere I reached the bottom of the garden, and offered to accompany me across the moor. It was well he did, for the whole hill-back was one billowy, white ocean; the swells and falls not indicating corresponding rises and depressions in the ground: many pits, at least, were filled to a level; and entire ranges of mounds, the refuse of the quarries, blotted from the chart which my yesterday's walk left pictured in my mind. I had remarked on one side of the road, at intervals of six or seven yards, a line of upright stones, continued through the whole length of the barren: these were erected and daubed with lime on purpose to serve as guides in the dark, and also when a fall, like the present, confounded the deep swamps on either hand with the firmer path: but, excepting a dirty dot pointing up here and there, all traces of their existence had vanished: and my companion found it necessary to warn me frequently to steer to the right or left, when I imagined I was following, correctly, the windings of the road. We exchanged little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of Thrushcross Park, saying, I could make no error there. Our adieux were limited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to my own resources; for the porter's lodge is untenanted as yet. The distance from the gate to the grange is two miles; I believe I managed to make it four, what with losing myself among the trees, and sinking up to the neck in snow: a predicament which only those who have experienced it can appreciate. At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock chimed twelve as I entered the house; and that gave exactly an hour for every mile of the usual way from Wuthering Heights. My human fixture and her satellites rushed to welcome me; exclaiming, tumultuously, they had completely given me up: everybody conjectured that I perished last night; and they were wondering how they must set about the search for my remains. I bid them be quiet, now that they saw me returned, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged up-stairs; whence, after putting on dry clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or forty minutes, to restore the animal heat, I adjourned to my study, feeble as a kitten: almost too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and smoking coffee which the servant had prepared for my refreshment. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der vorhergehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Zillah führt Lockwood in einen Raum im ersten Stock und informiert ihn, dass ihr Herr niemanden freiwillig dort bleiben lässt. In dem Raum findet er einige alte Bücher und öffnet sie. In einem davon entdeckt Lockwood, dass jeder verfügbare Platz mit kindlichen Kritzeleien bedeckt ist. In der Schrift entdeckt er Verweise auf einen verstorbenen Vater und auf die grausame Behandlung von Heathcliff durch einen gemeinen und fordernden Bruder, Hindley, und seine Frau, Frances. Es wird auch von dem frommen Heuchler Joseph und der liebevollen Beziehung des Schreibers zu Heathcliff erwähnt. Mr. Lockwood schläft unruhig und hat zwei Albträume. Der erste basiert auf dem Titel eines gerade gelesenen Predigtbuches und spielt größtenteils in einer Kapelle. Sein zweiter Albtraum ist noch beängstigender. Das Geistchen von Catherine Linton bittet ihn, es hereinzulassen; "während es sprach, erkannte ich undeutlich ein Kindergesicht, das aus dem Fenster schaute... Ich zog sein Handgelenk an der zerbrochenen Scheibe und rieb es hin und her, bis das Blut herunterlief und die Bettwäsche durchnässte. Trotzdem jammerte es, 'Lass mich rein!'" Lockwood erwacht mit einem Schrei. Heathcliff betritt den Raum und ist verärgert, Lockwood in diesem Bett zu sehen. Er sagt Lockwood, in das Zimmer unten zu gehen und dort die Nacht zu verbringen. Als Lockwood geht, sieht er Heathcliff leidenschaftlich nach Catherine rufen. Am Morgen geht Lockwood in die Küche im Erdgeschoss und setzt sich am Herd, wo er zuerst Joseph und dann Hareton trifft. Letzterer bringt ihn ins Wohnzimmer, wo er Heathcliff und seine Schwiegertochter in einen heftigen Streit verwickelt vorfindet. Lockwood lehnt ab, sich ihnen zum Frühstück anzuschließen, und verlässt das Haus. Sein Vermieter führt ihn über die Moore bis zum Tor von Thrushcross Grange, zwei Meilen vom Haus entfernt.

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 I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought it necessary for the completion of my education that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the distemper—Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.” She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled. She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all. She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget. The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education. He said little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce. We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said, and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived; but when at morning’s dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there—my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend. I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure—I was now alone. In the university whither I was going I must form my own friends and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old familiar faces,” but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had longed to enter the world and take my station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent. I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I pleased. The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to some of the principal professors. Chance—or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father’s door—led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared. “Have you,” he said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?” I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.” So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted. I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget: “The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.” Such were the professor’s words—rather let me say such the words of the fate—enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation. I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning’s dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public, for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor. He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said that “These were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation, and then added that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure. “I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics.” He then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested, and I took my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny. 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.

Der 17-jährige Victor steht kurz davor, Student an der Universität Ingolstadt in Deutschland zu werden, aber ein örtlicher Ausbruch von Scharlach verzögert seine Reise. Sowohl seine Mutter als auch Elizabeth werden von der Krankheit befallen, doch nur Elizabeth überlebt. Bevor Caroline stirbt, offenbart sie ihren Wunsch, dass Victor und Elizabeth heiraten sollten. Elizabeth übernimmt die Kontrolle über den Haushalt und Victor findet es schwer, sich zu diesem Zeitpunkt von seiner Familie zu verabschieden, doch er wird ermutigt, sein Studium in Ingolstadt zu beginnen. In Deutschland werden zwei Professoren, Krempe und Waldman, zu Victors Hauptmentoren. Er findet Waldmans Unterricht viel förderlicher und entwickelt bald eine enge Verbundenheit zu diesem Professor.

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 20th of October in the preceding year, after the close of the subscription, the president of the Gun Club had credited the Observatory of Cambridge with the necessary sums for the construction of a gigantic optical instrument. This instrument was designed for the purpose of rendering visible on the surface of the moon any object exceeding nine feet in diameter. At the period when the Gun Club essayed their great experiment, such instruments had reached a high degree of perfection, and produced some magnificent results. Two telescopes in particular, at this time, were possessed of remarkable power and of gigantic dimensions. The first, constructed by Herschel, was thirty-six feet in length, and had an object-glass of four feet six inches; it possessed a magnifying power of 6,000. The second was raised in Ireland, in Parsonstown Park, and belongs to Lord Rosse. The length of this tube is forty-eight feet, and the diameter of its object-glass six feet; it magnifies 6,400 times, and required an immense erection of brick work and masonry for the purpose of working it, its weight being twelve and a half tons. Still, despite these colossal dimensions, the actual enlargements scarcely exceeded 6,000 times in round numbers; consequently, the moon was brought within no nearer an apparent distance than thirty-nine miles; and objects of less than sixty feet in diameter, unless they were of very considerable length, were still imperceptible. In the present case, dealing with a projectile nine feet in diameter and fifteen feet long, it became necessary to bring the moon within an apparent distance of five miles at most; and for that purpose to establish a magnifying power of 48,000 times. Such was the question proposed to the Observatory of Cambridge, There was no lack of funds; the difficulty was purely one of construction. After considerable discussion as to the best form and principle of the proposed instrument the work was finally commenced. According to the calculations of the Observatory of Cambridge, the tube of the new reflector would require to be 280 feet in length, and the object-glass sixteen feet in diameter. Colossal as these dimensions may appear, they were diminutive in comparison with the 10,000 foot telescope proposed by the astronomer Hooke only a few years ago! Regarding the choice of locality, that matter was promptly determined. The object was to select some lofty mountain, and there are not many of these in the United States. In fact there are but two chains of moderate elevation, between which runs the magnificent Mississippi, the "king of rivers" as these Republican Yankees delight to call it. Eastwards rise the Appalachians, the very highest point of which, in New Hampshire, does not exceed the very moderate altitude of 5,600 feet. On the west, however, rise the Rocky Mountains, that immense range which, commencing at the Straights of Magellan, follows the western coast of Southern America under the name of the Andes or the Cordilleras, until it crosses the Isthmus of Panama, and runs up the whole of North America to the very borders of the Polar Sea. The highest elevation of this range still does not exceed 10,700 feet. With this elevation, nevertheless, the Gun Club were compelled to be content, inasmuch as they had determined that both telescope and Columbiad should be erected within the limits of the Union. All the necessary apparatus was consequently sent on to the summit of Long's Peak, in the territory of Missouri. Neither pen nor language can describe the difficulties of all kinds which the American engineers had to surmount, of the prodigies of daring and skill which they accomplished. They had to raise enormous stones, massive pieces of wrought iron, heavy corner-clamps and huge portions of cylinder, with an object-glass weighing nearly 30,000 pounds, above the line of perpetual snow for more than 10,000 feet in height, after crossing desert prairies, impenetrable forests, fearful rapids, far from all centers of population, and in the midst of savage regions, in which every detail of life becomes an almost insoluble problem. And yet, notwithstanding these innumerable obstacles, American genius triumphed. In less than a year after the commencement of the works, toward the close of September, the gigantic reflector rose into the air to a height of 280 feet. It was raised by means of an enormous iron crane; an ingenious mechanism allowed it to be easily worked toward all the points of the heavens, and to follow the stars from the one horizon to the other during their journey through the heavens. It had cost $400,000. The first time it was directed toward the moon the observers evinced both curiosity and anxiety. What were they about to discover in the field of this telescope which magnified objects 48,000 times? Would they perceive peoples, herds of lunar animals, towns, lakes, seas? No! there was nothing which science had not already discovered! and on all the points of its disc the volcanic nature of the moon became determinable with the utmost precision. But the telescope of the Rocky Mountains, before doing its duty to the Gun Club, rendered immense services to astronomy. Thanks to its penetrative power, the depths of the heavens were sounded to the utmost extent; the apparent diameter of a great number of stars was accurately measured; and Mr. Clark, of the Cambridge staff, resolved the Crab nebula in Taurus, which the reflector of Lord Rosse had never been able to decompose. 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.

Das Startdatum rückt schnell näher und als Nächstes auf der Tagesordnung steht der Bau eines Teleskops, um den Fortschritt der Kapsel verfolgen zu können. Sie wählen "den Gipfel des Long's Peak im Missouri-Territorium" aufgrund seiner hohen Aussichtspunkt. Das Endprodukt kostet etwa vierhunderttausend Dollar und ist fortschrittlicher als jedes zuvor gesehene Teleskop.

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: In a hilarious hall there were twenty-eight tables and twenty-eight women and a crowd of smoking men. Valiant noise was made on a stage at the end of the hall by an orchestra composed of men who looked as if they had just happened in. Soiled waiters ran to and fro, swooping down like hawks on the unwary in the throng; clattering along the aisles with trays covered with glasses; stumbling over women's skirts and charging two prices for everything but beer, all with a swiftness that blurred the view of the cocoanut palms and dusty monstrosities painted upon the walls of the room. A bouncer, with an immense load of business upon his hands, plunged about in the crowd, dragging bashful strangers to prominent chairs, ordering waiters here and there and quarreling furiously with men who wanted to sing with the orchestra. The usual smoke cloud was present, but so dense that heads and arms seemed entangled in it. The rumble of conversation was replaced by a roar. Plenteous oaths heaved through the air. The room rang with the shrill voices of women bubbling o'er with drink-laughter. The chief element in the music of the orchestra was speed. The musicians played in intent fury. A woman was singing and smiling upon the stage, but no one took notice of her. The rate at which the piano, cornet and violins were going, seemed to impart wildness to the half-drunken crowd. Beer glasses were emptied at a gulp and conversation became a rapid chatter. The smoke eddied and swirled like a shadowy river hurrying toward some unseen falls. Pete and Maggie entered the hall and took chairs at a table near the door. The woman who was seated there made an attempt to occupy Pete's attention and, failing, went away. Three weeks had passed since the girl had left home. The air of spaniel-like dependence had been magnified and showed its direct effect in the peculiar off-handedness and ease of Pete's ways toward her. She followed Pete's eyes with hers, anticipating with smiles gracious looks from him. A woman of brilliance and audacity, accompanied by a mere boy, came into the place and took seats near them. At once Pete sprang to his feet, his face beaming with glad surprise. "By Gawd, there's Nellie," he cried. He went over to the table and held out an eager hand to the woman. "Why, hello, Pete, me boy, how are you," said she, giving him her fingers. Maggie took instant note of the woman. She perceived that her black dress fitted her to perfection. Her linen collar and cuffs were spotless. Tan gloves were stretched over her well-shaped hands. A hat of a prevailing fashion perched jauntily upon her dark hair. She wore no jewelry and was painted with no apparent paint. She looked clear-eyed through the stares of the men. "Sit down, and call your lady-friend over," she said cordially to Pete. At his beckoning Maggie came and sat between Pete and the mere boy. "I thought yeh were gone away fer good," began Pete, at once. "When did yeh git back? How did dat Buff'lo bus'ness turn out?" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Well, he didn't have as many stamps as he tried to make out, so I shook him, that's all." "Well, I'm glad teh see yehs back in deh city," said Pete, with awkward gallantry. He and the woman entered into a long conversation, exchanging reminiscences of days together. Maggie sat still, unable to formulate an intelligent sentence upon the conversation and painfully aware of it. She saw Pete's eyes sparkle as he gazed upon the handsome stranger. He listened smilingly to all she said. The woman was familiar with all his affairs, asked him about mutual friends, and knew the amount of his salary. She paid no attention to Maggie, looking toward her once or twice and apparently seeing the wall beyond. The mere boy was sulky. In the beginning he had welcomed with acclamations the additions. "Let's all have a drink! What'll you take, Nell? And you, Miss what's-your-name. Have a drink, Mr. -----, you, I mean." He had shown a sprightly desire to do the talking for the company and tell all about his family. In a loud voice he declaimed on various topics. He assumed a patronizing air toward Pete. As Maggie was silent, he paid no attention to her. He made a great show of lavishing wealth upon the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Do keep still, Freddie! You gibber like an ape, dear," said the woman to him. She turned away and devoted her attention to Pete. "We'll have many a good time together again, eh?" "Sure, Mike," said Pete, enthusiastic at once. "Say," whispered she, leaning forward, "let's go over to Billie's and have a heluva time." "Well, it's dis way! See?" said Pete. "I got dis lady frien' here." "Oh, t'hell with her," argued the woman. Pete appeared disturbed. "All right," said she, nodding her head at him. "All right for you! We'll see the next time you ask me to go anywheres with you." Pete squirmed. "Say," he said, beseechingly, "come wid me a minit an' I'll tell yer why." The woman waved her hand. "Oh, that's all right, you needn't explain, you know. You wouldn't come merely because you wouldn't come, that's all there is of it." To Pete's visible distress she turned to the mere boy, bringing him speedily from a terrific rage. He had been debating whether it would be the part of a man to pick a quarrel with Pete, or would he be justified in striking him savagely with his beer glass without warning. But he recovered himself when the woman turned to renew her smilings. He beamed upon her with an expression that was somewhat tipsy and inexpressibly tender. "Say, shake that Bowery jay," requested he, in a loud whisper. "Freddie, you are so droll," she replied. Pete reached forward and touched the woman on the arm. "Come out a minit while I tells yeh why I can't go wid yer. Yer doin' me dirt, Nell! I never taut ye'd do me dirt, Nell. Come on, will yer?" He spoke in tones of injury. "Why, I don't see why I should be interested in your explanations," said the woman, with a coldness that seemed to reduce Pete to a pulp. His eyes pleaded with her. "Come out a minit while I tells yeh." The woman nodded slightly at Maggie and the mere boy, "'Scuse me." The mere boy interrupted his loving smile and turned a shrivelling glare upon Pete. His boyish countenance flushed and he spoke, in a whine, to the woman: "Oh, I say, Nellie, this ain't a square deal, you know. You aren't goin' to leave me and go off with that duffer, are you? I should think--" "Why, you dear boy, of course I'm not," cried the woman, affectionately. She bended over and whispered in his ear. He smiled again and settled in his chair as if resolved to wait patiently. As the woman walked down between the rows of tables, Pete was at her shoulder talking earnestly, apparently in explanation. The woman waved her hands with studied airs of indifference. The doors swung behind them, leaving Maggie and the mere boy seated at the table. Maggie was dazed. She could dimly perceive that something stupendous had happened. She wondered why Pete saw fit to remonstrate with the woman, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes. She thought she noted an air of submission about her leonine Pete. She was astounded. The mere boy occupied himself with cock-tails and a cigar. He was tranquilly silent for half an hour. Then he bestirred himself and spoke. "Well," he said, sighing, "I knew this was the way it would be." There was another stillness. The mere boy seemed to be musing. "Sie hat mich auf den Arm genommen. Das ist die ganze Geschichte", sagte er plötzlich. "Es ist eine verdammte Schande, wie dieses Mädchen handelt. Ich habe heute Abend über zwei Dollar für Getränke ausgegeben. Und sie geht mit diesem hässlichen Kerl weg, der aussieht, als wäre er mit einer Münze ins Gesicht geschlagen worden. Ich nenne das miese Behandlung für einen Kerl wie mich. Hier, Kellner, bringen Sie mir einen Cocktail und machen Sie ihn verdammt stark." Maggie antwortete nicht. Sie beobachtete die Türen. "Das ist eine gemeine Angelegenheit", beschwerte sich der junge Mann. Er erklärte ihr, wie erstaunlich es war, dass jemand ihn auf diese Weise behandeln würde. "Aber ich werde mich an ihr rächen, da kannst du sicher sein. Sie wird nicht weit kommen, bevor ich sie einhole, weißt du", fügte er hinzu und zwinkerte. "Ich werde ihr deutlich sagen, dass es eine verdammte Gemeinheit war. Und sie wird mich nicht mit einem ihrer 'jetzt-Freddie-Lieblinge' überrumpeln. Sie denkt, mein Name ist Freddie, weißt du, aber natürlich ist es das nicht. Ich nenne diesen Leuten immer so einen Namen, denn wenn sie deinen richtigen Namen wissen, könnten sie ihn irgendwann benutzen. Verstanden? Oh, sie täuschen mich nicht viel." Maggie beachtete ihn nicht, sie war konzentriert auf die Türen. Der junge Mann verfiel in eine Phase der Traurigkeit, während der er eine Reihe von Cocktails mit entschlossener Miene vernichtete, als würde er trotzig dem Schicksal antworten. Ab und zu brach er in Beleidigungen aus, die zu langen Sätzen zusammengefügt waren. Das Mädchen starrte immer noch auf die Türen. Nach einer Weile begann der junge Mann Spinnweben direkt vor seiner Nase zu sehen. Er bemühte sich, nett zu sein, und bestand darauf, dass sie eine Charlotte Russe und ein Glas Bier bekam. "Sie sind weg", bemerkte er, "sie sind weg." Er betrachtete sie durch die Rauchschwaden. "Sag mal, kleines Mädchen, wir könnten es genauso gut nutzen. Du bist keine schlecht aussehende Mädchen, weißt du. Gar nicht so übel. Kannst aber Nell nicht das Wasser reichen. Nein, das kannst du nicht! Na ja, das sollte ich meinen! Nell gutaussehendes Mädchen! F-i-n-e. Du siehst neben ihr verdammt schlecht aus, aber alleine nicht so übel. Müssen sowieso. Nell weg. Nur du übrig. Nicht halb so schlecht, aber." Maggie stand auf. "Ich gehe nach Hause", sagte sie. Der junge Mann zuckte zusammen. "Hä? Was? Nach Hause?", rief er erstaunt. "Ich bitte um Verzeihung, habe ich richtig gehört, nach Hause?" "Ich gehe nach Hause", wiederholte sie. "Guter Gott, was ist passiert", fragte sich der junge Mann verwirrt. In einem halbbewussten Zustand begleitete er sie in eine U-Bahn, zahlte auffällig ihr Fahrkarte, zwinkerte ihr freundlich aus dem hinteren Fenster zu und fiel von den Stufen. 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.

Drei Wochen nachdem Maggie ihr Zuhause verlassen hat, um bei Pete zu sein, sitzen sie in einem weiteren Tanzsaal. An jedem Tisch sitzt eine Frau zweifelhaften Charakters, die Musiker sind unkoordiniert und ihre größte Stärke liegt in der Geschwindigkeit. Eine Frau steht auf der Bühne und singt, doch die übermäßig aufgebrachte Menge ignoriert sie und erstickt ihr Lied mit ihrer gewalttätigen Unterhaltung. Als Pete und Maggie einen Tisch neben der Tür nehmen, buhlt die bereits dort sitzende Frau um Petes Aufmerksamkeit, scheitert jedoch und geht. Maggie ist noch offensichtlicher von Pete abhängig als zuvor. Eine Frau, die der Erzähler als "eine Frau von Brillanz und Kühnheit" charakterisiert, begleitet von einem "nur Jungen", nimmt Plätze nahe bei ihnen ein. Pete erkennt sie sofort und ruft ihr zu: "Beim Herrgott, da ist Nellie." Maggie bemerkt, dass die Frau Männern direkt in die Augen sieht und dass sie in der neuesten Mode gekleidet ist, mit Kleidung, die ihre Figur sehr vorteilhaft betont. Sie trägt keinen Schmuck und auch kein Make-up - beides Merkmale von Prostituierten. Die Frau Nellie erkennt Pete und fordert ihn und seine "Freundin" auf, sich ihr und ihrem Begleiter anzuschließen. Maggie sitzt zwischen Pete und dem "nur Jungen". Zuerst begrüßt der "nur Junge" die Neulinge, aber sein Verhalten kühlt ab, als er feststellt, dass Nellie Pete die meiste Aufmerksamkeit schenkt. Maggie bemerkt sofort, dass die Frau Pete kennt und sogar die Höhe seines Gehalts kennt. Pete fragt Nell nach einer Affäre in Buffalo, und sie verhöhnt spöttisch den Mann, den sie dort zurückgelassen hat, weil er nicht die Mittel hatte, die sie erwartet hatte. Daher ist sie gegangen. Maggie sieht, dass Petes Augen aufleuchten, wenn er mit Nell spricht. Sie versucht, etwas zu der lebhaften Unterhaltung beizutragen, aber ihr fällt nichts ein, was sie sagen könnte. Gelegentlich schaut Nell sie an, aber scheint direkt durch sie hindurchzusehen und keine Beachtung zu schenken. Der "nur Junge" tut für eine Weile so, als wäre er Pete gegenüber wohlwollend und prahlt mit Reichtum, aber sein widerlicher Tonfall unterbricht das Gespräch, und Nell befiehlt: "Sei still, Freddie! Du erzapperst wie ein Affe, mein Lieber." Nach einigem Gespräch schlägt Nell vor, dass sie und Pete zusammen "eine Höllenzeit" verbringen gehen, aber Pete wehrt sich und besteht darauf, dass er es nicht kann, weil er seine Freundin dabei hat. "Zum Teufel mit ihr", antwortet die Frau, aber Pete bleibt standhaft. Nell gibt vor verletzt zu sein von Petes Ablehnung und warnt ihn, dass sie nicht beim nächsten Mal so bereitwillig sein wird. Pete bittet sie, für einen Moment beiseitezutreten, damit er erklären kann, warum er bei Maggie bleiben muss, aber Nell zeigt Desinteresse. Sie richtet ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf den "nur Jungen", der gerade darüber nachdenkt, ob er sich mit Pete anlegen soll. Als Nell ihn beachtet, wird Freddie jedoch aufmerksam und bittet sie, den "Straßenlümmel" abzuschütteln. Pete wird verzweifelt, zu erklären, aber Nell sieht nicht ein, warum sie seinen Gründen Gehör schenken sollte. Nach einigem weiteren Gespräch stimmt Nell zu, mit Pete auszugehen. Freddie ist sofort beleidigt, aber Nell flüstert ihm beruhigende Worte ins Ohr, und er stimmt zu, geduldig zu warten. Während Maggie stumm beobachtet, wie Pete und Nell gemeinsam gehen, während Pete weiterhin Ausreden anbietet und die Frau ihn weiterhin wegwinkt, fühlt sie, dass etwas Bedeutendes passiert ist, kann aber nicht genau sagen, was es ist. Sie ist nicht nur überrascht von seinem plötzlichen Weggang, sondern auch von seiner Unterwerfung gegenüber der Frau. Nachdem sie gegangen sind, wartet Freddie eine halbe Stunde lang schweigend und erklärt dann Maggie, dass er wusste, dass Nell die ganze Zeit weglaufen würde, deshalb gibt er "diesen Leuten" nie seinen echten Namen. Er betrauert das Geld, das er für Nell ausgegeben hat, und trinkt weitere Cocktails, um seine Enttäuschung zu ertränken. Maggie hört kaum, was er sagt, und richtet ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf die Tür, während sie auf die Rückkehr von Pete wartet. Nach einiger Zeit und einigen weiteren Drinks bringt sich Freddie in eine positive Stimmung und schlägt vor, das Beste daraus zu machen. Obwohl er Maggie laut verkündet, dass sie Nell unterlegen ist, besteht er darauf, dass sie für den Abend gut genug ist und dass sie "gar nicht so übel" ist. Maggie verkündet, dass sie nach Hause geht, und der etwas verwirrte Freddie hilft ihr, in ein Auto zu steigen und bezahlt ihre Fahrkarte, bevor er von den Stufen fällt, als ihr Wagen losfährt.

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: Quite a Sentimental Chapter We must now take leave of Arcadia, and those amiable people practising the rural virtues there, and travel back to London, to inquire what has become of Miss Amelia. "We don't care a fig for her," writes some unknown correspondent with a pretty little handwriting and a pink seal to her note. "She is fade and insipid," and adds some more kind remarks in this strain, which I should never have repeated at all, but that they are in truth prodigiously complimentary to the young lady whom they concern. Has the beloved reader, in his experience of society, never heard similar remarks by good-natured female friends; who always wonder what you CAN see in Miss Smith that is so fascinating; or what COULD induce Major Jones to propose for that silly insignificant simpering Miss Thompson, who has nothing but her wax-doll face to recommend her? What is there in a pair of pink cheeks and blue eyes forsooth? these dear Moralists ask, and hint wisely that the gifts of genius, the accomplishments of the mind, the mastery of Mangnall's Questions, and a ladylike knowledge of botany and geology, the knack of making poetry, the power of rattling sonatas in the Herz-manner, and so forth, are far more valuable endowments for a female, than those fugitive charms which a few years will inevitably tarnish. It is quite edifying to hear women speculate upon the worthlessness and the duration of beauty. But though virtue is a much finer thing, and those hapless creatures who suffer under the misfortune of good looks ought to be continually put in mind of the fate which awaits them; and though, very likely, the heroic female character which ladies admire is a more glorious and beautiful object than the kind, fresh, smiling, artless, tender little domestic goddess, whom men are inclined to worship--yet the latter and inferior sort of women must have this consolation--that the men do admire them after all; and that, in spite of all our kind friends' warnings and protests, we go on in our desperate error and folly, and shall to the end of the chapter. Indeed, for my own part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair: all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman. The young ladies in Amelia's society did this for her very satisfactorily. For instance, there was scarcely any point upon which the Misses Osborne, George's sisters, and the Mesdemoiselles Dobbin agreed so well as in their estimate of her very trifling merits: and their wonder that their brothers could find any charms in her. "We are kind to her," the Misses Osborne said, a pair of fine black-browed young ladies who had had the best of governesses, masters, and milliners; and they treated her with such extreme kindness and condescension, and patronised her so insufferably, that the poor little thing was in fact perfectly dumb in their presence, and to all outward appearance as stupid as they thought her. She made efforts to like them, as in duty bound, and as sisters of her future husband. She passed "long mornings" with them--the most dreary and serious of forenoons. She drove out solemnly in their great family coach with them, and Miss Wirt their governess, that raw-boned Vestal. They took her to the ancient concerts by way of a treat, and to the oratorio, and to St. Paul's to see the charity children, where in such terror was she of her friends, she almost did not dare be affected by the hymn the children sang. Their house was comfortable; their papa's table rich and handsome; their society solemn and genteel; their self-respect prodigious; they had the best pew at the Foundling: all their habits were pompous and orderly, and all their amusements intolerably dull and decorous. After every one of her visits (and oh how glad she was when they were over!) Miss Osborne and Miss Maria Osborne, and Miss Wirt, the vestal governess, asked each other with increased wonder, "What could George find in that creature?" How is this? some carping reader exclaims. How is it that Amelia, who had such a number of friends at school, and was so beloved there, comes out into the world and is spurned by her discriminating sex? My dear sir, there were no men at Miss Pinkerton's establishment except the old dancing-master; and you would not have had the girls fall out about HIM? When George, their handsome brother, ran off directly after breakfast, and dined from home half-a-dozen times a week, no wonder the neglected sisters felt a little vexation. When young Bullock (of the firm of Hulker, Bullock & Co., Bankers, Lombard Street), who had been making up to Miss Maria the last two seasons, actually asked Amelia to dance the cotillon, could you expect that the former young lady should be pleased? And yet she said she was, like an artless forgiving creature. "I'm so delighted you like dear Amelia," she said quite eagerly to Mr. Bullock after the dance. "She's engaged to my brother George; there's not much in her, but she's the best-natured and most unaffected young creature: at home we're all so fond of her." Dear girl! who can calculate the depth of affection expressed in that enthusiastic SO? Miss Wirt and these two affectionate young women so earnestly and frequently impressed upon George Osborne's mind the enormity of the sacrifice he was making, and his romantic generosity in throwing himself away upon Amelia, that I'm not sure but that he really thought he was one of the most deserving characters in the British army, and gave himself up to be loved with a good deal of easy resignation. Somehow, although he left home every morning, as was stated, and dined abroad six days in the week, when his sisters believed the infatuated youth to be at Miss Sedley's apron-strings: he was NOT always with Amelia, whilst the world supposed him at her feet. Certain it is that on more occasions than one, when Captain Dobbin called to look for his friend, Miss Osborne (who was very attentive to the Captain, and anxious to hear his military stories, and to know about the health of his dear Mamma), would laughingly point to the opposite side of the square, and say, "Oh, you must go to the Sedleys' to ask for George; WE never see him from morning till night." At which kind of speech the Captain would laugh in rather an absurd constrained manner, and turn off the conversation, like a consummate man of the world, to some topic of general interest, such as the Opera, the Prince's last ball at Carlton House, or the weather--that blessing to society. "What an innocent it is, that pet of yours," Miss Maria would then say to Miss Jane, upon the Captain's departure. "Did you see how he blushed at the mention of poor George on duty?" "It's a pity Frederick Bullock hadn't some of his modesty, Maria," replies the elder sister, with a toss of he head. "Modesty! Awkwardness you mean, Jane. I don't want Frederick to trample a hole in my muslin frock, as Captain Dobbin did in yours at Mrs. Perkins'." "In YOUR frock, he, he! How could he? Wasn't he dancing with Amelia?" The fact is, when Captain Dobbin blushed so, and looked so awkward, he remembered a circumstance of which he did not think it was necessary to inform the young ladies, viz., that he had been calling at Mr. Sedley's house already, on the pretence of seeing George, of course, and George wasn't there, only poor little Amelia, with rather a sad wistful face, seated near the drawing-room window, who, after some very trifling stupid talk, ventured to ask, was there any truth in the report that the regiment was soon to be ordered abroad; and had Captain Dobbin seen Mr. Osborne that day? The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet; and Captain Dobbin had not seen George. "He was with his sister, most likely," the Captain said. "Should he go and fetch the truant?" So she gave him her hand kindly and gratefully: and he crossed the square; and she waited and waited, but George never came. Poor little tender heart! and so it goes on hoping and beating, and longing and trusting. You see it is not much of a life to describe. There is not much of what you call incident in it. Only one feeling all day--when will he come? only one thought to sleep and wake upon. I believe George was playing billiards with Captain Cannon in Swallow Street at the time when Amelia was asking Captain Dobbin about him; for George was a jolly sociable fellow, and excellent in all games of skill. Once, after three days of absence, Miss Amelia put on her bonnet, and actually invaded the Osborne house. "What! leave our brother to come to us?" said the young ladies. "Have you had a quarrel, Amelia? Do tell us!" No, indeed, there had been no quarrel. "Who could quarrel with him?" says she, with her eyes filled with tears. She only came over to--to see her dear friends; they had not met for so long. And this day she was so perfectly stupid and awkward, that the Misses Osborne and their governess, who stared after her as she went sadly away, wondered more than ever what George could see in poor little Amelia. Of course they did. How was she to bare that timid little heart for the inspection of those young ladies with their bold black eyes? It was best that it should shrink and hide itself. I know the Misses Osborne were excellent critics of a Cashmere shawl, or a pink satin slip; and when Miss Turner had hers dyed purple, and made into a spencer; and when Miss Pickford had her ermine tippet twisted into a muff and trimmings, I warrant you the changes did not escape the two intelligent young women before mentioned. But there are things, look you, of a finer texture than fur or satin, and all Solomon's glories, and all the wardrobe of the Queen of Sheba--things whereof the beauty escapes the eyes of many connoisseurs. And there are sweet modest little souls on which you light, fragrant and blooming tenderly in quiet shady places; and there are garden-ornaments, as big as brass warming-pans, that are fit to stare the sun itself out of countenance. Miss Sedley was not of the sunflower sort; and I say it is out of the rules of all proportion to draw a violet of the size of a double dahlia. No, indeed; the life of a good young girl who is in the paternal nest as yet, can't have many of those thrilling incidents to which the heroine of romance commonly lays claim. Snares or shot may take off the old birds foraging without--hawks may be abroad, from which they escape or by whom they suffer; but the young ones in the nest have a pretty comfortable unromantic sort of existence in the down and the straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on the wing. While Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hopping on all sorts of twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and pecking up her food quite harmless and successful, Amelia lay snug in her home of Russell Square; if she went into the world, it was under the guidance of the elders; nor did it seem that any evil could befall her or that opulent cheery comfortable home in which she was affectionately sheltered. Mamma had her morning duties, and her daily drive, and the delightful round of visits and shopping which forms the amusement, or the profession as you may call it, of the rich London lady. Papa conducted his mysterious operations in the City--a stirring place in those days, when war was raging all over Europe, and empires were being staked; when the "Courier" newspaper had tens of thousands of subscribers; when one day brought you a battle of Vittoria, another a burning of Moscow, or a newsman's horn blowing down Russell Square about dinner-time, announced such a fact as--"Battle of Leipsic--six hundred thousand men engaged--total defeat of the French--two hundred thousand killed." Old Sedley once or twice came home with a very grave face; and no wonder, when such news as this was agitating all the hearts and all the Stocks of Europe. Meanwhile matters went on in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, just as if matters in Europe were not in the least disorganised. The retreat from Leipsic made no difference in the number of meals Mr. Sambo took in the servants' hall; the allies poured into France, and the dinner-bell rang at five o'clock just as usual. I don't think poor Amelia cared anything about Brienne and Montmirail, or was fairly interested in the war until the abdication of the Emperor; when she clapped her hands and said prayers--oh, how grateful! and flung herself into George Osborne's arms with all her soul, to the astonishment of everybody who witnessed that ebullition of sentiment. The fact is, peace was declared, Europe was going to be at rest; the Corsican was overthrown, and Lieutenant Osborne's regiment would not be ordered on service. That was the way in which Miss Amelia reasoned. The fate of Europe was Lieutenant George Osborne to her. His dangers being over, she sang Te Deum. He was her Europe: her emperor: her allied monarchs and august prince regent. He was her sun and moon; and I believe she thought the grand illumination and ball at the Mansion House, given to the sovereigns, were especially in honour of George Osborne. We have talked of shift, self, and poverty, as those dismal instructors under whom poor Miss Becky Sharp got her education. Now, love was Miss Amelia Sedley's last tutoress, and it was amazing what progress our young lady made under that popular teacher. In the course of fifteen or eighteen months' daily and constant attention to this eminent finishing governess, what a deal of secrets Amelia learned, which Miss Wirt and the black-eyed young ladies over the way, which old Miss Pinkerton of Chiswick herself, had no cognizance of! As, indeed, how should any of those prim and reputable virgins? With Misses P. and W. the tender passion is out of the question: I would not dare to breathe such an idea regarding them. Miss Maria Osborne, it is true, was "attached" to Mr. Frederick Augustus Bullock, of the firm of Hulker, Bullock & Bullock; but hers was a most respectable attachment, and she would have taken Bullock Senior just the same, her mind being fixed--as that of a well-bred young woman should be--upon a house in Park Lane, a country house at Wimbledon, a handsome chariot, and two prodigious tall horses and footmen, and a fourth of the annual profits of the eminent firm of Hulker & Bullock, all of which advantages were represented in the person of Frederick Augustus. Had orange blossoms been invented then (those touching emblems of female purity imported by us from France, where people's daughters are universally sold in marriage), Miss Maria, I say, would have assumed the spotless wreath, and stepped into the travelling carriage by the side of gouty, old, bald-headed, bottle-nosed Bullock Senior; and devoted her beautiful existence to his happiness with perfect modesty--only the old gentleman was married already; so she bestowed her young affections on the junior partner. Sweet, blooming, orange flowers! The other day I saw Miss Trotter (that was), arrayed in them, trip into the travelling carriage at St. George's, Hanover Square, and Lord Methuselah hobbled in after. With what an engaging modesty she pulled down the blinds of the chariot--the dear innocent! There were half the carriages of Vanity Fair at the wedding. This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia's education; and in the course of a year turned a good young girl into a good young woman--to be a good wife presently, when the happy time should come. This young person (perhaps it was very imprudent in her parents to encourage her, and abet her in such idolatry and silly romantic ideas) loved, with all her heart, the young officer in His Majesty's service with whom we have made a brief acquaintance. She thought about him the very first moment on waking; and his was the very last name mentioned in her prayers. She never had seen a man so beautiful or so clever: such a figure on horseback: such a dancer: such a hero in general. Talk of the Prince's bow! what was it to George's? She had seen Mr. Brummell, whom everybody praised so. Compare such a person as that to her George! Not amongst all the beaux at the Opera (and there were beaux in those days with actual opera hats) was there any one to equal him. He was only good enough to be a fairy prince; and oh, what magnanimity to stoop to such a humble Cinderella! Miss Pinkerton would have tried to check this blind devotion very likely, had she been Amelia's confidante; but not with much success, depend upon it. It is in the nature and instinct of some women. Some are made to scheme, and some to love; and I wish any respected bachelor that reads this may take the sort that best likes him. While under this overpowering impression, Miss Amelia neglected her twelve dear friends at Chiswick most cruelly, as such selfish people commonly will do. She had but this subject, of course, to think about; and Miss Saltire was too cold for a confidante, and she couldn't bring her mind to tell Miss Swartz, the woolly-haired young heiress from St. Kitt's. She had little Laura Martin home for the holidays; and my belief is, she made a confidante of her, and promised that Laura should come and live with her when she was married, and gave Laura a great deal of information regarding the passion of love, which must have been singularly useful and novel to that little person. Alas, alas! I fear poor Emmy had not a well-regulated mind. What were her parents doing, not to keep this little heart from beating so fast? Old Sedley did not seem much to notice matters. He was graver of late, and his City affairs absorbed him. Mrs. Sedley was of so easy and uninquisitive a nature that she wasn't even jealous. Mr. Jos was away, being besieged by an Irish widow at Cheltenham. Amelia had the house to herself--ah! too much to herself sometimes--not that she ever doubted; for, to be sure, George must be at the Horse Guards; and he can't always get leave from Chatham; and he must see his friends and sisters, and mingle in society when in town (he, such an ornament to every society!); and when he is with the regiment, he is too tired to write long letters. I know where she kept that packet she had--and can steal in and out of her chamber like Iachimo--like Iachimo? No--that is a bad part. I will only act Moonshine, and peep harmless into the bed where faith and beauty and innocence lie dreaming. But if Osborne's were short and soldierlike letters, it must be confessed, that were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborne to be published, we should have to extend this novel to such a multiplicity of volumes as not the most sentimental reader could support; that she not only filled sheets of large paper, but crossed them with the most astonishing perverseness; that she wrote whole pages out of poetry-books without the least pity; that she underlined words and passages with quite a frantic emphasis; and, in fine, gave the usual tokens of her condition. She wasn't a heroine. Her letters were full of repetition. She wrote rather doubtful grammar sometimes, and in her verses took all sorts of liberties with the metre. But oh, mesdames, if you are not allowed to touch the heart sometimes in spite of syntax, and are not to be loved until you all know the difference between trimeter and tetrameter, may all Poetry go to the deuce, and every schoolmaster perish miserably! Sentimental and Otherwise I fear the gentleman to whom Miss Amelia's letters were addressed was rather an obdurate critic. Such a number of notes followed Lieutenant Osborne about the country, that he became almost ashamed of the jokes of his mess-room companions regarding them, and ordered his servant never to deliver them except at his private apartment. He was seen lighting his cigar with one, to the horror of Captain Dobbin, who, it is my belief, would have given a bank-note for the document. For some time George strove to keep the liaison a secret. There was a woman in the case, that he admitted. "And not the first either," said Ensign Spooney to Ensign Stubble. "That Osborne's a devil of a fellow. There was a judge's daughter at Demerara went almost mad about him; then there was that beautiful quadroon girl, Miss Pye, at St. Vincent's, you know; and since he's been home, they say he's a regular Don Giovanni, by Jove." Stubble and Spooney thought that to be a "regular Don Giovanni, by Jove" was one of the finest qualities a man could possess, and Osborne's reputation was prodigious amongst the young men of the regiment. He was famous in field-sports, famous at a song, famous on parade; free with his money, which was bountifully supplied by his father. His coats were better made than any man's in the regiment, and he had more of them. He was adored by the men. He could drink more than any officer of the whole mess, including old Heavytop, the colonel. He could spar better than Knuckles, the private (who would have been a corporal but for his drunkenness, and who had been in the prize-ring); and was the best batter and bowler, out and out, of the regimental club. He rode his own horse, Greased Lightning, and won the Garrison cup at Quebec races. There were other people besides Amelia who worshipped him. Stubble and Spooney thought him a sort of Apollo; Dobbin took him to be an Admirable Crichton; and Mrs. Major O'Dowd acknowledged he was an elegant young fellow, and put her in mind of Fitzjurld Fogarty, Lord Castlefogarty's second son. Well, Stubble and Spooney and the rest indulged in most romantic conjectures regarding this female correspondent of Osborne's--opining that it was a Duchess in London who was in love with him--or that it was a General's daughter, who was engaged to somebody else, and madly attached to him--or that it was a Member of Parliament's lady, who proposed four horses and an elopement--or that it was some other victim of a passion delightfully exciting, romantic, and disgraceful to all parties, on none of which conjectures would Osborne throw the least light, leaving his young admirers and friends to invent and arrange their whole history. And the real state of the case would never have been known at all in the regiment but for Captain Dobbin's indiscretion. The Captain was eating his breakfast one day in the mess-room, while Cackle, the assistant-surgeon, and the two above-named worthies were speculating upon Osborne's intrigue--Stubble holding out that the lady was a Duchess about Queen Charlotte's court, and Cackle vowing she was an opera-singer of the worst reputation. At this idea Dobbin became so moved, that though his mouth was full of eggs and bread-and-butter at the time, and though he ought not to have spoken at all, yet he couldn't help blurting out, "Cackle, you're a stupid fool. You're always talking nonsense and scandal. Osborne is not going to run off with a Duchess or ruin a milliner. Miss Sedley is one of the most charming young women that ever lived. He's been engaged to her ever so long; and the man who calls her names had better not do so in my hearing." With which, turning exceedingly red, Dobbin ceased speaking, and almost choked himself with a cup of tea. The story was over the regiment in half-an-hour; and that very evening Mrs. Major O'Dowd wrote off to her sister Glorvina at O'Dowdstown not to hurry from Dublin--young Osborne being prematurely engaged already. She complimented the Lieutenant in an appropriate speech over a glass of whisky-toddy that evening, and he went home perfectly furious to quarrel with Dobbin (who had declined Mrs. Major O'Dowd's party, and sat in his own room playing the flute, and, I believe, writing poetry in a very melancholy manner)--to quarrel with Dobbin for betraying his secret. "Who the deuce asked you to talk about my affairs?" Osborne shouted indignantly. "Why the devil is all the regiment to know that I am going to be married? Why is that tattling old harridan, Peggy O'Dowd, to make free with my name at her d--d supper-table, and advertise my engagement over the three kingdoms? After all, what right have you to say I am engaged, or to meddle in my business at all, Dobbin?" "It seems to me," Captain Dobbin began. "Seems be hanged, Dobbin," his junior interrupted him. "I am under obligations to you, I know it, a d--d deal too well too; but I won't be always sermonised by you because you're five years my senior. I'm hanged if I'll stand your airs of superiority and infernal pity and patronage. Pity and patronage! I should like to know in what I'm your inferior?" "Are you engaged?" Captain Dobbin interposed. "What the devil's that to you or any one here if I am?" "Are you ashamed of it?" Dobbin resumed. "What right have you to ask me that question, sir? I should like to know," George said. "Good God, you don't mean to say you want to break off?" asked Dobbin, starting up. "In other words, you ask me if I'm a man of honour," said Osborne, fiercely; "is that what you mean? You've adopted such a tone regarding me lately that I'm ------ if I'll bear it any more." "What have I done? I've told you you were neglecting a sweet girl, George. I've told you that when you go to town you ought to go to her, and not to the gambling-houses about St. James's." "You want your money back, I suppose," said George, with a sneer. "Of course I do--I always did, didn't I?" says Dobbin. "You speak like a generous fellow." "No, hang it, William, I beg your pardon"--here George interposed in a fit of remorse; "you have been my friend in a hundred ways, Heaven knows. You've got me out of a score of scrapes. When Crawley of the Guards won that sum of money of me I should have been done but for you: I know I should. But you shouldn't deal so hardly with me; you shouldn't be always catechising me. I am very fond of Amelia; I adore her, and that sort of thing. Don't look angry. She's faultless; I know she is. But you see there's no fun in winning a thing unless you play for it. Hang it: the regiment's just back from the West Indies, I must have a little fling, and then when I'm married I'll reform; I will upon my honour, now. And--I say--Dob--don't be angry with me, and I'll give you a hundred next month, when I know my father will stand something handsome; and I'll ask Heavytop for leave, and I'll go to town, and see Amelia to-morrow--there now, will that satisfy you?" "It is impossible to be long angry with you, George," said the good-natured Captain; "and as for the money, old boy, you know if I wanted it you'd share your last shilling with me." "That I would, by Jove, Dobbin," George said, with the greatest generosity, though by the way he never had any money to spare. "Only I wish you had sown those wild oats of yours, George. If you could have seen poor little Miss Emmy's face when she asked me about you the other day, you would have pitched those billiard-balls to the deuce. Go and comfort her, you rascal. Go and write her a long letter. Do something to make her happy; a very little will." "I believe she's d--d fond of me," the Lieutenant said, with a self-satisfied air; and went off to finish the evening with some jolly fellows in the mess-room. Amelia meanwhile, in Russell Square, was looking at the moon, which was shining upon that peaceful spot, as well as upon the square of the Chatham barracks, where Lieutenant Osborne was quartered, and thinking to herself how her hero was employed. Perhaps he is visiting the sentries, thought she; perhaps he is bivouacking; perhaps he is attending the couch of a wounded comrade, or studying the art of war up in his own desolate chamber. And her kind thoughts sped away as if they were angels and had wings, and flying down the river to Chatham and Rochester, strove to peep into the barracks where George was. . . . All things considered, I think it was as well the gates were shut, and the sentry allowed no one to pass; so that the poor little white-robed angel could not hear the songs those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch. The day after the little conversation at Chatham barracks, young Osborne, to show that he would be as good as his word, prepared to go to town, thereby incurring Captain Dobbin's applause. "I should have liked to make her a little present," Osborne said to his friend in confidence, "only I am quite out of cash until my father tips up." But Dobbin would not allow this good nature and generosity to be balked, and so accommodated Mr. Osborne with a few pound notes, which the latter took after a little faint scruple. And I dare say he would have bought something very handsome for Amelia; only, getting off the coach in Fleet Street, he was attracted by a handsome shirt-pin in a jeweller's window, which he could not resist; and having paid for that, had very little money to spare for indulging in any further exercise of kindness. Never mind: you may be sure it was not his presents Amelia wanted. When he came to Russell Square, her face lighted up as if he had been sunshine. The little cares, fears, tears, timid misgivings, sleepless fancies of I don't know how many days and nights, were forgotten, under one moment's influence of that familiar, irresistible smile. He beamed on her from the drawing-room door--magnificent, with ambrosial whiskers, like a god. Sambo, whose face as he announced Captain Osbin (having conferred a brevet rank on that young officer) blazed with a sympathetic grin, saw the little girl start, and flush, and jump up from her watching-place in the window; and Sambo retreated: and as soon as the door was shut, she went fluttering to Lieutenant George Osborne's heart as if it was the only natural home for her to nestle in. Oh, thou poor panting little soul! The very finest tree in the whole forest, with the straightest stem, and the strongest arms, and the thickest foliage, wherein you choose to build and coo, may be marked, for what you know, and may be down with a crash ere long. What an old, old simile that is, between man and timber! In the meanwhile, George kissed her very kindly on her forehead and glistening eyes, and was very gracious and good; and she thought his diamond shirt-pin (which she had not known him to wear before) the prettiest ornament ever seen. Der aufmerksame Leser, der das vorherige Verhalten unseres jungen Leutnants bemerkt hat und unseren Bericht über die kurze Unterhaltung, die er gerade mit Captain Dobbin hatte, aufbewahrt hat, hat möglicherweise bestimmte Schlussfolgerungen über den Charakter von Mr. Osborne gezogen. Ein zynischer Franzose hat gesagt, dass es bei einer Liebesbeziehung zwei Parteien gibt: Diejenige, die liebt und diejenige, die sich herablässt, so behandelt zu werden. Vielleicht liegt die Liebe gelegentlich auf Seiten des Mannes, vielleicht auf Seiten der Dame. Vielleicht hat sich schon so mancher verblendete Verehrer Ingegnialität anstelle von Bescheidenheit, Einfallslosigkeit anstelle von zurückhaltendem Verhalten, bloße Leere anstelle von süßer Schüchternheit und eine Gans kurz gesagt für einen Schwan genommen. Möglicherweise hat schon einmal eine geliebte weibliche Abonnentin einen Esel in den Glanz und Ruhm ihrer Vorstellungskraft gehüllt, seine Einfallslosigkeit als männliche Einfachheit bewundert, seine Selbstsucht als männliche Überlegenheit verehrt, seine Dummheit als majestätische Ernsthaftigkeit angesehen und ihn so behandelt, wie die brillante Fee Titania einen gewissen Weber in Athen behandelt hat. Ich glaube, dass ich solche Verwechslungskomödien schon einmal in der Welt gesehen habe. Aber eines ist sicher, Amelia glaubte, dass ihr Liebhaber einer der tapfersten und brillantesten Männer im ganzen Reich sei: und es ist möglich, dass auch Lieutenant Osborne so dachte. Er war ein wenig wild: wie viele junge Männer. Und mögen Mädchen nicht einen Taugenichts lieber als einen Waschlappen? Er hatte seine wilde Jugend noch nicht ausgetobt, aber das würde er bald tun: und er würde die Armee verlassen, jetzt da der Frieden verkündet wurde; das korsische Monster auf Elba eingesperrt war; Beförderungen nicht mehr möglich waren und keine Chance mehr bestand, seine unbestrittenen militärischen Talente und seine Tapferkeit unter Beweis zu stellen: und seine Unterstützung zusammen mit Amelias Mitgift würde es ihnen ermöglichen, irgendwo auf dem Land einen gemütlichen Ort zu nehmen, in einer guten Jagd-Gegegend; und er würde ein wenig jagen und ein wenig auf dem Bauernhof arbeiten; und sie würden sehr glücklich sein. Was das Verbleiben in der Armee als verheirateter Mann anging, das war unmöglich. Stellt euch Mrs. George Osborne in einer Pension in einer Kreisstadt vor; oder noch schlimmer, in Ostindien oder Westindien, mit einer Gesellschaft von Offizieren, die von Mrs. Major O'Dowd unterstützt wird! Amelia starb fast vor Lachen über Osbornes Geschichten über Mrs. Major O'Dowd. Sie liebte ihn viel zu sehr, um sie dieser schrecklichen Frau und ihren Grobheiten auszusetzen und der rauen Behandlung einer Soldatenfrau. Ihm selbst war das egal - wirklich. Aber seine kleine geliebte Tochter sollte den Platz in der Gesellschaft einnehmen, den sie als seine Frau verdiente: und natürlich stimmte sie diesen Vorschlägen zu, wie sie es bei jedem anderen Vorschlag von demselben Verfasser tun würde. Während sie dieses Gespräch führten und unzählige Luftschlösser bauten (die Amelia mit allerlei Blumengärten, ländlichen Spazierwegen, Landkirchen, Sonntagsschulen und dergleichen schmückte, während George in Gedanken an die Stallungen, das Hundezwinger und den Weinkeller war), vergingen diese jungen Leute ein paar Stunden sehr angenehm. Da der Lieutenant nur diesen einen Tag in der Stadt hatte und noch viele äußerst wichtige Geschäfte zu erledigen hatte, wurde vorgeschlagen, dass Miss Emmy mit ihren zukünftigen Schwägerinnen zu Abend essen sollte. Diese Einladung wurde freudig angenommen. Er führte sie zu seinen Schwestern, wo er sie zurückließ, wie sie in einer Weise plapperte und plauderte, die die Damen erstaunte, die dachten, dass George etwas aus ihr machen könnte; dann ging er los, um seine Geschäfte zu erledigen. Mit einem Wort, er ging nach draußen und aß Eis in einer Konditorei in Charing Cross, probierte einen neuen Mantel in der Pall Mall, ging ins alte Slaughters und rief nach Captain Cannon, spielte elf Partien Billard gegen den Captain, von denen er acht gewann, und kehrte eine halbe Stunde zu spät zum Abendessen in die Russell Square zurück, aber in sehr guter Stimmung. Das war bei dem alten Mr. Osborne nicht so. Als dieser Herr aus der City kam und im Salon von seinen Töchtern und der eleganten Miss Wirt begrüßt wurde, sahen sie sofort an seinem Gesicht - das selbst zu den besten Zeiten pummelig, feierlich und gelb war - und an seinem finsteren Blick und den zuckenden schwarzen Augenbrauen, dass das Herz in seinem großen weißen Leibchen beunruhigt und unruhig war. Als Amelia vorbeikam, um ihn zu begrüßen, was sie immer mit großem Zittern und großer Ängstlichkeit tat, grunzte er unfreundlich zur Begrüßung und ließ die kleine Hand aus seiner großen haarigen Pranke fallen, ohne den Versuch zu machen, sie dort zu behalten. Er sah finster auf seine älteste Tochter, die, den Bedeutungsinhalt seines Blickes verstehend, der unmissverständlich fragte: "Warum zum Teufel ist sie hier?", sofort sagte: "George ist in der Stadt, Papa; er ist zum Horse Guards gegangen und wird rechtzeitig zum Abendessen zurück sein." "O wirklich? Ich werde nicht haben, dass das Abendessen auf ihn wartet, Jane", wobei dieser ehrenhafte Mann in seinem speziellen Stuhl Platz nahm, und dann wurde die absolute Stille in seinem eleganten und gut eingerichteten Salon nur von dem erschrockenen Ticken der großen französischen Uhr unterbrochen... Als dieser Chronometer, der von einer fröhlichen bronzenen Gruppe gekrönt war, die die Opferung der Iphigenia darstellte, mit einer schweren Kathedralentonlage fünf ertzählte, zog Herr Osborne mit Gewalt die Glocke auf seiner rechten Seite und der Diener stürmte herbei. "Abendessen!" brüllte Herr Osborne. "Herr George ist noch nicht zurückgekommen, sir", mischte sich der Mann ein. "Verdammt noch mal, Mr. George, sir. Bin ich der Hausherr? ABENDESSEN!" Herr Osborne funkelte. Amelia zitterte. Ein telegraphischer Austausch von Blicken zwischen den anderen drei Damen fand statt. Die gehorsame Glocke in den unteren Regionen begann das Essen anzukündigen. Der Sturm legte sich und das Familienoberhaupt steckte seine Hände in die großen Schöße seines großartigen blauen Rocks mit Messingknöpfen und trat ohne weitere Ankündigung allein die Treppe hinunter, über die Schulter hinweg finster auf die vier Frauen blickend. "Was ist jetzt los, mein Lieber?", fragte eine der anderen, als sie aufstanden und behutsam dem Vater folgten. "Ich vermute, die Aktien fallen", flüsterte Miss Wirt; und so folgte diese stille weibliche Gesellschaft zitternd und schweigend ihrem finsteren Anführer... As soon as the young ladies had discussed the orange and the glass of wine which formed the ordinary conclusion of the dismal banquets at Mr. Osborne's house, the signal to make sail for the drawing-room was given, and they all arose and departed. Amelia hoped George would soon join them there. She began playing some of his favourite waltzes (then newly imported) at the great carved-legged, leather-cased grand piano in the drawing-room overhead. This little artifice did not bring him. He was deaf to the waltzes; they grew fainter and fainter; the discomfited performer left the huge instrument presently; and though her three friends performed some of the loudest and most brilliant new pieces of their repertoire, she did not hear a single note, but sate thinking, and boding evil. Old Osborne's scowl, terrific always, had never before looked so deadly to her. His eyes followed her out of the room, as if she had been guilty of something. When they brought her coffee, she started as though it were a cup of poison which Mr. Hicks, the butler, wished to propose to her. What mystery was there lurking? Oh, those women! They nurse and cuddle their presentiments, and make darlings of their ugliest thoughts, as they do of their deformed children. The gloom on the paternal countenance had also impressed George Osborne with anxiety. With such eyebrows, and a look so decidedly bilious, how was he to extract that money from the governor, of which George was consumedly in want? He began praising his father's wine. That was generally a successful means of cajoling the old gentleman. "We never got such Madeira in the West Indies, sir, as yours. Colonel Heavytop took off three bottles of that you sent me down, under his belt the other day." "Did he?" said the old gentleman. "It stands me in eight shillings a bottle." "Will you take six guineas a dozen for it, sir?" said George, with a laugh. "There's one of the greatest men in the kingdom wants some." "Does he?" growled the senior. "Wish he may get it." "When General Daguilet was at Chatham, sir, Heavytop gave him a breakfast, and asked me for some of the wine. The General liked it just as well--wanted a pipe for the Commander-in-Chief. He's his Royal Highness's right-hand man." "It is devilish fine wine," said the Eyebrows, and they looked more good-humoured; and George was going to take advantage of this complacency, and bring the supply question on the mahogany, when the father, relapsing into solemnity, though rather cordial in manner, bade him ring the bell for claret. "And we'll see if that's as good as the Madeira, George, to which his Royal Highness is welcome, I'm sure. And as we are drinking it, I'll talk to you about a matter of importance." Amelia heard the claret bell ringing as she sat nervously upstairs. She thought, somehow, it was a mysterious and presentimental bell. Of the presentiments which some people are always having, some surely must come right. "What I want to know, George," the old gentleman said, after slowly smacking his first bumper--"what I want to know is, how you and--ah--that little thing upstairs, are carrying on?" "I think, sir, it is not hard to see," George said, with a self-satisfied grin. "Pretty clear, sir.--What capital wine!" "What d'you mean, pretty clear, sir?" "Why, hang it, sir, don't push me too hard. I'm a modest man. I--ah--I don't set up to be a lady-killer; but I do own that she's as devilish fond of me as she can be. Anybody can see that with half an eye." "And you yourself?" "Why, sir, didn't you order me to marry her, and ain't I a good boy? Haven't our Papas settled it ever so long?" "A pretty boy, indeed. Haven't I heard of your doings, sir, with Lord Tarquin, Captain Crawley of the Guards, the Honourable Mr. Deuceace and that set. Have a care sir, have a care." The old gentleman pronounced these aristocratic names with the greatest gusto. Whenever he met a great man he grovelled before him, and my-lorded him as only a free-born Briton can do. He came home and looked out his history in the Peerage: he introduced his name into his daily conversation; he bragged about his Lordship to his daughters. He fell down prostrate and basked in him as a Neapolitan beggar does in the sun. George was alarmed when he heard the names. He feared his father might have been informed of certain transactions at play. But the old moralist eased him by saying serenely: "Well, well, young men will be young men. And the comfort to me is, George, that living in the best society in England, as I hope you do; as I think you do; as my means will allow you to do--" "Thank you, sir," says George, making his point at once. "One can't live with these great folks for nothing; and my purse, sir, look at it"; and he held up a little token which had been netted by Amelia, and contained the very last of Dobbin's pound notes. "You shan't want, sir. The British merchant's son shan't want, sir. My guineas are as good as theirs, George, my boy; and I don't grudge 'em. Call on Mr. Chopper as you go through the City to-morrow; he'll have something for you. I don't grudge money when I know you're in good society, because I know that good society can never go wrong. There's no pride in me. I was a humbly born man--but you have had advantages. Make a good use of 'em. Mix with the young nobility. There's many of 'em who can't spend a dollar to your guinea, my boy. And as for the pink bonnets (here from under the heavy eyebrows there came a knowing and not very pleasing leer)--why boys will be boys. Only there's one thing I order you to avoid, which, if you do not, I'll cut you off with a shilling, by Jove; and that's gambling." "Oh, of course, sir," said George. "But to return to the other business about Amelia: why shouldn't you marry higher than a stockbroker's daughter, George--that's what I want to know?" "It's a family business, sir," says George, cracking filberts. "You and Mr. Sedley made the match a hundred years ago." "I don't deny it; but people's positions alter, sir. I don't deny that Sedley made my fortune, or rather put me in the way of acquiring, by my own talents and genius, that proud position, which, I may say, I occupy in the tallow trade and the City of London. I've shown my gratitude to Sedley; and he's tried it of late, sir, as my cheque-book can show. George! I tell you in confidence I don't like the looks of Mr. Sedley's affairs. My chief clerk, Mr. Chopper, does not like the looks of 'em, and he's an old file, and knows 'Change as well as any man in London. Hulker & Bullock are looking shy at him. He's been dabbling on his own account I fear. They say the Jeune Amelie was his, which was taken by the Yankee privateer Molasses. And that's flat--unless I see Amelia's ten thousand down you don't marry her. I'll have no lame duck's daughter in my family. Pass the wine, sir--or ring for coffee." With which Mr. Osborne spread out the evening paper, and George knew from this signal that the colloquy was ended, and that his papa was about to take a nap. He hurried upstairs to Amelia in the highest spirits. What was it that made him more attentive to her on that night than he had been for a long time--more eager to amuse her, more tender, more brilliant in talk? Was it that his generous heart warmed to her at the prospect of misfortune; or that the idea of losing the dear little prize made him value it more? She lived upon the recollections of that happy evening for many days afterwards, remembering his words; his looks; the song he sang; his attitude, as he leant over her or looked at her from a distance. As it seemed to her, no night ever passed so quickly at Mr. Osborne's house before; and for once this young person was almost provoked to be angry by the premature arrival of Mr. Sambo with her shawl. George came and took a tender leave of her the next morning; and then hurried off to the City, where he visited Mr. Chopper, his father's head man, and received from that gentleman a document which he exchanged at Hulker & Bullock's for a whole pocketful of money. As George entered the house, old John Sedley was passing out of the banker's parlour, looking very dismal. But his godson was much too elated to mark the worthy stockbroker's depression, or the dreary eyes which the kind old gentleman cast upon him. Young Bullock did not come grinning out of the parlour with him as had been his wont in former years. And as the swinging doors of Hulker, Bullock & Co. closed upon Mr. Sedley, Mr. Quill, the cashier (whose benevolent occupation it is to hand out crisp bank-notes from a drawer and dispense sovereigns out of a copper shovel), winked at Mr. Driver, the clerk at the desk on his right. Mr. Driver winked again. "No go," Mr. D. whispered. "Not at no price," Mr. Q. said. "Mr. George Osborne, sir, how will you take it?" George crammed eagerly a quantity of notes into his pockets, and paid Dobbin fifty pounds that very evening at mess. That very evening Amelia wrote him the tenderest of long letters. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness, but it still foreboded evil. What was the cause of Mr. Osborne's dark looks? she asked. Had any difference arisen between him and her papa? Her poor papa returned so melancholy from the City, that all were alarmed about him at home--in fine, there were four pages of loves and fears and hopes and forebodings. "Poor little Emmy--dear little Emmy. How fond she is of me," George said, as he perused the missive--"and Gad, what a headache that mixed punch has given me!" Poor little Emmy, indeed. Miss Crawley at Home About this time there drove up to an exceedingly snug and well-appointed house in Park Lane, a travelling chariot with a lozenge on the panels, a discontented female in a green veil and crimped curls on the rumble, and a large and confidential man on the box. It was the equipage of our friend Miss Crawley, returning from Hants. The carriage windows were shut; the fat spaniel, whose head and tongue ordinarily lolled out of one of them, reposed on the lap of the discontented female. When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of shawls was taken out of the carriage by the aid of various domestics and a young lady who accompanied the heap of cloaks. That bundle contained Miss Crawley, who was conveyed upstairs forthwith, and put into a bed and chamber warmed properly as for the reception of an invalid. Messengers went off for her physician and medical man. They came, consulted, prescribed, vanished. The young companion of Miss Crawley, at the conclusion of their interview, came in to receive their instructions, and administered those antiphlogistic medicines which the eminent men ordered. Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge Barracks the next day; his black charger pawed the straw before his invalid aunt's door. He was most affectionate in his inquiries regarding that amiable relative. There seemed to be much source of apprehension. He found Miss Crawley's maid (the discontented female) unusually sulky and despondent; he found Miss Briggs, her dame de compagnie, in tears alone in the drawing-room. She had hastened home, hearing of her beloved friend's illness. She wished to fly to her couch, that couch which she, Briggs, had so often smoothed in the hour of sickness. She was denied admission to Miss Crawley's apartment. A stranger was administering her medicines--a stranger from the country--an odious Miss ... --tears choked the utterance of the dame de compagnie, and she buried her crushed affections and her poor old red nose in her pocket handkerchief. Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme de chambre, and Miss Crawley's new companion, coming tripping down from the sick-room, put a little hand into his as he stepped forward eagerly to meet her, gave a glance of great scorn at the bewildered Briggs, and beckoning the young Guardsman out of the back drawing-room, led him downstairs into that now desolate dining-parlour, where so many a good dinner had been celebrated. Here these two talked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, the symptoms of the old invalid above stairs; at the end of which period the parlour bell was rung briskly, and answered on that instant by Mr. Bowls, Miss Crawley's large confidential butler (who, indeed, happened to be at the keyhole during the most part of the interview); and the Captain coming out, curling his mustachios, mounted the black charger pawing among the straw, to the admiration of the little blackguard boys collected in the street. He looked in at the dining-room window, managing his horse, which curvetted and capered beautifully--for one instant the young person might be seen at the window, when her figure vanished, and, doubtless, she went upstairs again to resume the affecting duties of benevolence. Who could this young woman be, I wonder? That evening a little dinner for two persons was laid in the dining-room--when Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, pushed into her mistress's apartment, and bustled about there during the vacancy occasioned by the departure of the new nurse--and the latter and Miss Briggs sat down to the neat little meal. Briggs was so much choked by emotion that she could hardly take a morsel of meat. The young person carved a fowl with the utmost delicacy, and asked so distinctly for egg-sauce, that poor Briggs, before whom that delicious condiment was placed, started, made a great clattering with the ladle, and once more fell back in the most gushing hysterical state. "Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine?" said the person to Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man. He did so. Briggs seized it mechanically, gasped it down convulsively, moaned a little, and began to play with the chicken on her plate. "I think we shall be able to help each other," said the person with great suavity: "and shall have no need of Mr. Bowls's kind services. Mr. Bowls, if you please, we will ring when we want you." He went downstairs, where, by the way, he vented the most horrid curses upon the unoffending footman, his subordinate. "It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs," the young lady said, with a cool, slightly sarcastic, air. "My dearest friend is so ill, and wo-o-on't see me," gurgled out Briggs in an agony of renewed grief. "She's not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss Briggs. She has only overeaten herself--that is all. She is greatly better. She will soon be quite restored again. She is weak from being cupped and from medical treatment, but she will rally immediately. Pray console yourself, and take a little more wine." "But why, why won't she see me again?" Miss Briggs bleated out. "Oh, Matilda, Matilda, after three-and-twenty years' tenderness! is this the return to your poor, poor Arabella?" "Don't cry too much, poor Arabella," the other said (with ever so little of a grin); "she only won't see you, because she says you don't nurse her as well as I do. It's no pleasure to me to sit up all night. I wish you might do it instead." "Have I not tended that dear couch for years?" Arabella said, "and now--" "Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people have these fancies, and must be humoured. When she's well I shall go." "Never, never," Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling her salts-bottle. "Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs?" the other said, with the same provoking good-nature. "Pooh--she will be well in a fortnight, when I shall go back to my little pupils at Queen's Crawley, and to their mother, who is a great deal more sick than our friend. You need not be jealous about me, my dear Miss Briggs. I am a poor little girl without any friends, or any harm in me. I don't want to supplant you in Miss Crawley's good graces. She will forget me a week after I am gone: and her affection for you has been the work of years. Give me a little wine if you please, my dear Miss Briggs, and let us be friends. I'm sure I want friends." The placable and soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed out her hand at this appeal; but she felt the desertion most keenly for all that, and bitterly, bitterly moaned the fickleness of her Matilda. At the end of half an hour, the meal over, Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such, astonishing to state, is the name of her who has been described ingeniously as "the person" hitherto), went upstairs again to her patient's rooms, from which, with the most engaging politeness, she eliminated poor Firkin. "Thank you, Mrs. Firkin, that will quite do; how nicely you make it! I will ring when anything is wanted." "Thank you"; and Firkin came downstairs in a tempest of jealousy, only the more dangerous because she was forced to confine it in her own bosom. Could it be the tempest which, as she passed the landing of the first floor, blew open the drawing-room door? No; it was stealthily opened by the hand of Briggs. Briggs had been on the watch. Briggs too well heard the creaking Firkin descend the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and gruel-basin the neglected female carried. "Well, Firkin?" says she, as the other entered the apartment. "Well, Jane?" "Wuss and wuss, Miss B.," Firkin said, wagging her head. "Is she not better then?" "She never spoke but once, and I asked her if she felt a little more easy, and she told me to hold my stupid tongue. Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this day!" And the water-works again began to play. "What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little thought, while enjoying my Christmas revels in the elegant home of my firm friends, the Reverend Lionel Delamere and his amiable lady, to find a stranger had taken my place in the affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda!" Miss Briggs, it will be seen by her language, was of a literary and sentimental turn, and had once published a volume of poems--"Trills of the Nightingale"--by subscription. "Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young woman," Firkin replied. "Sir Pitt wouldn't have let her go, but he daredn't refuse Miss Crawley anything. Mrs. Bute at the Rectory jist as bad--never happy out of her sight. The Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortial jealous. Since Miss C. was took ill, she won't have nobody near her but Miss Sharp, I can't tell for where nor for why; and I think somethink has bewidged everybody." Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon Miss Crawley; the next night the old lady slept so comfortably, that Rebecca had time for several hours' comfortable repose herself on the sofa, at the foot of her patroness's bed; very soon, Miss Crawley was so well that she sat up and laughed heartily at a perfect imitation of Miss Briggs and her grief, which Rebecca described to her. Briggs' weeping snuffle, and her manner of using the handkerchief, were so completely rendered that Miss Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admiration of the doctors when they visited her, who usually found this worthy woman of the world, when the least sickness attacked her, under the most abject depression and terror of death. Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins from Miss Rebecca respecting his aunt's health. This improved so rapidly, that poor Briggs was allowed to see her patroness; and persons with tender hearts may imagine the smothered emotions of that sentimental female, and the affecting nature of the interview. Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal soon. Rebecca used to mimic her to her face with the most admirable gravity, thereby rendering the imitation doubly piquant to her worthy patroness. The causes which had led to the deplorable illness of Miss Crawley, and her departure from her brother's house in the country, were of such an unromantic nature that they are hardly fit to be explained in this genteel and sentimental novel. For how is it possible to hint of a delicate female, living in good society, that she ate and drank too much, and that a hot supper of lobsters profusely enjoyed at the Rectory was the reason of an indisposition which Miss Crawley herself persisted was solely attributable to the dampness of the weather? The attack was so sharp that Matilda--as his Reverence expressed it--was very nearly "off the hooks"; all the family were in a fever of expectation regarding the will, and Rawdon Crawley was making sure of at least forty thousand pounds before the commencement of the London season. Mr. Crawley sent over a choice parcel of tracts, to prepare her for the change from Vanity Fair and Park Lane for another world; but a good doctor from Southampton being called in in time, vanquished the lobster which was so nearly fatal to her, and gave her sufficient strength to enable her to return to London. The Baronet did not disguise his exceeding mortification at the turn which affairs took. While everybody was attending on Miss Crawley, and messengers every hour from the Rectory were carrying news of her health to the affectionate folks there, there was a lady in another part of the house, being exceedingly ill, of whom no one took any notice at all; and this was the lady of Crawley herself. The good doctor shook his head after seeing her; to which visit Sir Pitt consented, as it could be paid without a fee; and she was left fading away in her lonely chamber, with no more heed paid to her than to a weed in the park. The young ladies, too, lost much of the inestimable benefit of their governess's instruction, So affectionate a nurse was Miss Sharp, that Miss Crawley would take her medicines from no other hand. Firkin had been deposed long before her mistress's departure from the country. That faithful attendant found a gloomy consolation on returning to London, in seeing Miss Briggs suffer the same pangs of jealousy and undergo the same faithless treatment to which she herself had been subject. Captain Rawdon got an extension of leave on his aunt's illness, and remained dutifully at home. He was always in her antechamber. (She lay sick in the state bedroom, into which you entered by the little blue saloon.) His father was always meeting him there; or if he came down the corridor ever so quietly, his father's door was sure to open, and the hyena face of the old gentleman to glare out. What was it set one to watch the other so? A generous rivalry, no doubt, as to which should be most attentive to the dear sufferer in the state bedroom. Rebecca used to come out and comfort both of them; or one or the other of them rather. Both of these worthy gentlemen were most anxious to have news of the invalid from her little confidential messenger. At dinner--to which meal she descended for half an hour--she kept the peace between them: after which she disappeared for the night; when Rawdon would ride over to the depot of the 150th at Mudbury, leaving his papa to the society of Mr. Horrocks and his rum and water. She passed as weary a fortnight as ever mortal spent in Miss Crawley's sick-room; but her little nerves seemed to be of iron, as she was quite unshaken by the duty and the tedium of the sick-chamber. She never told until long afterwards how painful that duty was; how peevish a patient was the jovial old lady; how angry; how sleepless; in what horrors of death; during what long nights she lay moaning, and in almost delirious agonies respecting that future world which she quite ignored when she was in good health.--Picture to yourself, oh fair young reader, a worldly, selfish, graceless, thankless, religionless old woman, writhing in pain and fear, and without her wig. Picture her to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to love and pray! Sharp watched this graceless bedside with indomitable patience. Nothing escaped her; and, like a prudent steward, she found a use for everything. She told many a good story about Miss Crawley's illness in after days--stories which made the lady blush through her artificial carnations. During the illness she was never out of temper; always alert; she slept light, having a perfectly clear conscience; and could take that refreshment at almost any minute's warning. And so you saw very few traces of fatigue in her appearance. Her face might be a trifle paler, and the circles round her eyes a little blacker than usual; but whenever she came out from the sick-room she was always smiling, fresh, and neat, and looked as trim in her little dressing-gown and cap, as in her smartest evening suit. The Captain thought so, and raved about her in uncouth convulsions. The barbed shaft of love had penetrated his dull hide. Six weeks--appropinquity--opportunity--had victimised him completely. He made a confidante of his aunt at the Rectory, of all persons in the world. She rallied him about it; she had perceived his folly; she warned him; she finished by owning that little Sharp was the most clever, droll, odd, good-natured, simple, kindly creature in England. Rawdon must not trifle with her affections, though--dear Miss Crawley would never pardon him for that; for she, too, was quite overcome by the little governess, and loved Sharp like a daughter. Rawdon must go away--go back to his regiment and naughty London, and not play with a poor artless girl's feelings. Many and many a time this good-natured lady, compassionating the forlorn life-guardsman's condition, gave him an opportunity of seeing Miss Sharp at the Rectory, and of walking home with her, as we have seen. When men of a certain sort, ladies, are in love, though they see the hook and the string, and the whole apparatus with which they are to be taken, they gorge the bait nevertheless--they must come to it--they must swallow it--and are presently struck and landed gasping. Rawdon saw there was a manifest intention on Mrs. Bute's part to captivate him with Rebecca. He was not very wise; but he was a man about town, and had seen several seasons. A light dawned upon his dusky soul, as he thought, through a speech of Mrs. Bute's. "Mark my words, Rawdon," she said. "You will have Miss Sharp one day for your relation." "What relation--my cousin, hey, Mrs. Bute? James sweet on her, hey?" inquired the waggish officer. "More than that," Mrs. Bute said, with a flash from her black eyes. "Not Pitt? He sha'n't have her. The sneak a'n't worthy of her. He's booked to Lady Jane Sheepshanks." "You men perceive nothing. You silly, blind creature--if anything happens to Lady Crawley, Miss Sharp will be your mother-in-law; and that's what will happen." Rawdon Crawley, Esquire, gave vent to a prodigious whistle, in token of astonishment at this announcement. He couldn't deny it. His father's evident liking for Miss Sharp had not escaped him. He knew the old gentleman's character well; and a more unscrupulous old--whyou--he did not conclude the sentence, but walked home, curling his mustachios, and convinced he had found a clue to Mrs. Bute's mystery. "By Jove, it's too bad," thought Rawdon, "too bad, by Jove! I do believe the woman wants the poor girl to be ruined, in order that she shouldn't come into the family as Lady Crawley." When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his father's attachment in his graceful way. She flung up her head scornfully, looked him full in the face, and said, "Well, suppose he is fond of me. I know he is, and others too. You don't think I am afraid of him, Captain Crawley? You don't suppose I can't defend my own honour," said the little woman, looking as stately as a queen. "Oh, ah, why--give you fair warning--look out, you know--that's all," said the mustachio-twiddler. "You hint at something not honourable, then?" said she, flashing out. "O Gad--really--Miss Rebecca," the heavy dragoon interposed. "Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because I am poor and friendless, and because rich people have none? Do you think, because I am a governess, I have not as much sense, and feeling, and good breeding as you gentlefolks in Hampshire? I'm a Montmorency. Do you suppose a Montmorency is not as good as a Crawley?" When Miss Sharp was agitated, and alluded to her maternal relatives, she spoke with ever so slight a foreign accent, which gave a great charm to her clear ringing voice. "No," she continued, kindling as she spoke to the Captain; "I can endure poverty, but not shame--neglect, but not insult; and insult from--from you." Her feelings gave way, and she burst into tears. "Hang it, Miss Sharp--Rebecca--by Jove--upon my soul, I wouldn't for a thousand pounds. Stop, Rebecca!" She was gone. She drove out with Miss Crawley that day. It was before the latter's illness. At dinner she was unusually brilliant and lively; but she would take no notice of the hints, or the nods, or the clumsy expostulations of the humiliated, infatuated guardsman. Skirmishes of this sort passed perpetually during the little campaign--tedious to relate, and similar in result. The Crawley heavy cavalry was maddened by defeat, and routed every day. If the Baronet of Queen's Crawley had not had the fear of losing his sister's legacy before his eyes, he never would have permitted his dear girls to lose the educational blessings which their invaluable governess was conferring upon them. The old house at home seemed a desert without her, so useful and pleasant had Rebecca made herself there. Sir Pitt's letters were not copied and corrected; his books not made up; his household business and manifold schemes neglected, now that his little secretary was away. And it was easy to see how necessary such an amanuensis was to him, by the tenor and spelling of the numerous letters which he sent to her, entreating her and commanding her to return. Almost every day brought a frank from the Baronet, enclosing the most urgent prayers to Becky for her return, or conveying pathetic statements to Miss Crawley, regarding the neglected state of his daughters' education; of which documents Miss Crawley took very little heed. Miss Briggs was not formally dismissed, but her place as companion was a sinecure and a derision; and her company was the fat spaniel in the drawing-room, or occasionally the discontented Firkin in the housekeeper's closet. Nor though the old lady would by no means hear of Rebecca's departure, was the latter regularly installed in office in Park Lane. Like many wealthy people, it was Miss Crawley's habit to accept as much service as she could get from her inferiors; and good-naturedly to take leave of them when she no longer found them useful. Gratitude among certain rich folks is scarcely natural or to be thought of. They take needy people's services as their due. Nor have you, O poor parasite and humble hanger-on, much reason to complain! Your friendship for Dives is about as sincere as the return which it usually gets. It is money you love, and not the man; and were Croesus and his footman to change places you know, you poor rogue, who would have the benefit of your allegiance. And I am not sure that, in spite of Rebecca's simplicity and activity, and gentleness and untiring good humour, the shrewd old London lady, upon whom these treasures of friendship were lavished, had not a lurking suspicion all the while of her affectionate nurse and friend. It must have often crossed Miss Crawley's mind that nobody does anything for nothing. If she measured her own feeling towards the world, she must have been pretty well able to gauge those of the world towards herself; and perhaps she reflected that it is the ordinary lot of people to have no friends if they themselves care for nobody. Well, meanwhile Becky was the greatest comfort and convenience to her, and she gave her a couple of new gowns, and an old necklace and shawl, and showed her friendship by abusing all her intimate acquaintances to her new confidante (than which there can't be a more touching proof of regard), and meditated vaguely some great future benefit--to marry her perhaps to Clump, the apothecary, or to settle her in some advantageous way of life; or at any rate, to send her back to Queen's Crawley when she had done with her, and the full London season had begun. When Miss Crawley was convalescent and descended to the drawing-room, Becky sang to her, and otherwise amused her; when she was well enough to drive out, Becky accompanied her. And amongst the drives which they took, whither, of all places in the world, did Miss Crawley's admirable good-nature and friendship actually induce her to penetrate, but to Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and the house of John Sedley, Esquire. Ere that event, many notes had passed, as may be imagined, between the two dear friends. During the months of Rebecca's stay in Hampshire, the eternal friendship had (must it be owned?) suffered considerable diminution, and grown so decrepit and feeble with old age as to threaten demise altogether. The fact is, both girls had their own real affairs to think of: Rebecca her advance with her employers--Amelia her own absorbing topic. When the two girls met, and flew into each other's arms with that impetuosity which distinguishes the behaviour of young ladies towards each other, Rebecca performed her part of the embrace with the most perfect briskness and energy. Poor little Amelia blushed as she kissed her friend, and thought she had been guilty of something very like coldness towards her. Their first interview was but a very short one. Amelia was just ready to go out for a walk. Miss Crawley was waiting in her carriage below, her people wondering at the locality in which they found themselves, and gazing upon honest Sambo, the black footman of Bloomsbury, as one of the queer natives of the place. But when Amelia came down with her kind smiling looks (Rebecca must introduce her to her friend, Miss Crawley was longing to see her, and was too ill to leave her carriage)--when, I say, Amelia came down, the Park Lane shoulder-knot aristocracy wondered more and more that such a thing could come out of Bloomsbury; and Miss Crawley was fairly captivated by the sweet blushing face of the young lady who came forward so timidly and so gracefully to pay her respects to the protector of her friend. "What a complexion, my dear! What a sweet voice!" Miss Crawley said, as they drove away westward after the little interview. "My dear Sharp, your young friend is charming. Send for her to Park Lane, do you hear?" Miss Crawley had a good taste. She liked natural manners--a little timidity only set them off. She liked pretty faces near her; as she liked pretty pictures and nice china. She talked of Amelia with rapture half a dozen times that day. She mentioned her to Rawdon Crawley, who came dutifully to partake of his aunt's chicken. Of course, on this Rebecca instantly stated that Amelia was engaged to be married--to a Lieutenant Osborne--a very old flame. "Is he a man in a line-regiment?" Captain Crawley asked, remembering after an effort, as became a guardsman, the number of the regiment, the --th. Rebecca thought that was the regiment. "The Captain's name," she said, "was Captain Dobbin." "A lanky gawky fellow," said Crawley, "tumbles over everybody. I know him; and Osborne's a goodish-looking fellow, with large black whiskers?" "Enormous," Miss Rebecca Sharp said, "and enormously proud of them, I assure you." Captain Rawdon Crawley burst into a horse-laugh by way of reply; and being pressed by the ladies to explain, did so when the explosion of hilarity was over. "He fancies he can play at billiards," said he. "I won two hundred of him at the Cocoa-Tree. HE play, the young flat! He'd have played for anything that day, but his friend Captain Dobbin carried him off, hang him!" "Rawdon, Rawdon, don't be so wicked," Miss Crawley remarked, highly pleased. "Why, ma'am, of all the young fellows I've seen out of the line, I think this fellow's the greenest. Tarquin and Deuceace get what money they like out of him. He'd go to the deuce to be seen with a lord. He pays their dinners at Greenwich, and they invite the company." "And very pretty company too, I dare say." "Quite right, Miss Sharp. Right, as usual, Miss Sharp. Uncommon pretty company--haw, haw!" and the Captain laughed more and more, thinking he had made a good joke. "Rawdon, don't be naughty!" his aunt exclaimed. "Well, his father's a City man--immensely rich, they say. Hang those City fellows, they must bleed; and I've not done with him yet, I can tell you. Haw, haw!" "Fie, Captain Crawley; I shall warn Amelia. A gambling husband!" "Horrid, ain't he, hey?" the Captain said with great solemnity; and then added, a sudden thought having struck him: "Gad, I say, ma'am, we'll have him here." "Is he a presentable sort of a person?" the aunt inquired. "Presentable?--oh, very well. You wouldn't see any difference," Captain Crawley answered. "Do let's have him, when you begin to see a few people; and his whatdyecallem--his inamorato--eh, Miss Sharp; that's what you call it--comes. Gad, I'll write him a note, and have him; and I'll try if he can play piquet as well as billiards. Where does he live, Miss Sharp?" Miss Sharp told Crawley the Lieutenant's town address; and a few days after this conversation, Lieutenant Osborne received a letter, in Captain Rawdon's schoolboy hand, and enclosing a note of invitation from Miss Crawley. Rebecca despatched also an invitation to her darling Amelia, who, you may be sure, was ready enough to accept it when she heard that George was to be of the party. It was arranged that Amelia was to spend the morning with the ladies of Park Lane, where all were very kind to her. Rebecca patronised her with calm superiority: she was so much the cleverer of the two, and her friend so gentle and unassuming, that she always yielded when anybody chose to command, and so took Rebecca's orders with perfect meekness and good humour. Miss Crawley's graciousness was also remarkable. She continued her raptures about little Amelia, talked about her before her face as if she were a doll, or a servant, or a picture, and admired her with the most benevolent wonder possible. I admire that admiration which the genteel world sometimes extends to the commonalty. There is no more agreeable object in life than to see Mayfair folks condescending. Miss Crawley's prodigious benevolence rather fatigued poor little Amelia, and I am not sure that of the three ladies in Park Lane she did not find honest Miss Briggs the most agreeable. She sympathised with Briggs as with all neglected or gentle people: she wasn't what you call a woman of spirit. George came to dinner--a repast en garcon with Captain Crawley. The great family coach of the Osbornes transported him to Park Lane from Russell Square; where the young ladies, who were not themselves invited, and professed the greatest indifference at that slight, nevertheless looked at Sir Pitt Crawley's name in the baronetage; and learned everything which that work had to teach about the Crawley family and their pedigree, and the Binkies, their relatives, &c., &c. Rawdon Crawley received George Osborne with great frankness and graciousness: praised his play at billiards: asked him when he would have his revenge: was interested about Osborne's regiment: and would have proposed piquet to him that very evening, but Miss Crawley absolutely forbade any gambling in her house; so that the young Lieutenant's purse was not lightened by his gallant patron, for that day at least. However, they made an engagement for the next, somewhere: to look at a horse that Crawley had to sell, and to try him in the Park; and to dine together, and to pass the evening with some jolly fellows. "That is, if you're not on duty to that pretty Miss Sedley," Crawley said, with a knowing wink. "Monstrous nice girl, 'pon my honour, though, Osborne," he was good enough to add. "Lots of tin, I suppose, eh?" Osborne wasn't on duty; he would join Crawley with pleasure: and the latter, when they met the next day, praised his new friend's horsemanship--as he might with perfect honesty--and introduced him to three or four young men of the first fashion, whose acquaintance immensely elated the simple young officer. "How's little Miss Sharp, by-the-bye?" Osborne inquired of his friend over their wine, with a dandified air. "Good-natured little girl that. Does she suit you well at Queen's Crawley? Miss Sedley liked her a good deal last year." Captain Crawley looked savagely at the Lieutenant out of his little blue eyes, and watched him when he went up to resume his acquaintance with the fair governess. Her conduct must have relieved Crawley if there was any jealousy in the bosom of that life-guardsman. When the young men went upstairs, and after Osborne's introduction to Miss Crawley, he walked up to Rebecca with a patronising, easy swagger. He was going to be kind to her and protect her. He would even shake hands with her, as a friend of Amelia's; and saying, "Ah, Miss Sharp! how-dy-doo?" held out his left hand towards her, expecting that she would be quite confounded at the honour. Miss Sharp put out her right forefinger, and gave him a little nod, so cool and killing, that Rawdon Crawley, watching the operations from the other room, could hardly restrain his laughter as he saw the Lieutenant's entire discomfiture; the start he gave, the pause, and the perfect clumsiness with which he at length condescended to take the finger which was offered for his embrace. "She'd beat the devil, by Jove!" the Captain said, in a rapture; and the Lieutenant, by way of beginning the conversation, agreeably asked Rebecca how she liked her new place. "My place?" said Miss Sharp, coolly, "how kind of you to remind me of it! It's a tolerably good place: the wages are pretty good--not so good as Miss Wirt's, I believe, with your sisters in Russell Square. How are those young ladies?--not that I ought to ask." "Why not?" Mr. Osborne said, amazed. "Why, they never condescended to speak to me, or to ask me into their house, whilst I was staying with Amelia; but we poor governesses, you know, are used to slights of this sort." "My dear Miss Sharp!" Osborne ejaculated. "At least in some families," Rebecca continued. "You can't think what a difference there is though. We are not so wealthy in Hampshire as you lucky folks of the City. But then I am in a gentleman's family--good old English stock. I suppose you know Sir Pitt's father refused a peerage. And you see how I am treated. I am pretty comfortable. Indeed it is rather a good place. But how very good of you to inquire!" Osborne was quite savage. The little governess patronised him and persiffled him until this young British Lion felt quite uneasy; nor could he muster sufficient presence of mind to find a pretext for backing out of this most delectable conversation. "I thought you liked the City families pretty well," he said, haughtily. "Last year you mean, when I was fresh from that horrid vulgar school? Of course I did. Doesn't every girl like to come home for the holidays? And how was I to know any better? But oh, Mr. Osborne, what a difference eighteen months' experience makes! eighteen months spent, pardon me for saying so, with gentlemen. As for dear Amelia, she, I grant you, is a pearl, and would be charming anywhere. There now, I see you are beginning to be in a good humour; but oh these queer odd City people! And Mr. Jos--how is that wonderful Mr. Joseph?" "It seems to me you didn't dislike that wonderful Mr. Joseph last year," Osborne said kindly. "How severe of you! Well, entre nous, I didn't break my heart about him; yet if he had asked me to do what you mean by your looks (and very expressive and kind they are, too), I wouldn't have said no." Mr. Osborne gave a look as much as to say, "Indeed, how very obliging!" "What an honour to have had you for a brother-in-law, you are thinking? To be sister-in-law to George Osborne, Esquire, son of John Osborne, Esquire, son of--what was your grandpapa, Mr. Osborne? Well, don't be angry. You can't help your pedigree, and I quite agree with you that I would have married Mr. Joe Sedley; for could a poor penniless girl do better? Now you know the whole secret. I'm frank and open; considering all things, it was very kind of you to allude to the circumstance--very kind and polite. Amelia dear, Mr. Osborne and I were talking about your poor brother Joseph. How is he?" Thus was George utterly routed. Not that Rebecca was in the right; but she had managed most successfully to put him in the wrong. And he now shamefully fled, feeling, if he stayed another minute, that he would have been made to look foolish in the presence of Amelia. Though Rebecca had had the better of him, George was above the meanness of talebearing or revenge upon a lady--only he could not help cleverly confiding to Captain Crawley, next day, some notions of his regarding Miss Rebecca--that she was a sharp one, a dangerous one, a desperate flirt, &c.; in all of which opinions Crawley agreed laughingly, and with every one of which Miss Rebecca was made acquainted before twenty-four hours were over. They added to her original regard for Mr. Osborne. Her woman's instinct had told her that it was George who had interrupted the success of her first love-passage, and she esteemed him accordingly. "I only just warn you," he said to Rawdon Crawley, with a knowing look--he had bought the horse, and lost some score of guineas after dinner, "I just warn you--I know women, and counsel you to be on the look-out." "Thank you, my boy," said Crawley, with a look of peculiar gratitude. "You're wide awake, I see." And George went off, thinking Crawley was quite right. He told Amelia of what he had done, and how he had counselled Rawdon Crawley--a devilish good, straightforward fellow--to be on his guard against that little sly, scheming Rebecca. "Against whom?" Amelia cried. "Your friend the governess.--Don't look so astonished." "O George, what have you done?" Amelia said. For her woman's eyes, which Love had made sharp-sighted, had in one instant discovered a secret which was invisible to Miss Crawley, to poor virgin Briggs, and above all, to the stupid peepers of that young whiskered prig, Lieutenant Osborne. For as Rebecca was shawling her in an upper apartment, where these two friends had an opportunity for a little of that secret talking and conspiring which form the delight of female life, Amelia, coming up to Rebecca, and taking her two little hands in hers, said, "Rebecca, I see it all." Rebecca kissed her. And regarding this delightful secret, not one syllable more was said by either of the young women. But it was destined to come out before long. Some short period after the above events, and Miss Rebecca Sharp still remaining at her patroness's house in Park Lane, one more hatchment might have been seen in Great Gaunt Street, figuring amongst the many which usually ornament that dismal quarter. It was over Sir Pitt Crawley's house; but it did not indicate the worthy baronet's demise. It was a feminine hatchment, and indeed a few years back had served as a funeral compliment to Sir Pitt's old mother, the late dowager Lady Crawley. Its period of service over, the hatchment had come down from the front of the house, and lived in retirement somewhere in the back premises of Sir Pitt's mansion. It reappeared now for poor Rose Dawson. Sir Pitt was a widower again. The arms quartered on the shield along with his own were not, to be sure, poor Rose's. She had no arms. But the cherubs painted on the scutcheon answered as well for her as for Sir Pitt's mother, and Resurgam was written under the coat, flanked by the Crawley Dove and Serpent. Arms and Hatchments, Resurgam.--Here is an opportunity for moralising! Mr. Crawley had tended that otherwise friendless bedside. She went out of the world strengthened by such words and comfort as he could give her. For many years his was the only kindness she ever knew; the only friendship that solaced in any way that feeble, lonely soul. Her heart was dead long before her body. She had sold it to become Sir Pitt Crawley's wife. Mothers and daughters are making the same bargain every day in Vanity Fair. When the demise took place, her husband was in London attending to some of his innumerable schemes, and busy with his endless lawyers. He had found time, nevertheless, to call often in Park Lane, and to despatch many notes to Rebecca, entreating her, enjoining her, commanding her to return to her young pupils in the country, who were now utterly without companionship during their mother's illness. But Miss Crawley would not hear of her departure; for though there was no lady of fashion in London who would desert her friends more complacently as soon as she was tired of their society, and though few tired of them sooner, yet as long as her engoument lasted her attachment was prodigious, and she clung still with the greatest energy to Rebecca. The news of Lady Crawley's death provoked no more grief or comment than might have been expected in Miss Crawley's family circle. "I suppose I must put off my party for the 3rd," Miss Crawley said; and added, after a pause, "I hope my brother will have the decency not to marry again." "What a confounded rage Pitt will be in if he does," Rawdon remarked, with his usual regard for his elder brother. Rebecca said nothing. She seemed by far the gravest and most impressed of the family. She left the room before Rawdon went away that day; but they met by chance below, as he was going away after taking leave, and had a parley together. On the morrow, as Rebecca was gazing from the window, she startled Miss Crawley, who was placidly occupied with a French novel, by crying out in an alarmed tone, "Here's Sir Pitt, Ma'am!" and the Baronet's knock followed this announcement. "My dear, I can't see him. I won't see him. Tell Bowls not at home, or go downstairs and say I'm too ill to receive any one. My nerves really won't bear my brother at this moment," cried out Miss Crawley, and resumed the novel. "She's too ill to see you, sir," Rebecca said, tripping down to Sir Pitt, who was preparing to ascend. "So much the better," Sir Pitt answered. "I want to see YOU, Miss Becky. Come along a me into the parlour," and they entered that apartment together. "I wawnt you back at Queen's Crawley, Miss," the baronet said, fixing his eyes upon her, and taking off his black gloves and his hat with its great crape hat-band. His eyes had such a strange look, and fixed upon her so steadfastly, that Rebecca Sharp began almost to tremble. "I hope to come soon," she said in a low voice, "as soon as Miss Crawley is better--and return to--to the dear children." "You've said so these three months, Becky," replied Sir Pitt, "and still you go hanging on to my sister, who'll fling you off like an old shoe, when she's wore you out. I tell you I want you. I'm going back to the Vuneral. Will you come back? Yes or no?" "I daren't--I don't think--it would be right--to be alone--with you, sir," Becky said, seemingly in great agitation. "I say agin, I want you," Sir Pitt said, thumping the table. "I can't git on without you. I didn't see what it was till you went away. The house all goes wrong. It's not the same place. All my accounts has got muddled agin. You MUST come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do come." "Come--as what, sir?" Rebecca gasped out. "Come as Lady Crawley, if you like," the Baronet said, grasping his crape hat. "There! will that zatusfy you? Come back and be my wife. Your vit vor't. Birth be hanged. You're as good a lady as ever I see. You've got more brains in your little vinger than any baronet's wife in the county. Will you come? Yes or no?" "Oh, Sir Pitt!" Rebecca said, very much moved. "Say yes, Becky," Sir Pitt continued. "I'm an old man, but a good'n. I'm good for twenty years. I'll make you happy, zee if I don't. You shall do what you like; spend what you like; and 'ave it all your own way. I'll make you a zettlement. I'll do everything reglar. Look year!" and the old man fell down on his knees and leered at her like a satyr. Rebecca started back a picture of consternation. In the course of this history we have never seen her lose her presence of mind; but she did now, and wept some of the most genuine tears that ever fell from her eyes. "Oh, Sir Pitt!" she said. "Oh, sir--I--I'm married ALREADY." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nach der Veröffentlichung der vorherigen Kapitel schrieben einige Leser, dass sie in Amelia nichts sehen könnten. Thackeray sagt, dass dies das größte Kompliment ist, das eine Frau einer anderen geben kann. Bei Männern um sich herum gibt keine Frau einer anderen Kredit für irgendetwas. Die Osborne-Mädchen sind eifersüchtig auf ihren Bruder. Miss Maria Osbornes besonderer Freund, Mr. Bullock, hat mit Amelia getanzt, was Maria eifersüchtig macht, obwohl sie Freude vortäuscht. Osborne wird gedemütigt, wie seine fellow-soldiers ihn wegen Amelias Briefen aufziehen. Er entsetzt Dobbin, indem er seine Zigarre damit anzündet. Dobbin hört, wie die Männer über Osbornes wildes Leben klatschen. Wütend erzählt er ihnen, dass Osborne mit Miss Sedley verlobt ist. Als diese Enthüllung George verärgert, fragt Dobbin ihn, ob er sich für seine Verlobung schämt. Osborne sagt, er möchte nicht, dass jeder sein Geschäft kennt, und er möchte sich einen kleinen Spaß erlauben. Dobbin bittet ihn, Amelia glücklich zu machen, und Osborne sagt, er werde ihr ein Geschenk mitbringen. Dobbin leiht ihm Geld, aber Osborne kauft sich selbst einen Diamant-Shirt-Pin. Erleichtert, George zu sehen, denkt Amelia nicht an Geschenke. Sie hat sich vorgestellt, wie er Wunden versorgt oder andere anstrengende Aufgaben erfüllt. Amelia hält Lieutenant Osborne für den wundervollsten Mann der Welt und er stimmt ihr zu. Sie besucht das Osborne-Haus in Russell Square. Old Osborne kommt schlecht gelaunt nach Hause, sieht Amelia dort, starrt sie an und beklagt das Essen. Als George spät zum Abendessen nach Hause kommt, sagt sein Vater zu ihm, dass er Amelia nicht heiraten kann, es sei denn, sie hat zehntausend Pfund, und der ältere Osborne vermutet, dass Sedleys finanzielle Lage unsicher ist. Er verspricht George Geld, weil er möchte, dass er in guter Gesellschaft verkehrt, von der er glaubt, dass sie nichts falsch machen kann, aber er besteht darauf, dass George niemals spielt. Erleichtert, dass sein Vater nichts von einigen seiner Aktivitäten erfahren hat, scheint George versöhnt zu sein, sich von Amelia zu trennen, aber er sagt es ihr nicht. Die Szene verlagert sich ins Haus von Matilda Crawley, wo Miss Sharp mit Miss Crawley nach Hause gekommen ist, um sich um sie zu kümmern. Plötzlich interessiert sich Rawdon Crawley sehr für die Gesundheit seiner Tante und besucht sie oft. Alle Crawleys fürchten, dass Miss Matilda wieder gesund wird. Rawdon liebt Rebecca und "schwärmt von ihr in unbeholfenem Beben". Sir Pitt tobt, weil sie sein Haus verlassen hat. Als Miss Matilda stark genug ist, nimmt Becky sie mit, um Amelia zu besuchen. Miss Crawley mag Amelia und lädt sie und George Osborne zu sich nach Hause ein. George versucht, Rebecca herablassend zu behandeln, aber sie bringt ihn zum Schweigen, indem sie ihn fragt, was sein Großvater getan hat, und ihm dann versichert, dass er nichts für seine Abstammung tun kann. In der Zwischenzeit stirbt Lady Crawley, unbemerkt von allen außer ihrem Stiefsohn Pitt Crawley, der ihr einziger Trost war. Direkt nach ihrem Tod kommt Sir Pitt zu Miss Crawleys Haus und macht Becky einen Heiratsantrag, den sie ablehnen muss, da sie bereits verheiratet 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: How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint. "No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right." "Perhaps he's tired." Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. "Because otherwise"--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure--"because otherwise I cannot account for him." "I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that." "Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere." "Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?" "Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?" "Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes him sometimes seem--" "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over." "By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London." This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. "Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember." "I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE." "Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?" "You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do." "Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?" "We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?" "Not that I know of." "Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't." "Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte." "No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come." "Hear, hear!" said Cecil. Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old." Cecil crumbled his bread. "I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right." "I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return." But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of me." "From your own account, you told her as much." "Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--" The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real. "I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well," said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking. "I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy, "because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don't care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed." Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids--of such were their lives compact. "May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want no dessert." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lucy ist von der außergewöhnlichen Begegnung mit George erstaunt. Sie war überhaupt nicht darauf vorbereitet, von einem halbnackten George am Teich begrüßt zu werden, und das hat all ihre Pläne zunichte gemacht, ihn in angemessener Weise zu begrüßen. Bei einer Teestunde mit einer Nachbarin verhält sich Cecil snobistisch bis zur Unhöflichkeit, und Frau Honeychurch bemerkt es. Lucy verteidigt Cecil, indem sie sagt, dass er hohe Ansprüche an die Menschen hat, und Frau Butterworth ist mühsam. "Cecil hat dir gesagt, dass du so denken sollst", erwidert ihre Mutter und weist darauf hin, dass Lucy früher Frau Butterworth geliebt hat, die sich um sie gekümmert hat, als sie Typhus hatte. Frau Honeychurch hat auch Cecil's Ärger über sie und Freddy bemerkt. Lucy ist verärgert und peinlich berührt; sie weiß, dass Cecil überheblich sein wollte, und er hat es geschafft. Freddy kehrt nach dem Schwimmen begeistert von den Emersons zurück und plant, sie am Sonntag zum Tennis einzuladen. Lucy entmutigt ihn und sagt, dass es im Moment zu viel Durcheinander gibt. Lucys Mutter fragt sie, was in Charlottes Brief stand, aber Lucy kann ihr nicht alles erzählen; sie lenkt ihre Mutter nur ab, indem sie Miss Lavish erwähnt, von der Charlotte in ihrem Brief gesprochen hatte. Frau Honeychurch verabscheut die Vorstellung von Schriftstellerinnen, sie denkt, dass Frauen sich um ihr Zuhause und ihre Kinder kümmern sollten, anstatt nach Ruhm in der Öffentlichkeit zu streben. Obwohl Lucy sich einredet, dass der Kuss, den ihr George Emerson gegeben hat, nichts bedeutet, ist sie unruhig wegen all dieser Geister aus der Vergangenheit, die auftauchen - Charlotte und ihr Wissen sind einer von ihnen. Jetzt möchte Lucys Mutter Charlotte einladen, während Installationsarbeiten in ihrem Haus in Tunbridge Wells stattfinden, und das macht Lucy nervös. Lucy und Cecil sind dagegen, aber Charlotte wird trotzdem kommen.

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 Fünf, Szene Eins. Eintreten mit Trommeln und Farben, Edmund, Regan. Herren und Soldaten. Bast. Fragt den Herzog, ob er weiterhin an seinem letzten Vorhaben festhält, Oder ob er, nachdem er durch irgendetwas beraten wurde, Den Kurs ändern will, er ist voller Veränderung, Und sich selbst verurteilend, bringt er sein stetes Vergnügen Reg. Unser Schwester-Mann ist sicher verloren Bast. Das ist zu bezweifeln, Madam Reg. Nun, mein lieber Lord, Du kennst die Güte, die ich dir erweise: Sag mir aber die Wahrheit, sprich dann die Wahrheit, Liebst du meine Schwester nicht? Bast. In ehrenwerter Liebe Reg. Aber hast du nie den Weg meines Bruders gefunden, Zu dem verbotenen Ort? Bast. Nein, bei meiner Ehre, Madam Reg. Ich werde sie nie ertragen, lieber Herr, Sei nicht vertraut mit ihr Bast. Hab keine Angst, sie und ihr Ehemann, der Herzog. Eintreten mit Trommel und Farben, Albany, Gonerill, Soldaten. Alb. Unsere sehr liebe Schwester, willkommen: Sir, ich habe gehört, der König ist bei seiner Tochter angekommen Mit anderen, die die Härte unseres Staates Zum Schreien gezwungen hat Reg. Warum wird das vernünftig begründet? Gon. Vereinigt euch gegen den Feind: Denn diese häuslichen und individuellen Streitereien Sind hier nicht genau die Frage Alb. Lasst uns dann mit den Alten des Krieges entscheiden Über unser Vorgehen Reg. Schwester, gehst du mit uns? Gon. Nein Reg. Es ist am bequemsten, komm mit uns Gon. Oh, ich kenne das Rätsel, ich werde mitgehen. Ab beide Armeen. Edgar tritt ein. Edg. Wenn je eure Gnade mit einem so armen Mann gesprochen hat, Hört mich ein Wort Alb. Ich werde dich einholen, sprich Edg. Bevor ihr die Schlacht kämpft, öffnet diesen Brief: Wenn ihr den Sieg erringt, lasst die Trompete erklingen Für den, der ihn gebracht hat: obwohl ich elend aussehe, Kann ich einen Kämpfer vorführen, der beweisen wird, Was dort behauptet wird. Wenn ihr scheitert, Hat euer Geschäft mit der Welt ein Ende, Und Machenschaften hören auf. Das Glück liebt euch Alb. Warte, bis ich den Brief gelesen habe Edg. Mir wurde verboten: Wenn die Zeit gekommen ist, lasst nur den Herold rufen, Und ich werde wieder erscheinen. Tritt ein. Alb. Nun denn, leb wohl, ich werde dein Papier übersehen. Edmund tritt ein. Bast. Der Feind ist in Sichtweite, ordnet eure Truppen an, Hier ist die Schätzung ihrer wahren Stärke und ihrer Streitkräfte, Durch gründliche Erkundung, aber eure Eile Wurde euch nun auferlegt Alb. Wir werden die Zeit begrüßen. Tritt ein. Bast. Beiden dieser Schwestern habe ich meine Liebe geschworen: Jede eifersüchtig auf die andere, wie die Gestochenen Eifersüchtig auf die Kreuzotter sind. Wen soll ich nehmen? Beide? Eine? Oder keine? Keine kann genossen werden, Wenn beide am Leben bleiben: Die Witwe zu nehmen, Bereizt ihre Schwester Gonerill, macht sie verrückt, Und kaum werde ich meine Seite durchsetzen können, Solange ihr Ehemann noch lebt. Nun werden wir Sein Aussehen für die Schlacht nutzen, und nachdem das getan ist, Möge diejenige, die ihn loswerden will, einen Plan schmieden, Um ihn schnell aus dem Weg zu schaffen. Was die Gnade betrifft, Die er Lear und Cordelia erweisen will, Wenn die Schlacht vorbei ist und sie in unserer Macht sind, Werden sie seine Vergebung nie sehen: Für meinen Zustand Steht es an mir zu verteidigen, nicht zu diskutieren. Tritt ein. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Regan, Edmund und Mitglieder ihrer Armee versammeln sich im britischen Lager in der Nähe von Dover. Regan fragt Edmund nach seinen Gefühlen für Goneril aus. Edmund verspricht Regan, dass er nicht mit ihrer Schwester intim sein wird. Goneril und Albany treten auf. Albany erklärt, dass er das Königreich gegen die französischen Eindringlinge verteidigen will. Goneril behauptet, dass der Kampf kein häuslicher Streit, sondern eine Verteidigung gegen einen äußeren Feind ist. Edgar, noch immer als Armer Tom verkleidet, erscheint und übergibt Albany den Brief, den er vom Körper Oswalds genommen hat - der Brief, den Goneril geschrieben hat und in dem sie Edmund beauftragt, ihren Ehemann zu töten. Edgar verlässt die Szene und Edmund kommt mit der Nachricht herein, dass die feindlichen Streitkräfte in der Nähe 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. Kapitel: AKT V. SZENE 1. Northampton. Ein Raum im Palast. [DER KÖNIG JOHANN, PANDULPH mit der Krone und Gefolge betreten die Bühne.] KÖNIG JOHANN. So habe ich euch die Herrschaft meines Ruhms überlassen, Den Kreis meiner Herrlichkeit. PANDULPH. [Gibt KÖNIG JOHANN die Krone.] Nehmt erneut Aus meiner Hand, als dem Papst untergeordnet, Eure souveräne Größe und Autorität. KÖNIG JOHANN. Haltet nun euer heiliges Wort: geht den Franzosen entgegen; Und nutzt eure ganze Macht Im Namen seiner Heiligkeit, um ihre Vorstöße zu stoppen, bevor wir entflammt sind. Unsere missmutigen Grafschaften erheben sich; Unser Volk streitet sich mit Gehorsam; Sie schwören Treue und die Liebe der Seele Für fremdes Blut, für ausländische Königsherrschaft. Diese Flut missgestimmter Launen Ist allein von euch zu zügeln. Zögert also nicht; denn die gegenwärtige Zeit ist so krank Dass gegenwärtige Medizin verabreicht werden muss Sonst folgt eine unheilbare Niederlage. PANDULPH. Es war mein Atem, der diesen Sturm entfacht hat, Aufgrund eurer störrischen Behandlung des Papstes. Aber da ihr ein sanfter Bekehrter seid, Wird meine Zunge diesen Kriegssturm erneut zum Schweigen bringen Und ein schönes Wetter in euer stürmisches Land bringen. An diesem Christi-Himmelfahrt-Tag, erinnert euch gut daran, Im Namen eures Eides dem Papst gegenüber, Gehe ich, um die Franzosen zu bewegen, ihre Waffen niederzulegen. [Abgang.] KÖNIG JOHANN. Ist heute Christi-Himmelfahrt-Tag? Hat nicht der Prophet Gesagt, dass ich vor Christi-Himmelfahrt-Tag um die Mittagszeit Meine Krone abgeben sollte? Genau das habe ich getan: Ich dachte, es würde unter Zwang geschehen; Aber Gott sei Dank, es ist freiwillig. [DER BASTARD tritt auf.] BASTARD. Ganz Kent hat sich ergeben; nichts hält dort stand Außer Dover Castle: London hat Wie ein freundlicher Gast den Dauphin und seine Truppen empfangen: Eure Adligen wollen nichts von euch hören, sondern sind gegangen, Um sich dem Feind zu unterwerfen; Und wildes Erstaunen hetzt auf und ab In der kleinen Anzahl eurer zweifelnden Freunde. KÖNIG JOHANN. Wären meine Herrschaften nicht zu mir zurückgekehrt, Nachdem sie gehört hatten, dass der junge Arthur am Leben ist? BASTARD. Sie fanden ihn tot und auf die Straßen geworfen; Ein leerer Kasten, in dem der Juwel des Lebens Von einer verdammten Hand gestohlen und weggenommen wurde. KÖNIG JOHANN. Dieser Schurke Hubert sagte mir, er wäre lebendig. BASTARD. So, bei meiner Seele, war er, soviel er wusste. Aber warum seid ihr niedergeschlagen? Warum seht ihr traurig aus? Seid groß in der Tat, so wie ihr es im Gedanken wart; Lasst nicht die Welt Furcht und trauriges Misstrauen sehen, Das die Bewegung eines königlichen Blicks beherrscht: Seid rührig wie die Zeit; seid Feuer mit Feuer; Bedroht die Bedrohenden und trotzt der Stirn Eines prahlerischen Schreckens: so werden niedrigere Augen, Die ihr Verhalten von den Großen ausborgen, Groß durch euer Beispiel werden und Den furchtlosen Geist der Entschlossenheit annehmen. Geht, und glänzt wie der Kriegsgott, Wenn er sich auf das Schlachtfeld begibt: Zeigt Tapferkeit und strebt nach Zuversicht. Was, sollen sie den Löwen in seiner Höhle suchen Und ihn dort erschrecken lassen? Und ihn zum Zittern bringen? Oh, lasst es nicht gesagt werden! Bewegt euch Hinfort und begegnet Unmut weiter entfernt von den Türen Und ringt mit ihm, ehe er so nahe kommt. KÖNIG JOHANN. Die Abgesandten des Papstes waren bei mir, Und ich habe einen glücklichen Frieden mit ihm geschlossen; Und er hat versprochen, die Truppen Unter der Führung des Dauphins abzuziehen. BASTARD. Oh, ruhmlose Allianz! Sollen wir, auf dem Boden unseres Landes, Anordnungen für faires Spiel senden und Kompromisse schließen, Täuschung, Verhandlungen und schwache Waffenstillstände, Für invasive Kriegsaktionen? Soll ein bartloser Junge, Ein eingebildeter, weichlicher Günstling, unsere Felder herausfordern, Und seinen Geist in kriegerischer Erde beweisen, Indem er die Luft mit nutzlosen Farben verhöhnt, Und keine Hindernisse finden? Lasst uns, mein Herr, zu den Waffen greifen; Möglicherweise kann der Kardinal euren Frieden nicht herbeiführen; Oder, sollte er es tun, lasst es zumindest gesagt werden, Dass sie gesehen haben, dass wir eine Verteidigungsabsicht hatten. KÖNIG JOHANN. Du sollst die Organisation dieser gegenwärtigen Zeit übernehmen. BASTARD. Weg also, mit gutem Mute! Dennoch weiß ich, Dass unsere Partei einem stolzeren Feind begegnen kann. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Willkommen am königlichen Hof von England. König John kniet vor Pandolf nieder. Er übergibt ihm seine Krone, die Pandolf ihm dann zurückgibt. Okay. Es sieht so aus, als ob König John und der Papst wieder Kumpels sind - aber es gibt einen Haken. Offiziell gehört England jetzt dem Papst; es ist nur so, dass er so nett ist, John weiterhin regieren zu lassen. Kleine Geschichtslektion: Erinnern wir uns daran, wie wir in Akt 3, Szene 1 gesagt haben, dass König John und der Papst darüber gestritten haben, wer der Erzbischof von Canterbury sein sollte? Der ganze Streit begann im Jahr 1207. Bis zum Jahr 1213 wurde deutlich, dass John nicht aufgeben würde; daher exkommunizierte Papst Innozenz III König John, erklärte im Grunde, dass seine Untertanen ihm nicht mehr treu sein müssten, und setzte ein Kopfgeld auf ihn aus. Der Papst drohte auch damit, dass andere europäische Monarchen Krieg mit England führen könnten. All dies geschah in einem Zeitraum von 6 Jahren, aber Shakespeare vermischt die Ereignisse, um sie in sein 5-Akt-Stück zu integrieren. Wie auch immer, König John erkannte, dass er dem Papst nicht gewachsen war, so wie Shakespeare es in seinem Stück zeigt, gab König John England dem Papst; von da an würde er es als Pachtnehmer des Papstes regieren. In der damaligen Sprache bedeutete dies, dass er England als "Lehen" halten würde. Darüber hinaus musste König John dem Papst jährliche Bargeldzahlungen leisten. Schade. Zurück zum Stück. Sobald das ganze Hin und Her mit der Krone vorbei ist, sagt König John zu Pandolf: "Alles klar: Ich habe meinen Teil des Deals erfüllt, jetzt ist es an der Zeit, dass du deinen Teil erfüllst. Hilf mir, diese verdammten Rebellen und Franzosen loszuwerden." Darauf antwortet Pandolf: "Mach dir keine Sorgen. Ich bin derjenige, der diesen Ärger verursacht hat; es wird leicht genug sein, die Dinge wieder in Ordnung zu bringen. Merkt euch meine Worte: An genau diesem Christi Himmelfahrtstag werde ich all eure Probleme lösen." Dann geht Pandolf. Sobald Pandolf weg ist, fängt König John an zu sich selbst zu sagen: "Christi Himmelfahrtstag, Christi Himmelfahrtstag... warum kommt mir das bekannt vor? Oh, ich weiß! Das ist der Tag, an dem dieser verrückte Mann Peter of Pomfret sagte, ich würde meine Krone aufgeben!" Dann hat König John eine Idee: "Aber - ich habe gerade meine Krone aufgegeben... und sofort zurückbekommen. Gewonnen!" König John scheint vergessen zu haben, dass er angeordnet hat, Peter of Pomfret an diesem Tag aufzuhängen. Gibt es noch Zeit, um das Leben des Mannes zu retten? Wir werden es nie erfahren, denn in genau diesem Moment wird John vom Bastard abgelenkt, der auf die Bühne kommt. Der Bastard bringt schlechte Nachrichten: Im ganzen Land sammeln sich Menschen, um die einfallenden Franzosen und ihre Verbündeten, die rebellischen englischen Adligen, zu unterstützen. König John fragt, ob die Nachricht, dass Arthur noch am Leben ist, die Leute beruhigt hat. Der Bastard antwortet, dass Arthur tot ist. König John denkt jetzt, dass Hubert ihn verraten hat, indem er ihm sagte, dass Arthur noch lebt. Der Bastard nimmt Hubert in Schutz und sagt John, er glaube nicht, dass er die Tat begangen hat. Dann sagt der Bastard zu John, er solle nicht so niedergeschlagen sein: Wenn die Leute in seinem Namen kämpfen sollen, muss er ihnen zeigen, dass er ein starker und mächtiger Anführer ist. König John antwortet, indem er dem Bastard erzählt, dass Pandolf versprochen hat, die Dinge wieder in Ordnung zu bringen. Der Bastard mag das nicht klingen; er hält eine solche Allianz mit dem Papst für ehrenlos. Der Bastard sagt, dass die englische Bevölkerung zumindest eine Armee bereitstellen sollte, um zu zeigen, dass sie keine totalen Waschlappen sind. König John sagt: "In Ordnung. Aber du kümmerst dich darum." Der Bastard verspricht, das zu tun. Er und König John verlassen beide die Bühne.

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'll woo her as the lion woos his bride. --Douglas While the scenes we have described were passing in other parts of the castle, the Jewess Rebecca awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered turret. Hither she had been led by two of her disguised ravishers, and on being thrust into the little cell, she found herself in the presence of an old sibyl, who kept murmuring to herself a Saxon rhyme, as if to beat time to the revolving dance which her spindle was performing upon the floor. The hag raised her head as Rebecca entered, and scowled at the fair Jewess with the malignant envy with which old age and ugliness, when united with evil conditions, are apt to look upon youth and beauty. "Thou must up and away, old house-cricket," said one of the men; "our noble master commands it--Thou must e'en leave this chamber to a fairer guest." "Ay," grumbled the hag, "even thus is service requited. I have known when my bare word would have cast the best man-at-arms among ye out of saddle and out of service; and now must I up and away at the command of every groom such as thou." "Good Dame Urfried," said the other man, "stand not to reason on it, but up and away. Lords' hests must be listened to with a quick ear. Thou hast had thy day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of an old war-horse turned out on the barren heath--thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of them--Come, amble off with thee." "Ill omens dog ye both!" said the old woman; "and a kennel be your burying-place! May the evil demon Zernebock tear me limb from limb, if I leave my own cell ere I have spun out the hemp on my distaff!" "Answer it to our lord, then, old housefiend," said the man, and retired; leaving Rebecca in company with the old woman, upon whose presence she had been thus unwillingly forced. "What devil's deed have they now in the wind?" said the old hag, murmuring to herself, yet from time to time casting a sidelong and malignant glance at Rebecca; "but it is easy to guess--Bright eyes, black locks, and a skin like paper, ere the priest stains it with his black unguent--Ay, it is easy to guess why they send her to this lone turret, whence a shriek could no more be heard than at the depth of five hundred fathoms beneath the earth.--Thou wilt have owls for thy neighbours, fair one; and their screams will be heard as far, and as much regarded, as thine own. Outlandish, too," she said, marking the dress and turban of Rebecca--"What country art thou of?--a Saracen? or an Egyptian?--Why dost not answer?--thou canst weep, canst thou not speak?" "Be not angry, good mother," said Rebecca. "Thou needst say no more," replied Urfried "men know a fox by the train, and a Jewess by her tongue." "For the sake of mercy," said Rebecca, "tell me what I am to expect as the conclusion of the violence which hath dragged me hither! Is it my life they seek, to atone for my religion? I will lay it down cheerfully." "Thy life, minion?" answered the sibyl; "what would taking thy life pleasure them?--Trust me, thy life is in no peril. Such usage shalt thou have as was once thought good enough for a noble Saxon maiden. And shall a Jewess, like thee, repine because she hath no better? Look at me--I was as young and twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-Boeuf, father of this Reginald, and his Normans, stormed this castle. My father and his seven sons defended their inheritance from story to story, from chamber to chamber--There was not a room, not a step of the stair, that was not slippery with their blood. They died--they died every man; and ere their bodies were cold, and ere their blood was dried, I had become the prey and the scorn of the conqueror!" "Is there no help?--Are there no means of escape?" said Rebecca--"Richly, richly would I requite thine aid." "Think not of it," said the hag; "from hence there is no escape but through the gates of death; and it is late, late," she added, shaking her grey head, "ere these open to us--Yet it is comfort to think that we leave behind us on earth those who shall be wretched as ourselves. Fare thee well, Jewess!--Jew or Gentile, thy fate would be the same; for thou hast to do with them that have neither scruple nor pity. Fare thee well, I say. My thread is spun out--thy task is yet to begin." "Stay! stay! for Heaven's sake!" said Rebecca; "stay, though it be to curse and to revile me--thy presence is yet some protection." "The presence of the mother of God were no protection," answered the old woman. "There she stands," pointing to a rude image of the Virgin Mary, "see if she can avert the fate that awaits thee." She left the room as she spoke, her features writhed into a sort of sneering laugh, which made them seem even more hideous than their habitual frown. She locked the door behind her, and Rebecca might hear her curse every step for its steepness, as slowly and with difficulty she descended the turret-stair. Rebecca was now to expect a fate even more dreadful than that of Rowena; for what probability was there that either softness or ceremony would be used towards one of her oppressed race, whatever shadow of these might be preserved towards a Saxon heiress? Yet had the Jewess this advantage, that she was better prepared by habits of thought, and by natural strength of mind, to encounter the dangers to which she was exposed. Of a strong and observing character, even from her earliest years, the pomp and wealth which her father displayed within his walls, or which she witnessed in the houses of other wealthy Hebrews, had not been able to blind her to the precarious circumstances under which they were enjoyed. Like Damocles at his celebrated banquet, Rebecca perpetually beheld, amid that gorgeous display, the sword which was suspended over the heads of her people by a single hair. These reflections had tamed and brought down to a pitch of sounder judgment a temper, which, under other circumstances, might have waxed haughty, supercilious, and obstinate. From her father's example and injunctions, Rebecca had learnt to bear herself courteously towards all who approached her. She could not indeed imitate his excess of subservience, because she was a stranger to the meanness of mind, and to the constant state of timid apprehension, by which it was dictated; but she bore herself with a proud humility, as if submitting to the evil circumstances in which she was placed as the daughter of a despised race, while she felt in her mind the consciousness that she was entitled to hold a higher rank from her merit, than the arbitrary despotism of religious prejudice permitted her to aspire to. Thus prepared to expect adverse circumstances, she had acquired the firmness necessary for acting under them. Her present situation required all her presence of mind, and she summoned it up accordingly. Her first care was to inspect the apartment; but it afforded few hopes either of escape or protection. It contained neither secret passage nor trap-door, and unless where the door by which she had entered joined the main building, seemed to be circumscribed by the round exterior wall of the turret. The door had no inside bolt or bar. The single window opened upon an embattled space surmounting the turret, which gave Rebecca, at first sight, some hopes of escaping; but she soon found it had no communication with any other part of the battlements, being an isolated bartisan, or balcony, secured, as usual, by a parapet, with embrasures, at which a few archers might be stationed for defending the turret, and flanking with their shot the wall of the castle on that side. There was therefore no hope but in passive fortitude, and in that strong reliance on Heaven natural to great and generous characters. Rebecca, however erroneously taught to interpret the promises of Scripture to the chosen people of Heaven, did not err in supposing the present to be their hour of trial, or in trusting that the children of Zion would be one day called in with the fulness of the Gentiles. In the meanwhile, all around her showed that their present state was that of punishment and probation, and that it was their especial duty to suffer without sinning. Thus prepared to consider herself as the victim of misfortune, Rebecca had early reflected upon her own state, and schooled her mind to meet the dangers which she had probably to encounter. The prisoner trembled, however, and changed colour, when a step was heard on the stair, and the door of the turret-chamber slowly opened, and a tall man, dressed as one of those banditti to whom they owed their misfortune, slowly entered, and shut the door behind him; his cap, pulled down upon his brows, concealed the upper part of his face, and he held his mantle in such a manner as to muffle the rest. In this guise, as if prepared for the execution of some deed, at the thought of which he was himself ashamed, he stood before the affrighted prisoner; yet, ruffian as his dress bespoke him, he seemed at a loss to express what purpose had brought him thither, so that Rebecca, making an effort upon herself, had time to anticipate his explanation. She had already unclasped two costly bracelets and a collar, which she hastened to proffer to the supposed outlaw, concluding naturally that to gratify his avarice was to bespeak his favour. "Take these," she said, "good friend, and for God's sake be merciful to me and my aged father! These ornaments are of value, yet are they trifling to what he would bestow to obtain our dismissal from this castle, free and uninjured." "Fair flower of Palestine," replied the outlaw, "these pearls are orient, but they yield in whiteness to your teeth; the diamonds are brilliant, but they cannot match your eyes; and ever since I have taken up this wild trade, I have made a vow to prefer beauty to wealth." "Do not do yourself such wrong," said Rebecca; "take ransom, and have mercy!--Gold will purchase you pleasure,--to misuse us, could only bring thee remorse. My father will willingly satiate thy utmost wishes; and if thou wilt act wisely, thou mayst purchase with our spoils thy restoration to civil society--mayst obtain pardon for past errors, and be placed beyond the necessity of committing more." "It is well spoken," replied the outlaw in French, finding it difficult probably to sustain, in Saxon, a conversation which Rebecca had opened in that language; "but know, bright lily of the vale of Baca! that thy father is already in the hands of a powerful alchemist, who knows how to convert into gold and silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon grate. The venerable Isaac is subjected to an alembic, which will distil from him all he holds dear, without any assistance from my requests or thy entreaty. The ransom must be paid by love and beauty, and in no other coin will I accept it." "Thou art no outlaw," said Rebecca, in the same language in which he addressed her; "no outlaw had refused such offers. No outlaw in this land uses the dialect in which thou hast spoken. Thou art no outlaw, but a Norman--a Norman, noble perhaps in birth--O, be so in thy actions, and cast off this fearful mask of outrage and violence!" "And thou, who canst guess so truly," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, dropping the mantle from his face, "art no true daughter of Israel, but in all, save youth and beauty, a very witch of Endor. I am not an outlaw, then, fair rose of Sharon. And I am one who will be more prompt to hang thy neck and arms with pearls and diamonds, which so well become them, than to deprive thee of these ornaments." "What wouldst thou have of me," said Rebecca, "if not my wealth?--We can have nought in common between us--you are a Christian--I am a Jewess.--Our union were contrary to the laws, alike of the church and the synagogue." "It were so, indeed," replied the Templar, laughing; "wed with a Jewess? 'Despardieux!'--Not if she were the Queen of Sheba! And know, besides, sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most Christian king to offer me his most Christian daughter, with Languedoc for a dowery, I could not wed her. It is against my vow to love any maiden, otherwise than 'par amours', as I will love thee. I am a Templar. Behold the cross of my Holy Order." "Darest thou appeal to it," said Rebecca, "on an occasion like the present?" "And if I do so," said the Templar, "it concerns not thee, who art no believer in the blessed sign of our salvation." "I believe as my fathers taught," said Rebecca; "and may God forgive my belief if erroneous! But you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you appeal without scruple to that which you deem most holy, even while you are about to transgress the most solemn of your vows as a knight, and as a man of religion?" "It is gravely and well preached, O daughter of Sirach!" answered the Templar; "but, gentle Ecclesiastics, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make thee blind to our high privilege. Marriage were an enduring crime on the part of a Templar; but what lesser folly I may practise, I shall speedily be absolved from at the next Preceptory of our Order. Not the wisest of monarchs, not his father, whose examples you must needs allow are weighty, claimed wider privileges than we poor soldiers of the Temple of Zion have won by our zeal in its defence. The protectors of Solomon's Temple may claim license by the example of Solomon." "If thou readest the Scripture," said the Jewess, "and the lives of the saints, only to justify thine own license and profligacy, thy crime is like that of him who extracts poison from the most healthful and necessary herbs." The eyes of the Templar flashed fire at this reproof--"Hearken," he said, "Rebecca; I have hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my language shall be that of a conqueror. Thou art the captive of my bow and spear--subject to my will by the laws of all nations; nor will I abate an inch of my right, or abstain from taking by violence what thou refusest to entreaty or necessity." "Stand back," said Rebecca--"stand back, and hear me ere thou offerest to commit a sin so deadly! My strength thou mayst indeed overpower for God made women weak, and trusted their defence to man's generosity. But I will proclaim thy villainy, Templar, from one end of Europe to the other. I will owe to the superstition of thy brethren what their compassion might refuse me, Each Preceptory--each Chapter of thy Order, shall learn, that, like a heretic, thou hast sinned with a Jewess. Those who tremble not at thy crime, will hold thee accursed for having so far dishonoured the cross thou wearest, as to follow a daughter of my people." "Thou art keen-witted, Jewess," replied the Templar, well aware of the truth of what she spoke, and that the rules of his Order condemned in the most positive manner, and under high penalties, such intrigues as he now prosecuted, and that, in some instances, even degradation had followed upon it--"thou art sharp-witted," he said; "but loud must be thy voice of complaint, if it is heard beyond the iron walls of this castle; within these, murmurs, laments, appeals to justice, and screams for help, die alike silent away. One thing only can save thee, Rebecca. Submit to thy fate--embrace our religion, and thou shalt go forth in such state, that many a Norman lady shall yield as well in pomp as in beauty to the favourite of the best lance among the defenders of the Temple." "Submit to my fate!" said Rebecca--"and, sacred Heaven! to what fate?--embrace thy religion! and what religion can it be that harbours such a villain?--THOU the best lance of the Templars!--Craven knight!--forsworn priest! I spit at thee, and I defy thee.--The God of Abraham's promise hath opened an escape to his daughter--even from this abyss of infamy!" As she spoke, she threw open the latticed window which led to the bartisan, and in an instant after, stood on the very verge of the parapet, with not the slightest screen between her and the tremendous depth below. Unprepared for such a desperate effort, for she had hitherto stood perfectly motionless, Bois-Guilbert had neither time to intercept nor to stop her. As he offered to advance, she exclaimed, "Remain where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice advance!--one foot nearer, and I plunge myself from the precipice; my body shall be crushed out of the very form of humanity upon the stones of that court-yard, ere it become the victim of thy brutality!" As she spoke this, she clasped her hands and extended them towards heaven, as if imploring mercy on her soul before she made the final plunge. The Templar hesitated, and a resolution which had never yielded to pity or distress, gave way to his admiration of her fortitude. "Come down," he said, "rash girl!--I swear by earth, and sea, and sky, I will offer thee no offence." "I will not trust thee, Templar," said Rebecca; "thou hast taught me better how to estimate the virtues of thine Order. The next Preceptory would grant thee absolution for an oath, the keeping of which concerned nought but the honour or the dishonour of a miserable Jewish maiden." "You do me injustice," exclaimed the Templar fervently; "I swear to you by the name which I bear--by the cross on my bosom--by the sword on my side--by the ancient crest of my fathers do I swear, I will do thee no injury whatsoever! If not for thyself, yet for thy father's sake forbear! I will be his friend, and in this castle he will need a powerful one." "Alas!" said Rebecca, "I know it but too well--dare I trust thee?" "May my arms be reversed, and my name dishonoured," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, "if thou shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a law, many a commandment have I broken, but my word never." "I will then trust thee," said Rebecca, "thus far;" and she descended from the verge of the battlement, but remained standing close by one of the embrasures, or "machicolles", as they were then called.--"Here," she said, "I take my stand. Remain where thou art, and if thou shalt attempt to diminish by one step the distance now between us, thou shalt see that the Jewish maiden will rather trust her soul with God, than her honour to the Templar!" While Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm resolve, which corresponded so well with the expressive beauty of her countenance, gave to her looks, air, and manner, a dignity that seemed more than mortal. Her glance quailed not, her cheek blanched not, for the fear of a fate so instant and so horrible; on the contrary, the thought that she had her fate at her command, and could escape at will from infamy to death, gave a yet deeper colour of carnation to her complexion, and a yet more brilliant fire to her eye. Bois-Guilbert, proud himself and high-spirited, thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and so commanding. "Let there be peace between us, Rebecca," he said. "Peace, if thou wilt," answered Rebecca--"Peace--but with this space between." "Thou needst no longer fear me," said Bois-Guilbert. "I fear thee not," replied she; "thanks to him that reared this dizzy tower so high, that nought could fall from it and live--thanks to him, and to the God of Israel!--I fear thee not." "Thou dost me injustice," said the Templar; "by earth, sea, and sky, thou dost me injustice! I am not naturally that which you have seen me, hard, selfish, and relentless. It was woman that taught me cruelty, and on woman therefore I have exercised it; but not upon such as thou. Hear me, Rebecca--Never did knight take lance in his hand with a heart more devoted to the lady of his love than Brian de Bois-Guilbert. She, the daughter of a petty baron, who boasted for all his domains but a ruinous tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and some few leagues of the barren Landes of Bourdeaux, her name was known wherever deeds of arms were done, known wider than that of many a lady's that had a county for a dowery.--Yes," he continued, pacing up and down the little platform, with an animation in which he seemed to lose all consciousness of Rebecca's presence--"Yes, my deeds, my danger, my blood, made the name of Adelaide de Montemare known from the court of Castile to that of Byzantium. And how was I requited?--When I returned with my dear-bought honours, purchased by toil and blood, I found her wedded to a Gascon squire, whose name was never heard beyond the limits of his own paltry domain! Truly did I love her, and bitterly did I revenge me of her broken faith! But my vengeance has recoiled on myself. Since that day I have separated myself from life and its ties--My manhood must know no domestic home--must be soothed by no affectionate wife--My age must know no kindly hearth--My grave must be solitary, and no offspring must outlive me, to bear the ancient name of Bois-Guilbert. At the feet of my Superior I have laid down the right of self-action--the privilege of independence. The Templar, a serf in all but the name, can possess neither lands nor goods, and lives, moves, and breathes, but at the will and pleasure of another." "Alas!" said Rebecca, "what advantages could compensate for such an absolute sacrifice?" "The power of vengeance, Rebecca," replied the Templar, "and the prospects of ambition." "An evil recompense," said Rebecca, "for the surrender of the rights which are dearest to humanity." "Say not so, maiden," answered the Templar; "revenge is a feast for the gods! And if they have reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves, it is because they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the possession of mere mortals.--And ambition? it is a temptation which could disturb even the bliss of heaven itself."--He paused a moment, and then added, "Rebecca! she who could prefer death to dishonour, must have a proud and a powerful soul. Mine thou must be!--Nay, start not," he added, "it must be with thine own consent, and on thine own terms. Thou must consent to share with me hopes more extended than can be viewed from the throne of a monarch!--Hear me ere you answer and judge ere you refuse.--The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights, his power of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty body, before which thrones already tremble,--even as the single drop of rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that resistless ocean, which undermines rocks and ingulfs royal armadas. Such a swelling flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty Order I am no mean member, but already one of the Chief Commanders, and may well aspire one day to hold the batoon of Grand Master. The poor soldiers of the Temple will not alone place their foot upon the necks of kings--a hemp-sandall'd monk can do that. Our mailed step shall ascend their throne--our gauntlet shall wrench the sceptre from their gripe. Not the reign of your vainly-expected Messiah offers such power to your dispersed tribes as my ambition may aim at. I have sought but a kindred spirit to share it, and I have found such in thee." "Sayest thou this to one of my people?" answered Rebecca. "Bethink thee--" "Answer me not," said the Templar, "by urging the difference of our creeds; within our secret conclaves we hold these nursery tales in derision. Think not we long remained blind to the idiotical folly of our founders, who forswore every delight of life for the pleasure of dying martyrs by hunger, by thirst, and by pestilence, and by the swords of savages, while they vainly strove to defend a barren desert, valuable only in the eyes of superstition. Our Order soon adopted bolder and wider views, and found out a better indemnification for our sacrifices. Our immense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our high military fame, which brings within our circle the flower of chivalry from every Christian clime--these are dedicated to ends of which our pious founders little dreamed, and which are equally concealed from such weak spirits as embrace our Order on the ancient principles, and whose superstition makes them our passive tools. But I will not further withdraw the veil of our mysteries. That bugle-sound announces something which may require my presence. Think on what I have said.--Farewell!--I do not say forgive me the violence I have threatened, for it was necessary to the display of thy character. Gold can be only known by the application of the touchstone. I will soon return, and hold further conference with thee." He re-entered the turret-chamber, and descended the stair, leaving Rebecca scarcely more terrified at the prospect of the death to which she had been so lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of the bold bad man in whose power she found herself so unhappily placed. When she entered the turret-chamber, her first duty was to return thanks to the God of Jacob for the protection which he had afforded her, and to implore its continuance for her and for her father. Another name glided into her petition--it was that of the wounded Christian, whom fate had placed in the hands of bloodthirsty men, his avowed enemies. Her heart indeed checked her, as if, even in communing with the Deity in prayer, she mingled in her devotions the recollection of one with whose fate hers could have no alliance--a Nazarene, and an enemy to her faith. But the petition was already breathed, nor could all the narrow prejudices of her sect induce Rebecca to wish it recalled. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Diese Inschrift ist gruselig: "Ich werde sie umwerben, wie der Löwe um seine Braut wirbt." Diese Zeile stammt aus einem Stück namens <em>Douglas: A Tragedy</em> des schottischen Schriftstellers John Home. Der böse Charakter Glenalvon plant, eine verheiratete Frau, Lady Randolph, zu entführen. Mit anderen Worten, es handelt sich um eine Zeile über das Erzwingen einer sexuellen Beziehung zu einer Frau. In einem anderen Teil des Schlosses ist Rebecca in einem Turm eingesperrt. In ihrer Zelle ist eine alte Frau, Urfried, die nicht gehen möchte. Urfried hasst Rebecca für ihre Jugend und Schönheit. Sie verspottet Rebecca und sagt ihr, dass die Normannen sie nicht töten werden. Sie legt nahe, dass sie stattdessen vergewaltigt werden wird. Urfried überlässt Rebecca ihrem Schicksal. Rebecca schaut sich im Raum um und sieht keine Hoffnung auf Flucht. Sie beschließt, so stark wie möglich zu bleiben, egal was passiert. Ein Mann erscheint an der Tür ihrer Zelle. Er ist gekleidet wie einer der Gesetzlosen des Waldes, mit einer Mütze, die sein Gesicht zur Hälfte verdeckt. Rebecca bietet ihm die Schmuckstücke an, die sie trägt, um sich selbst und ihren Vater freizukaufen. Der Gesetzlose lehnt ab. Er interessiert sich nicht für Geld. Der Gesetzlose ist niemand anders als Brian de Bois-Guilbert. Er will Rebecca. Rebecca versteht nicht, wie ein Mann, der geschworen hat, für das Kreuz zu kämpfen, sie so behandeln kann. Aber Bois-Guilbert fühlt sich nicht schlecht dabei, sein Keuschheitsgelübde zu brechen. Er ist ins Heilige Land gegangen, um für den Tempel Salomos zu kämpfen. Danach wird eine kleine Sünde wie Sex seinen Gerechtigkeitssinn nicht zerstören, denkt er. Rebecca schwört, ganz Europa zu durchqueren und jedem zu erzählen, dass Bois-Guilbert sie vergewaltigt und sein Gelübde gebrochen hat, wenn er das durchzieht. Bois-Guilbert sorgt sich um diesen möglichen Rufschaden. Er verlangt, dass Rebecca zum Christentum konvertiert. Dann wird er sie als normannische Dame behalten. Rebecca widersetzt sich Bois-Guilbert: Wie kann sie zum Christentum konvertieren, wenn <em>er </em>Ihr Vorbild dafür ist, was es bedeutet, Christ zu sein? Rebecca rennt zum Fenster und ist bereit, sich hinauszustürzen. Bois-Guilbert fühlt sich schlecht und verspricht, ihr nicht zu schaden. Ihre Schönheit und ihr Stolz bewegen ihn und er entschuldigt sich. Bois-Guilbert erklärt, dass ihn Herzschmerz so grausam gemacht hat. Als er von den Kreuzzügen zurückkehrte und Ruhm und Ehre gewonnen hatte, stellte er fest, dass seine Geliebte einen gewöhnlichen Knappe geheiratet hatte. Seitdem hat er geschworen, das einsame Leben eines Tempelritters zu führen. Bois-Guilbert hört das Horn am Tor blasen. Er bittet Rebecca, über das nachzudenken, was er gesagt 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: In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter with an earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them. Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag... "Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am gone, or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless." "Yes, Mother." "Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't get despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home." "We will, Mother! We will!" The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away. Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him 'Mr. Greatheart' on the spot. "Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the carriage. As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it shining on the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie. "How kind everyone is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face. "I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words. "I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves. "It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly. Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly. Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot. "Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work and be a credit to the family." Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again. "'Hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit. "I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red. "No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put in Amy, with an important air. "Hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without delay. "I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar pensively. The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl. The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin. "That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. "Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won't strain today. Don't fret about Father, dear," she added, as they parted. "And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders. "That's my only comfort." And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day. News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them. My dearest Mother: It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy, but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own... MEG This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed letters. My precious Marmee: Three cheers for dear Father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank god for being so good to us, but I could only cry, and say, "I'm glad! I'm glad!" Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves. You'd laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and I--well, I'm Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn't speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn't and got mad. It lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon. But I thought he'd come to it, for I was in the right. He didn't come, and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again. I made a 'pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your... TOPSY-TURVY JO A SONG FROM THE SUDS Queen of my tub, I merrily sing, While the white foam rises high, And sturdily wash and rinse and wring, And fasten the clothes to dry. Then out in the free fresh air they swing, Under the sunny sky. I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls The stains of the week away, And let water and air by their magic make Ourselves as pure as they. Then on the earth there would be indeed, A glorious washing day! Along the path of a useful life, Will heart's-ease ever bloom. The busy mind has no time to think Of sorrow or care or gloom. And anxious thoughts may be swept away, As we bravely wield a broom. I am glad a task to me is given, To labor at day by day, For it brings me health and strength and hope, And I cheerfully learn to say, "Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel, But, Hand, you shall work alway!" Dear Mother, There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Father's tune. I can't sing 'LAND OF THE LEAL' now, it makes me cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day. Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving... LITTLE BETH Ma Chere Mamma, We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa. Your affectionate daughter... AMY CURTIS MARCH Dear Mis March, I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur. I don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia. Yours respectful, Hannah Mullet Head Nurse of Ward No. 2, Alles ruhig am Rappahannock, Truppen in guter Verfassung, das Kommissariat wird gut geführt, die Heimwehr unter Oberst Teddy steht immer bereit, Oberkommandant General Laurence begutachtet täglich die Armee, Quartiermeister Mullet sorgt für Ordnung im Lager und Major Lion hat Nachtwache. Bei guter Nachricht aus Washington wurden 24 Salutschüsse abgefeuert und eine Parade fand am Hauptquartier statt. Der Oberkommandant schickt beste Wünsche, in die er von Herzen einbezogen ist, ... OBERST TEDDY Sehr geehrte Damen: Die kleinen Mädchen sind alle wohlauf. Beth und mein Junge berichten täglich. Hannah ist ein vorbildlicher Diener und passt auf die hübsche Meg auf wie ein Drache. Freue mich, dass das schöne Wetter anhält. Bitte machen Sie Brooke nützlich und ziehen Sie auf mich zurück, wenn die Ausgaben Ihre Schätzung überschreiten. Lassen Sie Ihren Mann an nichts fehlen. Gott sei Dank, dass es ihm besser geht. Ihr aufrichtiger Freund und Diener, JAMES LAURENCE Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Marmee ist nach Washington gereist, um bei Mr. March zu sein. Mr. Brooke schickt ihnen jeden Tag Nachrichten und kann ihnen bald mitteilen, dass ihr Vater sich verbessert hat. Der größte Teil des Kapitels besteht aus einer Runde kurzer Briefe, in denen jeder einen Gruß schickt und von den Geschehnissen zu Hause aus seiner oder ihrer eigenen Perspektive berichtet.

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 New Schoolfellow It was a cold, wet January day on which Tom went back to school; a day quite in keeping with this severe phase of his destiny. If he had not carried in his pocket a parcel of sugar-candy and a small Dutch doll for little Laura, there would have been no ray of expected pleasure to enliven the general gloom. But he liked to think how Laura would put out her lips and her tiny hands for the bits of sugarcandy; and to give the greater keenness to these pleasures of imagination, he took out the parcel, made a small hole in the paper, and bit off a crystal or two, which had so solacing an effect under the confined prospect and damp odors of the gig-umbrella, that he repeated the process more than once on his way. "Well, Tulliver, we're glad to see you again," said Mr. Stelling, heartily. "Take off your wrappings and come into the study till dinner. You'll find a bright fire there, and a new companion." Tom felt in an uncomfortable flutter as he took off his woollen comforter and other wrappings. He had seen Philip Wakem at St. Ogg's, but had always turned his eyes away from him as quickly as possible. He would have disliked having a deformed boy for his companion, even if Philip had not been the son of a bad man. And Tom did not see how a bad man's son could be very good. His own father was a good man, and he would readily have fought any one who said the contrary. He was in a state of mingled embarrassment and defiance as he followed Mr. Stelling to the study. "Here is a new companion for you to shake hands with, Tulliver," said that gentleman on entering the study,--"Master Philip Wakem. I shall leave you to make acquaintance by yourselves. You already know something of each other, I imagine; for you are neighbors at home." Tom looked confused and awkward, while Philip rose and glanced at him timidly. Tom did not like to go up and put out his hand, and he was not prepared to say, "How do you do?" on so short a notice. Mr. Stelling wisely turned away, and closed the door behind him; boys' shyness only wears off in the absence of their elders. Philip was at once too proud and too timid to walk toward Tom. He thought, or rather felt, that Tom had an aversion to looking at him; every one, almost, disliked looking at him; and his deformity was more conspicuous when he walked. So they remained without shaking hands or even speaking, while Tom went to the fire and warmed himself, every now and then casting furtive glances at Philip, who seemed to be drawing absently first one object and then another on a piece of paper he had before him. He had seated himself again, and as he drew, was thinking what he could say to Tom, and trying to overcome his own repugnance to making the first advances. Tom began to look oftener and longer at Philip's face, for he could see it without noticing the hump, and it was really not a disagreeable face,--very old-looking, Tom thought. He wondered how much older Philip was than himself. An anatomist--even a mere physiognomist-- would have seen that the deformity of Philip's spine was not a congenital hump, but the result of an accident in infancy; but you do not expect from Tom any acquaintance with such distinctions; to him, Philip was simply a humpback. He had a vague notion that the deformity of Wakem's son had some relation to the lawyer's rascality, of which he had so often heard his father talk with hot emphasis; and he felt, too, a half-admitted fear of him as probably a spiteful fellow, who, not being able to fight you, had cunning ways of doing you a mischief by the sly. There was a humpbacked tailor in the neighborhood of Mr. Jacobs's academy, who was considered a very unamiable character, and was much hooted after by public-spirited boys solely on the ground of his unsatisfactory moral qualities; so that Tom was not without a basis of fact to go upon. Still, no face could be more unlike that ugly tailor's than this melancholy boy's face,--the brown hair round it waved and curled at the ends like a girl's; Tom thought that truly pitiable. This Wakem was a pale, puny fellow, and it was quite clear he would not be able to play at anything worth speaking of; but he handled his pencil in an enviable manner, and was apparently making one thing after another without any trouble. What was he drawing? Tom was quite warm now, and wanted something new to be going forward. It was certainly more agreeable to have an ill-natured humpback as a companion than to stand looking out of the study window at the rain, and kicking his foot against the washboard in solitude; something would happen every day,-- "a quarrel or something"; and Tom thought he should rather like to show Philip that he had better not try his spiteful tricks on _him_. He suddenly walked across the hearth and looked over Philip's paper. "Why, that's a donkey with panniers, and a spaniel, and partridges in the corn!" he exclaimed, his tongue being completely loosed by surprise and admiration. "Oh my buttons! I wish I could draw like that. I'm to learn drawing this half; I wonder if I shall learn to make dogs and donkeys!" "Oh, you can do them without learning," said Philip; "I never learned drawing." "Never learned?" said Tom, in amazement. "Why, when I make dogs and horses, and those things, the heads and the legs won't come right; though I can see how they ought to be very well. I can make houses, and all sorts of chimneys,--chimneys going all down the wall,--and windows in the roof, and all that. But I dare say I could do dogs and horses if I was to try more," he added, reflecting that Philip might falsely suppose that he was going to "knock under," if he were too frank about the imperfection of his accomplishments. "Oh, yes," said Philip, "it's very easy. You've only to look well at things, and draw them over and over again. What you do wrong once, you can alter the next time." "But haven't you been taught _any_thing?" said Tom, beginning to have a puzzled suspicion that Philip's crooked back might be the source of remarkable faculties. "I thought you'd been to school a long while." "Yes," said Philip, smiling; "I've been taught Latin and Greek and mathematics, and writing and such things." "Oh, but I say, you don't like Latin, though, do you?" said Tom, lowering his voice confidentially. "Pretty well; I don't care much about it," said Philip. "Ah, but perhaps you haven't got into the _Propria quae maribus_," said Tom, nodding his head sideways, as much as to say, "that was the test; it was easy talking till you came to _that_." Philip felt some bitter complacency in the promising stupidity of this well-made, active-looking boy; but made polite by his own extreme sensitiveness, as well as by his desire to conciliate, he checked his inclination to laugh, and said quietly,-- "I've done with the grammar; I don't learn that any more." "Then you won't have the same lessons as I shall?" said Tom, with a sense of disappointment. "No; but I dare say I can help you. I shall be very glad to help you if I can." Tom did not say "Thank you," for he was quite absorbed in the thought that Wakem's son did not seem so spiteful a fellow as might have been expected. "I say," he said presently, "do you love your father?" "Yes," said Philip, coloring deeply; "don't you love yours?" "Oh yes--I only wanted to know," said Tom, rather ashamed of himself, now he saw Philip coloring and looking uncomfortable. He found much difficulty in adjusting his attitude of mind toward the son of Lawyer Wakem, and it had occurred to him that if Philip disliked his father, that fact might go some way toward clearing up his perplexity. "Shall you learn drawing now?" he said, by way of changing the subject. "No," said Philip. "My father wishes me to give all my time to other things now." "What! Latin and Euclid, and those things?" said Tom. "Yes," said Philip, who had left off using his pencil, and was resting his head on one hand, while Tom was learning forward on both elbows, and looking with increasing admiration at the dog and the donkey. "And you don't mind that?" said Tom, with strong curiosity. "No; I like to know what everybody else knows. I can study what I like by-and-by." "I can't think why anybody should learn Latin," said Tom. "It's no good." "It's part of the education of a gentleman," said Philip. "All gentlemen learn the same things." "What! do you think Sir John Crake, the master of the harriers, knows Latin?" said Tom, who had often thought he should like to resemble Sir John Crake. "He learned it when he was a boy, of course," said Philip. "But I dare say he's forgotten it." "Oh, well, I can do that, then," said Tom, not with any epigrammatic intention, but with serious satisfaction at the idea that, as far as Latin was concerned, there was no hindrance to his resembling Sir John Crake. "Only you're obliged to remember it while you're at school, else you've got to learn ever so many lines of 'Speaker.' Mr. Stelling's very particular--did you know? He'll have you up ten times if you say 'nam' for 'jam,'--he won't let you go a letter wrong, _I_ can tell you." "Oh, I don't mind," said Philip, unable to choke a laugh; "I can remember things easily. And there are some lessons I'm very fond of. I'm very fond of Greek history, and everything about the Greeks. I should like to have been a Greek and fought the Persians, and then have come home and have written tragedies, or else have been listened to by everybody for my wisdom, like Socrates, and have died a grand death." (Philip, you perceive, was not without a wish to impress the well-made barbarian with a sense of his mental superiority.) "Why, were the Greeks great fighters?" said Tom, who saw a vista in this direction. "Is there anything like David and Goliath and Samson in the Greek history? Those are the only bits I like in the history of the Jews." "Oh, there are very fine stories of that sort about the Greeks,--about the heroes of early times who killed the wild beasts, as Samson did. And in the Odyssey--that's a beautiful poem--there's a more wonderful giant than Goliath,--Polypheme, who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead; and Ulysses, a little fellow, but very wise and cunning, got a red-hot pine-tree and stuck it into this one eye, and made him roar like a thousand bulls." "Oh, what fun!" said Tom, jumping away from the table, and stamping first with one leg and then the other. "I say, can you tell me all about those stories? Because I sha'n't learn Greek, you know. Shall I?" he added, pausing in his stamping with a sudden alarm, lest the contrary might be possible. "Does every gentleman learn Greek? Will Mr. Stelling make me begin with it, do you think?" "No, I should think not, very likely not," said Philip. "But you may read those stories without knowing Greek. I've got them in English." "Oh, but I don't like reading; I'd sooner have you tell them me. But only the fighting ones, you know. My sister Maggie is always wanting to tell me stories, but they're stupid things. Girls' stories always are. Can you tell a good many fighting stories?" "Oh yes," said Philip; "lots of them, besides the Greek stories. I can tell you about Richard Coeur-de-Lion and Saladin, and about William Wallace and Robert Bruce and James Douglas,--I know no end." "You're older than I am, aren't you?" said Tom. "Why, how old are _you?_ I'm fifteen." "I'm only going in fourteen," said Tom. "But I thrashed all the fellows at Jacob's--that's where I was before I came here. And I beat 'em all at bandy and climbing. And I wish Mr. Stelling would let us go fishing. _I_ could show you how to fish. You _could_ fish, couldn't you? It's only standing, and sitting still, you know." Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his favor. This hunchback must not suppose that his acquaintance with fighting stories put him on a par with an actual fighting hero, like Tom Tulliver. Philip winced under this allusion to his unfitness for active sports, and he answered almost peevishly,-- "I can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sitting watching a line hour after hour, or else throwing and throwing, and catching nothing." "Ah, but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when they landed a big pike, I can tell you," said Tom, who had never caught anything that was "big" in his life, but whose imagination was on the stretch with indignant zeal for the honor of sport. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his disagreeable points, and must be kept in due check. Happily for the harmony of this first interview, they were now called to dinner, and Philip was not allowed to develop farther his unsound views on the subject of fishing. But Tom said to himself, that was just what he should have expected from a hunchback. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Als er zur Schule zurückkehrt, trifft Tom auf Philip Wakem. Mr. Stelling stellt die beiden Jungen einander vor und lässt sie dann allein. Philip ist ein kleiner, verformter Junge mit einem Buckel als Folge eines Unfalls in seiner Kindheit. Tom empfindet Abscheu ihm gegenüber, und Philip ist zu stolz und schüchtern, um zu sprechen, sodass sie beide schweigen, bis Tom die Bilder sieht, die Philip zeichnet. Er ist von ihrer Realitätstreue beeindruckt. Sie fangen an zu reden, und Philip sagt, dass er sich selbst das Zeichnen beigebracht hat und dass er Latein mag. Er erzählt Tom, dass die Griechen "große Kämpfer" waren, und Tom ist begierig darauf, Geschichten von Helden zu hören. Um das Gleichgewicht zu wahren, erzählt Tom Philip, dass er "alle Jungs bei Jacobs verprügelt hat" und erlaubt sich, sich überlegen zu fühlen, weil Philip kein Interesse an Kämpfen 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: 'These things happened last winter, sir,' said Mrs. Dean; 'hardly more than a year ago. Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve months' end, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating them! Yet, who knows how long you'll be a stranger? You're too young to rest always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one could see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile; but why do you look so lively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you asked me to hang her picture over your fireplace? and why--?' 'Stop, my good friend!' I cried. 'It may be very possible that _I_ should love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much to venture my tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not here. I'm of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on. Was Catherine obedient to her father's commands?' 'She was,' continued the housekeeper. 'Her affection for him was still the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils and foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he could bequeath to guide her. He said to me, a few days afterwards, "I wish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sincerely, what you think of him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect of improvement, as he grows a man?" '"He's very delicate, sir," I replied; "and scarcely likely to reach manhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if Miss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond her control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent. However, master, you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him and see whether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his being of age."' Edgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton Kirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and we could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the sparely-scattered gravestones. 'I've prayed often,' he half soliloquised, 'for the approach of what is coming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought the memory of the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than the anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks, to be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! Ellen, I've been very happy with my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she was a living hope at my side. But I've been as happy musing by myself among those stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June evenings, on the green mound of her mother's grave, and wishing--yearning for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I do for Cathy? How must I quit her? I'd not care one moment for Linton being Heathcliff's son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could console her for my loss. I'd not care that Heathcliff gained his ends, and triumphed in robbing me of my last blessing! But should Linton be unworthy--only a feeble tool to his father--I cannot abandon her to him! And, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in making her sad while I live, and leaving her solitary when I die. Darling! I'd rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth before me.' 'Resign her to God as it is, sir,' I answered, 'and if we should lose you--which may He forbid--under His providence, I'll stand her friend and counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don't fear that she will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are always finally rewarded.' Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her inexperienced notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and then his cheek was often flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt sure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit the churchyard: it was raining, and I observed--'You'll surely not go out to-night, sir?' He answered,--'No, I'll defer it this year a little longer.' He wrote again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and, had the invalid been presentable, I've no doubt his father would have permitted him to come. As it was, being instructed, he returned an answer, intimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the Grange; but his uncle's kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to meet him sometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his cousin and he might not remain long so utterly divided. That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heathcliff knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine's company, then. 'I do not ask,' he said, 'that she may visit here; but am I never to see her, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid her to come to mine? Do, now and then, ride with her towards the Heights; and let us exchange a few words, in your presence! We have done nothing to deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me: you have no reason to dislike me, you allow, yourself. Dear uncle! send me a kind note to-morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please, except at Thrushcross Grange. I believe an interview would convince you that my father's character is not mine: he affirms I am more your nephew than his son; and though I have faults which render me unworthy of Catherine, she has excused them, and for her sake, you should also. You inquire after my health--it is better; but while I remain cut off from all hope, and doomed to solitude, or the society of those who never did and never will like me, how can I be cheerful and well?' Edgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his request; because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in summer, perhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to continue writing at intervals, and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was able by letter; being well aware of his hard position in his family. Linton complied; and had he been unrestrained, would probably have spoiled all by filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations: but his father kept a sharp watch over him; and, of course, insisted on every line that my master sent being shown; so, instead of penning his peculiar personal sufferings and distresses, the themes constantly uppermost in his thoughts, he harped on the cruel obligation of being held asunder from his friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr. Linton must allow an interview soon, or he should fear he was purposely deceiving him with empty promises. Cathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length persuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk together about once a week, under my guardianship, and on the moors nearest the Grange: for June found him still declining. Though he had set aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady's fortune, he had a natural desire that she might retain--or at least return in a short time to--the house of her ancestors; and he considered her only prospect of doing that was by a union with his heir; he had no idea that the latter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one, I believe: no doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master Heathcliff to make report of his condition among us. I, for my part, began to fancy my forebodings were false, and that he must be actually rallying, when he mentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed so earnest in pursuing his object. I could not picture a father treating a dying child as tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards learned Heathcliff had treated him, to compel this apparent eagerness: his efforts redoubling the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling plans were threatened with defeat by death. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Nelly bricht von ihrer Erzählung ab und erzählt Lockwood, dass diese Ereignisse vor etwas über einem Jahr geschehen sind. Lockwood ist so von der Geschichte fasziniert, dass er sie bittet, weiterzuerzählen. Cathy gehorcht den Wünschen ihres Vaters. Nelly erzählt Edgar, dass Linton von schwacher Gesundheit ist, und Edgar gesteht, dass er um Cathys Glück fürchtet. Er gibt sogar zu, dass er, wenn eine Heirat mit Linton Cathy glücklich machen würde, dafür wäre, auch wenn es bedeutet, dass Heathcliff bekommt, was er will. Obwohl Linton niemals Thrushcross Grange besucht, erlaubt Edgar nach viel Bitten Cathy, Linton auf den Mooren zu besuchen.

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. Milan. A street Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally SPEED. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua. LAUNCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hang'd, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!' SPEED. Come on, you madcap; I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? LAUNCE. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. SPEED. But shall she marry him? LAUNCE. No. SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her? LAUNCE. No, neither. SPEED. What, are they broken? LAUNCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish. SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them? LAUNCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. LAUNCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff understands me. SPEED. What thou say'st? LAUNCE. Ay, and what I do too; look thee, I'll but lean, and my staff understands me. SPEED. It stands under thee, indeed. LAUNCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. SPEED. But tell me true, will't be a match? LAUNCE. Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will. LAUNCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. SPEED. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st thou that my master is become a notable lover? LAUNCE. I never knew him otherwise. SPEED. Than how? LAUNCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me. LAUNCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master. SPEED. I tell thee my master is become a hot lover. LAUNCE. Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. SPEED. Why? LAUNCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? SPEED. At thy service. Exeunt SCENE VI. Milan. The DUKE's palace Enter PROTEUS PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; And ev'n that pow'r which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury: Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken; And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths! I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose; If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss: For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend; For love is still most precious in itself; And Silvia- witness heaven, that made her fair!- Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I'll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself Without some treachery us'd to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now presently I'll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight, Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine, For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift. Exit Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Speed begrüßt Launce in Mailand. Launce antwortet, dass niemand in einer Stadt wirklich willkommen ist, bis ihm jemand einen Schnaps in der örtlichen Taverne spendiert. Speed bietet an, dies zu tun, erkundigt sich jedoch zuerst nach dem Stand der Beziehung zwischen Proteus und Julia. Launce verwirrt Speed, indem er durch eine Reihe von Wortspielen darauf hinweist, dass sie gleichzeitig getrennt sind und verlobt sind. Der Austausch endet mit Launces traditionellem schmutzigen Witz darüber, wie glücklich Julia ist, wenn Proteus "standhaft" ist. Speed, der nicht ganz so schnell ist, um Launces Witze zu verstehen, antwortet: "Was für ein Esel du bist! Ich verstehe dich nicht". Launce sagt Speed, er solle Crab fragen, ob Julia und Proteus verlobt sind, und sagt, dass wenn der Hund spricht oder mit dem Schwanz wedelt, die Antwort "ja" lautet. Speed prahlt damit, dass sein Herr Valentine ein "bekannter Liebhaber" geworden ist. Launce gibt vor, ihn falsch verstanden zu haben, und antwortet, dass er schon immer gewusst hat, dass Valentine ein "bekannter Nichtstuer" ist. Launce überzeugt Speed schließlich, ihm einen Drink zu spendieren, wie ein guter Christ. Proteus überlegt, ob er seiner Schwärmerei für Silvia nachgehen soll. Er sagt, dass er sich treu zum Impuls der Liebe halten muss, der ihn zuvor dazu gebracht hat, sich Julia zu versprechen, und dass er sowohl Julia als auch Valentine verraten und Silvia anbeten muss. Indem er seine amourösen Wünsche über die Freundschaft stellt, plant Proteus, Silvia aus Valentines Armen zu reißen und gleichzeitig das Wohlwollen ihres Vaters zu gewinnen. Er wird den Herzog über Valentines Pläne informieren, mit Silvia zu fliehen; der Herzog wird dann Valentine verbannen und Thurio, Valentins auserwählter Bräutigam für Silvia, ermutigen, seine Werbung fortzusetzen. Proteus plant jedoch, Thurio aus dem Weg zu räumen, sodass Silvia keine andere Wahl hat, als ihn zu lieben. Seine Soliloquie endet mit dem Reim: "Liebe, verleihe mir Flügel, um meinen Zweck schnell zu erfüllen,/So wie du mir den Verstand geliehen hast, um diese List auszuhecken".

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: About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation. Little Oliver's blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew's words, and imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew's searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman. The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him. And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed. After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house. It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now. Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned. In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,--which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral. One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as 'japanning his trotter-cases.' The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates: 'What a pity it is he isn't a prig!' 'Ah!' said Master Charles Bates; 'he don't know what's good for him.' The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence. 'I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?' said the Dodger mournfully. 'I think I know that,' replied Oliver, looking up. 'It's a the--; you're one, are you not?' inquired Oliver, checking himself. 'I am,' replied the Dodger. 'I'd scorn to be anything else.' Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. 'I am,' repeated the Dodger. 'So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the lot!' 'And the least given to peaching,' added Charley Bates. 'He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight,' said the Dodger. 'Not a bit of it,' observed Charley. 'He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he's in company!' pursued the Dodger. 'Won't he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of his breed! Oh, no!' 'He's an out-and-out Christian,' said Charley. This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance. 'Well, well,' said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. 'This hasn't go anything to do with young Green here.' 'No more it has,' said Charley. 'Why don't you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?' 'And make your fortun' out of hand?' added the Dodger, with a grin. 'And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,' said Charley Bates. 'I don't like it,' rejoined Oliver, timidly; 'I wish they would let me go. I--I--would rather go.' 'And Fagin would RATHER not!' rejoined Charley. Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning. 'Go!' exclaimed the Dodger. 'Why, where's your spirit?' Don't you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?' 'Oh, blow that!' said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, 'that's too mean; that is.' '_I_ couldn't do it,' said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust. 'You can leave your friends, though,' said Oliver with a half smile; 'and let them be punished for what you did.' 'That,' rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, 'That was all out of consideration for Fagin, 'cause the traps know that we work together, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn't made our lucky; that was the move, wasn't it, Charley?' Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver's flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long. 'Look here!' said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence. 'Here's a jolly life! What's the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold; there's plenty more where they were took from. You won't, won't you? Oh, you precious flat!' 'It's naughty, ain't it, Oliver?' inquired Charley Bates. 'He'll come to be scragged, won't he?' 'I don't know what that means,' replied Oliver. 'Something in this way, old feller,' said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing. 'That's what it means,' said Charley. 'Look how he stares, Jack! I never did see such prime company as that 'ere boy; he'll be the death of me, I know he will.' Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes. 'You've been brought up bad,' said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. 'Fagin will make something of you, though, or you'll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You'd better begin at once; for you'll come to the trade long before you think of it; and you're only losing time, Oliver.' Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin's favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it. 'And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,' said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, 'if you don't take fogels and tickers--' 'What's the good of talking in that way?' interposed Master Bates; 'he don't know what you mean.' 'If you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches,' said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, 'some other cove will; so that the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse, and you'll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them--and you've just as good a right to them as they have.' 'To be sure, to be sure!' said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. 'It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger's word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.' The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger's reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil's proficiency. The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance. Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his 'time' was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the County. The same remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long hard-working days; and that he 'wished he might be busted if he warn't as dry as a lime-basket.' 'Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?' inquired the Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table. 'I--I--don't know, sir,' replied Oliver. 'Who's that?' inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver. 'A young friend of mine, my dear,' replied the Jew. 'He's in luck, then,' said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. 'Never mind where I came from, young 'un; you'll find your way there, soon enough, I'll bet a crown!' At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew. Nach einigen Worten zwischen dem letzten Ankömmling und Fagin zogen sie ihre Stühle zum Feuer hin und der Jude forderte Oliver auf, zu ihm zu kommen und sich neben ihn zu setzen. Er führte das Gespräch zu den Themen, die seine Zuhörer am meisten interessierten. Dies waren die großen Vorteile des Geschäfts, das Geschick des Dodger, die Liebenswürdigkeit von Charley Bates und die Großzügigkeit des Juden selbst. Schließlich zeigten diese Themen Anzeichen dafür, dass sie gründlich erschöpft waren, und auch Mr. Chitling tat dasselbe, denn das Korrektionshaus wird nach einer Woche oder zwei anstrengend. Miss Betsy zog sich entsprechend zurück und überließ die Party ihrer Ruhe. Von diesem Tag an wurde Oliver selten alleine gelassen, sondern stand fast ständig in Verbindung mit den beiden Jungen, die jeden Tag das alte Spiel mit dem Juden spielten - ob zur Verbesserung ihrer eigenen Fähigkeiten oder zu Olivers, wusste nur Mr. Fagin. Zu anderen Zeiten erzählte der alte Mann ihnen Geschichten von Raubüberfällen, die er in seiner jüngeren Vergangenheit begangen hatte. Diese Geschichten waren mit so viel lustigen und kuriosen Details durchsetzt, dass Oliver trotz all seiner besseren Gefühle nicht anders konnte, als herzhaft zu lachen und zu zeigen, dass er sich trotzdem amüsierte. Kurz gesagt, hatte der listige alte Jude den Jungen in seinen Fängen. Indem er seinen Geist durch Einsamkeit und Dunkelheit darauf vorbereitete, jede Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft seiner eigenen traurigen Gedanken in einem so trostlosen Ort vorzuziehen, hauchte er nun allmählich die Gifte in seine Seele ein, von denen er hoffte, dass sie sie schwärzen und ihre Farbe für immer verändern würden. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Fagin lässt Oliver tagelang im Haus eingesperrt. Tagsüber hat Oliver keine menschliche Gesellschaft. Der Dodger und Charley fragen ihn, warum er sich nicht einfach Fagin ergibt, da das Geld in ihrem "lustigen Leben" schnell und einfach kommt. Fagin erlaubt Oliver schrittweise, mehr Zeit mit den anderen Jungs zu verbringen. Manchmal erzählt Fagin selbst seiner Bande lustige Geschichten von Raubüberfällen, die er in seiner Jugend begangen hat. Oliver lacht oft über die Geschichten, obwohl er es nicht will. Fagins Plan war es, Oliver zu isolieren, bis er so dankbar für jeglichen menschlichen Kontakt wird, dass er alles tun wird, was Fagin verlangt.

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: Hath she her faults? I would you had them too. They are the fruity must of soundest wine; Or say, they are regenerating fire Such as hath turned the dense black element Into a crystal pathway for the sun. If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new. We are told that the oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that there are plenty more to come. To Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long full lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied as a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning's parting with Will Ladislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He was going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back he would be another man. The actual state of his mind--his proud resolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman--lay quite out of her imagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by her supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to him, as it did to her, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them. Their young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one else would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check. That unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber she might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at. For the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged with the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can any one who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to her that she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it there, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation? She did not know then that it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before awaking, with the hues of morning on his wings--that it was Love to whom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She only felt that there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about the future were the more readily shapen into resolve. Ardent souls, ready to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to the fulfilment of their own visions. One day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector being gone on a fishing excursion. It was a warm evening, and even in the delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap. But this was not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind at leisure. She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time before she said, in her quiet guttural-- "Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap. I am sure your dress must make you feel ill." "I am so used to the cap--it has become a sort of shell," said Dorothea, smiling. "I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off." "I must see you without it; it makes us all warm," said Celia, throwing down her fan, and going to Dorothea. It was a pretty picture to see this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her more majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair. Just as the coils and braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the room. He looked at the released head, and said, "Ah!" in a tone of satisfaction. "It was I who did it, James," said Celia. "Dodo need not make such a slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her friends." "My dear Celia," said Lady Chettam, "a widow must wear her mourning at least a year." "Not if she marries again before the end of it," said Mrs. Cadwallader, who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager. Sir James was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia's Maltese dog. "That is very rare, I hope," said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to guard against such events. "No friend of ours ever committed herself in that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord Grinsell when she did so. Her first husband was objectionable, which made it the greater wonder. And severely she was punished for it. They said Captain Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up loaded pistols at her." "Oh, if she took the wrong man!" said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a decidedly wicked mood. "Marriage is always bad then, first or second. Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other. I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first." "My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you," said Lady Chettam. "I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if our dear Rector were taken away." "Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy. It is lawful to marry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of Christians. Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate. But if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery--the sooner the better." "I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen," said Sir James, with a look of disgust. "Suppose we change it." "Not on my account, Sir James," said Dorothea, determined not to lose the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to excellent matches. "If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than second marriage. It is no more to me than if you talked of women going fox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow them. Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much as on any other." "My dear Mrs. Casaubon," said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, "you do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning Mrs. Beevor. It was only an instance that occurred to me. She was step-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second wife. There could be no possible allusion to you." "Oh no," said Celia. "Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of Dodo's cap. Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true. A woman could not be married in a widow's cap, James." "Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "I will not offend again. I will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia. Only what are we to talk about? I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature, because that is the nature of rectors' wives." Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said privately to Dorothea, "Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like yourself again in more ways than one. You spoke up just as you used to do, when anything was said to displease you. But I could hardly make out whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader." "Neither," said Dorothea. "James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said. I should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended." "But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better to have blood and beauty," said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to caution Dorothea in time. "Don't be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life. I shall never marry again," said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin, and looking at her with indulgent affection. Celia was nursing her baby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her. "Really--quite?" said Celia. "Not anybody at all--if he were very wonderful indeed?" Dorothea shook her head slowly. "Not anybody at all. I have delightful plans. I should like to take a great deal of land, and drain it, and make a little colony, where everybody should work, and all the work should be done well. I should know every one of the people and be their friend. I am going to have great consultations with Mr. Garth: he can tell me almost everything I want to know." "Then you _will_ be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?" said Celia. "Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he can help you." Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to "all sorts of plans," just like what she used to have. Sir James made no remark. To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a woman's second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it a sort of desecration for Dorothea. He was aware that the world would regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of "the world" being to treat of a young widow's second marriage as certain and probably near, and to smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly. But if Dorothea did choose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well become her. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Dorothea scheint über Will's Abreise mehr bekümmert zu sein als über den Tod ihres Ehemannes, und das zu Recht, denn sie liebte Will mehr als ihren Ehemann. Sie geht zu Celia, wo das Thema Heirat zur Sprache kommt. Es wird offen vorgeschlagen, dass Dorothea erneut heiratet, obwohl das das Letzte ist, was Dorothea sich wünscht. Dorothea beschließt, sich wieder öffentlichen Projekten zuzuwenden, und wird Caleb Garth um Hilfe bitten, um ihre Ziele zu erreichen.

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: 12. September - Wie gut sie alle zu mir sind. Ich liebe diesen lieben Dr. Van Helsing wirklich. Ich frage mich, warum er sich so um diese Blumen gesorgt hat. Er hat mich regelrecht eingeschüchtert, er war so wild. Und doch muss er recht gehabt haben, denn ich fühle bereits Komfort durch sie. Irgendwie fürchte ich mich heute Abend nicht allein zu sein und kann ohne Angst schlafen gehen. Es macht mir nichts aus, wenn draußen das Fenster klappert. Oh, der schreckliche Kampf, den ich gegen den Schlaf so oft in letzter Zeit hatte; der Schmerz der Schlaflosigkeit oder der Schmerz der Angst vor dem Schlaf, mit solch unbekannten Schrecken, wie es für mich gibt! Wie gesegnet sind manche Menschen, deren Leben keine Ängste, keine Befürchtungen haben; für die der Schlaf ein Segen ist, der jede Nacht kommt und nichts als süße Träume bringt. Nun, hier bin ich heute Nacht und hoffe auf Schlaf und liege wie Ophelia in dem Stück, mit "jungen Opferkränzen und Mädchenstreublumen". Knoblauch mochte ich noch nie, aber heute Abend ist er köstlich! In seinem Geruch liegt Frieden; ich spüre schon, wie der Schlaf kommt. Gute Nacht, allen. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch_ _13. September_ - Rief im Berkeley an und traf Van Helsing, wie gewohnt, pünktlich an. Der vom Hotel bestellte Wagen wartete schon. Der Professor nahm seine Tasche, die er jetzt immer mitbringt. Notiere alles genau. Van Helsing und ich kamen um acht Uhr in Hillingham an. Es war ein schöner Morgen; das helle Sonnenlicht und das frische Gefühl des frühen Herbstes schienen die Vollendung der jährlichen Arbeit der Natur zu sein. Die Blätter färbten sich in allen möglichen schönen Farben, fielen aber noch nicht von den Bäumen. Als wir eintraten, trafen wir Mrs. Westenra, die aus dem Morgenzimmer kam. Sie ist immer eine Frühaufsteherin. Sie begrüßte uns herzlich und sagte: "Es wird Sie freuen zu hören, dass es Lucy besser geht. Das liebe Kind schläft immer noch. Ich habe in ihr Zimmer geschaut und sie gesehen, bin aber nicht hineingegangen, um sie nicht zu stören." Der Professor lächelte und sah sehr vergnügt aus. Er rieb die Hände aneinander und sagte: "Haha! Ich dachte, ich hätte den Fall diagnostiziert. Meine Behandlung wirkt", darauf antwortete sie: "Sie dürfen sich nicht allein das Lob zuschreiben, Herr Doktor. Lucys Zustand heute Morgen liegt zum Teil an mir." "Was meinen Sie damit, meine Dame?" fragte der Professor. "Nun, in der Nacht hatte ich Bedenken wegen des lieben Kindes und bin in ihr Zimmer gegangen. Sie hat fest geschlafen - so fest, dass mich noch nicht einmal mein Kommen geweckt hat. Aber das Zimmer war furchtbar stickig. Überall waren diese schrecklich riechenden Blumen und sie hatte sogar einen Strauß davon um den Hals. Ich befürchtete, dass der schwere Geruch für das liebe Kind in ihrem geschwächten Zustand zu viel sein würde, also habe ich sie alle weggenommen und ein Fenster geöffnet, um etwas frische Luft hereinzulassen. Sie werden mit ihr zufrieden sein, da bin ich sicher." Sie ging in ihr Boudoir, wo sie normalerweise frühstückte. Während sie sprach, beobachtete ich das Gesicht des Professors und sah, wie es bleich und grau wurde. Solange die arme Dame anwesend war, konnte er seine Selbstbeherrschung bewahren, denn er kannte ihren Zustand und wie erschütternd ein Schock sein könnte; er lächelte sie tatsächlich an, als er ihr die Tür aufhielt, um in ihr Zimmer zu gehen. Aber im Moment, als sie verschwunden war, zog er mich plötzlich und gewaltsam in das Esszimmer und schloss die Tür. Dann, zum ersten Mal in meinem Leben, sah ich Van Helsing zusammenbrechen. Er hob die Hände über den Kopf und gab eine Art stummer Verzweiflung von sich, dann schlug er hilflos mit den Handflächen zusammen und setzte sich schließlich auf einen Stuhl und legte die Hände vor sein Gesicht und begann zu schluchzen, mit lauten, trockenen Schluchzern, die zu kommen schienen aus dem tiefsten Inneren seines Herzens. Dann hob er wieder seine Arme, als bitte er das ganze Universum an. "Gott! Gott! Gott!" sagte er. "Was haben wir getan, was hat diese arme Sache getan, dass wir so geplagt sind? Gibt es immer noch eine Bestimmung unter uns, die aus der heidnischen Welt von einst gesandt wurde, dass solche Dinge geschehen müssen, und auf solche Weise? Diese arme Mutter, nichts ahnend und alles zum Besten haltend, wie sie denkt, tut so etwas wie ihre Tochter körperlich und seelisch zu verlieren; und wir dürfen es ihr nicht sagen, wir dürfen sie nicht einmal warnen, sonst stirbt sie, und dann sterben wir beide. Oh, wie sind wir geplagt! Wie sind alle Kräfte der Teufel gegen uns!" Plötzlich sprang er auf. "Kommt", sagte er, "kommt, wir müssen sehen und handeln. Teufel oder keine Teufel, oder alle Teufel auf einmal, es spielt keine Rolle; wir kämpfen trotzdem gegen ihn alle." Er ging zur Haustür, um seine Tasche zu holen, und zusammen gingen wir in Lucys Zimmer. Noch einmal zog ich den Vorhang hoch, während Van Helsing zum Bett ging. Diesmal zuckte er nicht zusammen, als er das arme Gesicht mit derselben furchtbaren, wächsernen Blässe sah wie zuvor. Er hatte einen Blick von strenger Traurigkeit und unendlichem Mitleid. "Wie ich erwartet hatte", murmelte er mit dieser zischenden Inspiration von ihm, die so viel bedeutete. Ohne ein Wort ging er und schloss die Tür ab und begann dann, auf dem kleinen Tisch die Instrumente für eine weitere Bluttransfusion vorzubereiten. Ich hatte schon lange die Notwendigkeit erkannt und begonnen, meinen Mantel auszuziehen, aber er stoppte mich mit einer warnenden Hand. "Nein!" sagte er. "Heute musst du operieren. Ich werde für alles sorgen. Du bist bereits geschwächt." Als er sprach, zog er seinen Mantel aus und krempelte sein Hemd hoch. Wieder die Operation; wieder das Narkotikum; wieder eine Rückkehr von etwas Farbe in die aschfahlen Wangen und das regelmäßige Atmen eines gesunden Schlafes. Dieses Mal beobachtete ich, wie Van Helsing sich erholte und sich ausruhte. Schließlich nutzte er die Gelegenheit und erklärte Mrs. Westenra, dass sie nichts aus Lucys Zimmer entfernen dürfe, ohne ihn zu konsultieren; dass die Blumen einen medizinischen Wert haben und das Einatmen ihres Geruchs ein Teil des Heilungsprozesses sei. Dann übernahm er selbst die Pflege des Falls und sagte, dass er diese Nacht und die nächste wachen würde und mir Bescheid geben würde, wann ich kommen soll. Nach einer weiteren Stunde erwachte Lucy aus ihrem Schlaf, frisch und strahlend und scheinbar nicht viel von ihrer schrecklichen Tortur beeinträchtigt. Was soll das alles bedeuten? Ich frage mich, ob sich meine lange Gewohnheit des Lebens unter Verrückten langsam auf mein eigenes Gehirn auswirkt. _Lucy Westenras Tagebuch_ 17. September - Vier Tage und Nächte des Friedens. Ich werde wieder so stark, dass ich mich kaum selbst erkenne. Es ist, als ob ich einen langen Albtraum durchlebt hätte und gerade aufgewacht bin, um die schöne Sonne zu sehen und die frische Morgenluft um mich herum zu fühlen. Ich habe eine vage Halberinnerung an lange, besorgte Wartezeiten und Ängste; Dunkelheit, in der nicht einmal der Schmerz der Hoffnung vorhanden war, um die gegenwärtige Not noch schärfer zu machen: und dann lange Zeiten der Vergessenheit und das Wiedererwachen zum Leben wie ein Taucher, der wieder auftaucht durch einen großen Wasser Nach vielen Anfragen und fast genauso vielen Absagen, und indem ich ständig die Worte "Pall Mall Gazette" als Art Talisman verwendete, gelang es mir, den Verwalter des Teils des Zoologischen Gartens zu finden, in dem die Wolfseinheit enthalten ist. Thomas Bilder lebt in einem der Häuschen im Gehege hinter dem Elefantengebäude und setzte sich gerade zum Tee, als ich ihn fand. Thomas und seine Frau sind gastfreundliche Leute, älter und ohne Kinder, und wenn das, was ich von ihrer Gastfreundschaft erlebt habe, dem Durchschnitt entspricht, müssen ihre Leben ziemlich komfortabel sein. Der Verwalter wollte sich nicht mit dem beschäftigen, was er "Geschäft" nannte, bis das Abendessen vorbei war und wir alle zufrieden waren. Dann, als der Tisch abgeräumt war und er seine Pfeife angezündet hatte, sagte er: - "Nun, Sir, Sie können weitermachen und mich fragen, was Sie wollen. Sie entschuldigen mich, dass ich vor dem Essen keine geschäftlichen Themen anspreche. Ich gebe den Wölfen, Schakalen und Hyänen in unserer Abteilung immer ihren Tee, bevor ich anfange, ihnen Fragen zu stellen." "Wie meinen Sie, sie Fragen stellen?", fragte ich, in der Hoffnung, ihn zu einer gesprächigeren Stimmung zu bringen. "Sie mit einem Stock über den Kopf zu schlagen ist eine Möglichkeit, und sie hinter den Ohren zu kratzen ist eine andere, wenn Herren, die reichlich Geld haben, ihren Damen etwas vorführen möchten. Das Erste stört mich nicht so sehr - das Schlagen mit einem Stock, bevor ich ihr Abendessen gebe-, aber ich warte, bis sie ihren Sherry und Kaffee, sozusagen, gehabt haben, bevor ich mit dem Ohrenkratzen anfange. Beachten Sie," fügte er philosophisch hinzu, "es steckt viel von der gleichen Natur in uns wie in diesen Tieren. Hier kommen Sie und fragen mich nach meinem Geschäft, und ich bin so mürrisch, dass ich, nur wegen Ihres verfluchten halben Pfundes, dich lieber zuerst hochgejagt hätte, bevor ich antworte. Nicht einmal, als Sie mich sarkastisch fragten, ob ich Sie bitten wolle, den Superintendenten zu fragen, ob Sie mir Fragen stellen dürfen. Ohne beleidigend zu sein, habe ich Ihnen gesagt, Sie sollen zur Hölle fahren?" "Ja, hast du." "Und als du sagtest, du würdest mich wegen obszöner Sprache anzeigen, hast du mich über den Kopf geschlagen", aber das halbe Pfund hat alles wieder gut gemacht. Ich war nicht am kämpfen, also wartete ich auf das Essen und tat mit meiner Geheul, was die Wölfe, die Löwen und die Tiger tun. Aber, Herr, ich sage Ihnen, jetzt wo die alte Frau mir ein Stück ihres Teekuchens gegeben hat und mich mit ihrer verdammten alten Teekanne ausgewaschen hat, und ich angezündet bin, können Sie mir ruhig die Ohren kratzen, so viel Sie wollen, und Sie werden nicht einmal ein Knurren von mir bekommen. Kommen Sie, stellen Sie Ihre Fragen. Ich weiß, worauf Sie hinauswollen, auf den entkommenen Wolf." "Genau. Ich möchte, dass Sie mir Ihre Meinung dazu sagen. Erzählen Sie mir einfach, wie es passiert ist, und wenn ich die Fakten kenne, werde ich Sie bitten, zu sagen, was Sie für die Ursache halten und wie Sie das ganze Geschehen enden sehen." "Alles klar, mein Herr. Das ist die ganze Geschichte hier. Dieser Wolf namens Bersicker war einer von drei Grauen, die vor vier Jahren aus Norwegen nach Jamrachs kamen, die wir von ihm gekauft haben. Er war ein netter, gut erzogener Wolf, der nie viel Ärger gemacht hat. Ich bin mehr überrascht von ihm, dass er weg wollte, als von irgendeinem anderen Tier hier. Aber nun gut, Wölfe kann man genauso wenig trauen wie Frauen." "Beachten Sie ihn nicht, Sir!" unterbrach Mrs. Tom lachend. "Er kümmert sich so lange um die Tiere, dass er mittlerweile selbst wie ein alter Wolf ist! Aber er ist harmlos." "Nun, Sir, es war etwa zwei Stunden nach dem Füttern gestern, als ich zum ersten Mal Unruhe hörte. Ich richtete gerade eine Behausung im Affenhaus für einen kranken jungen Puma ein, als ich das Geheul und Geschrei hörte. Bersicker riss wie ein wildgewordenes Tier an den Gitterstäben, als ob er raus wollte. Es waren nicht viele Leute an diesem Tag da, und ganz in der Nähe war nur ein Mann, ein großer, dünner Kerl mit einer Haken­nase und einem spitz zulaufenden Bart, in dem ein paar weiße Haare waren. Er hatte ein hartes, kaltes Aussehen und rote Augen, und ich mochte ihn irgendwie nicht, denn es schien, als ob sie sich an ihm erregten. Er trug weiße Kinderhandschuhe und zeigte mir die Tiere und sagte: 'Pfleger, diese Wölfe scheinen über etwas aufgebracht zu sein.' 'Vielleicht sind es Sie', sagte ich, denn mir gefiel nicht, wie er sich gab. Er wurde nicht wütend, wie ich gehofft hatte, sondern er lächelte so eine Art von überheblichem Lächeln mit einem Mund voller weißer, scharfer Zähne. 'Oh nein, sie mögen mich nicht', sagt er. 'Ach ja, das mögen sie', sage ich und ahme ihn nach. 'Sie mögen immer ein oder zwei Knochen, um ihre Zähne vor der Teezeit zu reinigen, und Sie haben eine Tasche voll davon.' "So, das war eine seltsame Sache, aber als die Tiere uns reden sahen, legten sie sich hin, und als ich zu Bersicker ging, ließ er mich genauso wie immer seine Ohren streicheln. Der Mann kam rüber, und verdammt, wenn er nicht auch seine Hand nahm und die Ohren des alten Wolfs streichelte!" "'Seien Sie vorsichtig', sage ich. 'Bersicker ist schnell.' "'Macht nichts', sagt er. 'Ich bin es gewohnt!'" "'Sind Sie selbst im Geschäft?' frage ich und nehme meinen Hut ab, denn ein Mann, der mit Wölfen handelt, ist ein guter Freund der Pfleger. "'Nein', sagt er, 'nicht genau im Geschäft, aber ich hatte schon mehrere als Haustiere.' Und damit hebt er höflich seinen Hut wie ein Lord, und geht weg. Alter Bersicker schaute ihm nach, und wenn der Kerl außer Sichtweite war, ging er in eine Ecke und kam den ganzen Abend nicht mehr hervor. Nun, gestern Abend, sobald der Mond aufging, fingen die Wölfe hier alle an zu heulen. Es gab nichts, über das sie sich hätten aufregen können. Es war niemand in der Nähe, außer jemandem, der offensichtlich einen Hund hinten in den Gärten in der Parkstraße gerufen hat. Ein- oder zweimal ging ich nach draußen, um zu sehen, dass alles in Ordnung ist, und das war es auch, und dann hörte das Geheul auf. Kurz vor zwölf hab ich noch schnell einen Blick geworfen, bevor ich ins Bett ging, und verdammt, wenn ich gegenüber vom Käfig von Bersicker nicht die gebrochenen und verbogenen Gitterstäbe und den leeren Käfig gesehen habe. Und das ist alles, was ich ganz sicher weiß." "Hat noch jemand etwas gesehen?" "Einer unserer Gärtner kam etwa zu der Zeit von einem Konzert nach Hause, als er einen großen grauen Hund durch die Gartenhecken kommen sah. Zumindest behauptet er das, aber ich halte nicht viel davon, denn wenn es so war, hat er kein Wort darüber zu seiner Frau gesagt, als er nach Hause kam, und es war erst bekannt, nachdem die Flucht des Wolfs bekannt wurde und wir die ganze Nacht auf der Suche nach Bersicker im Park verbracht haben, dass "Gleich, Sir," sagte er energisch. "Sie mögen mir verzeihen, ich weiß, dass ich Sie ein wenig aufziehe, aber die alte Frau hier hat mir zugezwinkert, was so viel bedeutet wie 'mach weiter'." "Nun, das habe ich noch nie erlebt!", sagte die alte Dame. "Ich bin der Meinung, dass der Wolf sich hier irgendwo versteckt. Der Gärtner, der sich nicht erinnern konnte, sagte, er würde nordwärts galoppieren, schneller als ein Pferd, aber ich glaube ihm nicht, denn, sehen Sie, Wölfe galoppieren genauso wenig wie Hunde, sie sind nicht so gebaut. Wölfe sind tolle Geschöpfe in Märchen und wahrscheinlich können sie einen Höllenlärm veranstalten und etwas, das noch ängstlicher ist als sie selbst, zerreißen, wenn sie in Rudeln unterwegs sind. Aber, Herr, glauben Sie mir, im echten Leben ist ein Wolf nur ein minderwertiges Geschöpf, nicht halb so clever oder mutig wie ein guter Hund und nicht einmal ein Viertel so kämpferisch. Dieser hier ist nicht an Kämpfe gewöhnt oder daran, sich selbst zu versorgen, und er hält sich irgendwo im Park versteckt und friert. Und wenn er überhaupt nachdenkt, fragt er sich wahrscheinlich, wo er sein Frühstück herkriegen soll; oder vielleicht hat er sich in eine Kellergrube begeben. Ach du meine Güte, welche Überraschung wird eine Köchin bekommen, wenn sie seine grünen Augen im Dunkeln leuchten sieht! Wenn er nichts zu essen bekommt, wird er danach suchen, und vielleicht stößt er dabei auf einen Metzgerladen. Wenn er das nicht tut und eine Kindermädchen mit einem Soldaten spazieren geht und das Baby im Kinderwagen zurücklässt - nun, dann würde es mich nicht überraschen, wenn die Volkszählung ein Baby weniger ergibt. Das ist alles." Ich gab ihm gerade die halbe Souverän, als etwas gegen das Fenster stieß und das Gesicht von Herrn Bilder vor Überraschung ungewöhnlich lang wurde. "Gott segne mich!", sagte er. "Wenn da nicht der alte Bersicker von selbst zurückgekommen ist!" Er ging zur Tür und öffnete sie; das schien mir ziemlich überflüssig zu sein. Ich dachte immer, dass wilde Tiere nie so gut aussehen wie wenn ein deutliches Hindernis zwischen uns ist; eine persönliche Erfahrung hat diese Idee eher verstärkt als verringert. Aber letztendlich gibt es nichts wie Gewohnheit. Weder Bilder noch seine Frau dachten mehr an den Wolf als ich an einen Hund. Das Tier an sich war so friedlich und gut erzogen wie dieser Vater aller Bildwölfe - Rotkäppchens ehemaliger Freund, der ihr seine verkleidete Vertrauenswürdigkeit vermittelte. Die ganze Szene war eine unbeschreibliche Mischung aus Komik und Pathos. Der böse Wolf, der halben Tag lang London paralysiert hatte und alle Kinder in der Stadt in Angst und Schrecken versetzt hatte, war dort in einer Art reumütiger Stimmung und wurde empfangen und verwöhnt wie eine Art fuchsgleiches verlorenes Kind. Bilder untersuchte ihn mit größter zärtlicher Besorgnis von oben bis unten und als er mit seinem Büßer fertig war, sagte er: "Da hast du, ich wusste, dass der arme alte Kerl in irgendeine Art von Schwierigkeiten geraten würde; hab ich's nicht immer gesagt? Hier ist sein Kopf ganz zerschnitten und voller Glassplitter. Er ist über irgendeine verdammte Mauer geklettert. Es ist eine Schande, dass den Leuten erlaubt wird, ihre Mauern mit Scherben zu belegen. Hier sehen Sie, was dabei herauskommt. Komm, Bersicker." Er nahm den Wolf und sperrte ihn in einen Käfig, zusammen mit einem Stück Fleisch, das in Menge zumindest die grundlegenden Bedingungen eines gemästeten Kalbs erfüllte, und ging los, um Bericht zu erstatten. Ich ging auch, um den einzigen exklusiven Bericht zu erstatten, der heute über das seltsame Abenteuer im Zoo veröffentlicht wurde. _In Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _17. September._ Nach dem Abendessen war ich in meinem Zimmer beschäftigt, meine Bücher auf den neuesten Stand zu bringen, die durch andere Arbeiten und die vielen Besuche bei Lucy stark vernachlässigt worden waren. Plötzlich wurde die Tür aufgestoßen und mein Patient stürzte herein, das Gesicht vor Wut verzerrt. Ich war verblüfft, denn dass ein Patient von sich aus in das Zimmer des Superintendanten geht, ist fast unbekannt. Ohne einen Moment zu zögern, griff er mich sofort an. Er hatte ein Essmesser in der Hand und da ich sah, dass er gefährlich war, versuchte ich, den Tisch zwischen uns zu halten. Er war jedoch zu schnell und zu stark für mich; bevor ich mein Gleichgewicht finden konnte, hatte er mich bereits angegriffen und meinen linken Handgelenk ziemlich stark verletzt. Bevor er jedoch erneut zuschlagen konnte, traf ich ihn mit meiner rechten Hand und er lag auf dem Rücken am Boden. Mein Handgelenk blutete stark und ein kleiner Pool tropfte auf den Teppich. Ich sah, dass mein Freund nicht mehr kämpfen wollte und beschäftigte mich damit, mein Handgelenk zu verbinden, wobei ich die ganze Zeit ein wachsames Auge auf die am Boden liegende Figur hatte. Als die Pfleger hereinstürmten und wir uns um ihn kümmerten, wurde mir regelrecht übel bei dem, was er tat. Er lag auf dem Bauch auf dem Boden und leckte, wie ein Hund, das Blut auf, das von meinem verletzten Handgelenk getropft war. Man konnte ihn leicht festnehmen und, zu meiner Überraschung, ging er mit den Pflegern ganz ruhig mit und wiederholte immer wieder: "Das Blut ist das Leben! Das Blut ist das Leben!" Ich kann es mir gegenwärtig nicht leisten, Blut zu verlieren; ich habe in letzter Zeit zu viel verloren. Und die anhaltende Belastung von Lucys Krankheit und ihren schrecklichen Phasen zehrt an mir. Ich bin übererregt und müde und ich brauche Ruhe, Ruhe, Ruhe. Zum Glück hat mich Van Helsing nicht gerufen, also muss ich meinen Schlaf nicht aufgeben. Heute Nacht könnte ich nicht ohne ihn auskommen. _Telegramm, Van Helsing, Antwerpen, an Seward, Carfax._ (Gesendet an Carfax, Sussex, da keine Grafschaft angegeben wurde; lief 22 Stunden zu spät ein.) "_17. September._ Verpasse es nicht, heute Nacht in Hillingham zu sein. Falls du nicht die ganze Zeit aufpasst, besuche und überprüfe häufig, ob die Blumen so platziert sind; sehr wichtig; versage nicht. Werde so bald wie möglich bei dir sein, nachdem ich angekommen bin." _In Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _18. September._ Gerade auf dem Weg zum Zug nach London. Die Ankunft von Van Helsings Telegramm erfüllte mich mit Entsetzen. Eine ganze Nacht verloren und ich weiß durch bittere Erfahrungen, was in einer Nacht geschehen kann. Natürlich ist es möglich, dass alles gut ist, aber was _könnte_ passiert sein? Offenbar liegt ein schreckliches Schicksal über uns, dass uns jedes mögliche Missgeschick daran hindert, das zu tun, was wir versuchen. Ich werde diesen Zylinder mitnehmen und dann meinen Eintrag auf Lucys Phonograph beenden können. _Anmerkungen von Lucy Westenra._ _17. September. Nacht._ - Ich schreibe das auf und lasse es hier, damit niemand aus meiner Schuld in Schwierigkeiten gerät. Dies ist ein genauer Bericht darüber, was heute Nacht passiert ist. Ich spüre, dass ich vor Schwäche sterbe und kaum noch die Kraft habe, zu schreiben, aber es muss getan werden, selbst wenn ich daran sterbe. Ich bin wie immer schlafen gegangen und habe darauf geachtet, dass die Blumen so platziert Ich fürchtete, dass sie sich erkälten könnte, wenn sie dort saß, und bat sie, hereinzukommen und bei mir zu schlafen. Also kam sie ins Bett und legte sich neben mich; sie zog ihren Morgenmantel nicht aus, denn sie sagte, sie würde nur eine Weile bleiben und dann zurück in ihr eigenes Bett gehen. Als sie dort in meinen Armen lag und ich in ihren, flatterte und schlug es wieder ans Fenster. Sie erschrak und war ein wenig ängstlich und rief aus: "Was ist das?" Ich versuchte, sie zu beruhigen, und schließlich gelang es mir und sie blieb ruhig; aber ich konnte ihr armes liebes Herz immer noch furchtbar schlagen hören. Nach einer Weile gab es wieder das leise Heulen im Gebüsch und kurz darauf gab es einen Knall am Fenster und eine Menge zerbrochenes Glas wurde auf den Boden geschleudert. Der Fensterladen blies mit dem Wind zurück, der hereinrauschte, und in der Öffnung der zerbrochenen Scheiben war der Kopf eines großen, kargen grauen Wolfes. Meine Mutter rief erschrocken aus und riss sich hoch in eine sitzende Haltung und ergriff wild alles, was ihr helfen könnte. Unter anderem ergriff sie den Blumenkranz, den Dr. Van Helsing darauf bestand, dass ich ihn um meinen Hals trage, und riss ihn mir weg. Für eine Sekunde oder zwei saß sie auf und zeigte auf den Wolf, und es gab ein seltsames und schreckliches Gurgeln in ihrer Kehle; dann fiel sie um - als wäre sie vom Blitz getroffen worden, und ihr Kopf traf meine Stirn und machte mich für einen Moment oder zwei benommen. Das Zimmer und alles darin schienen sich zu drehen. Ich hielt meine Augen auf das Fenster gerichtet, aber der Wolf zog seinen Kopf zurück, und eine ganze Menge kleiner Punkte schien durch das zerbrochene Fenster hereinzuwehen und zu kreisen, wie die Staubwolke, von der Reisende berichten, wenn ein Simoom in der Wüste ist. Ich versuchte mich zu rühren, aber irgendein Zauber lag auf mir, und der Körper meiner lieben Mutter, der schon kalt zu werden schien - denn ihr liebes Herz hatte aufgehört zu schlagen - lastete schwer auf mir, und ich erinnerte mich eine Weile lang an nichts mehr. Die Zeit schien nicht lang, aber sehr, sehr schrecklich, bis ich wieder das Bewusstsein erlangte. Irgendwo in der Nähe läutete eine Totenglocke; die Hunde in der ganzen Nachbarschaft heulten; und in unserem Gebüsch, scheinbar direkt vor uns, sang eine Nachtigall. Ich war benommen und dumm vor Schmerz und Angst und Schwäche, aber der Klang der Nachtigall schien wie die Stimme meiner verstorbenen Mutter, die zurückkam, um mich zu trösten. Die Geräusche schienen auch die Dienstmädchen geweckt zu haben, denn ich konnte ihre bloßen Füße draußen vor meiner Tür patschen hören. Ich rief nach ihnen und sie kamen herein und als sie sahen, was passiert war und was über mir im Bett lag, schrien sie auf. Der Wind stürzte durch das zerbrochene Fenster herein und die Tür schlug zu. Sie hoben den Körper meiner lieben Mutter auf und legten sie, mit einem Laken bedeckt, auf das Bett, nachdem ich aufgestanden war. Sie waren alle so erschrocken und nervös, dass ich ihnen befahl, ins Esszimmer zu gehen und jeweils ein Glas Wein zu trinken. Die Tür flog für einen Augenblick auf und schloss sich dann wieder. Die Mädchen schrien und gingen gemeinsam ins Esszimmer, und ich legte die wenigen Blumen, die ich hatte, auf die Brust meiner lieben Mutter. Als sie dort lagen, erinnerte ich mich an das, was mir Dr. Van Helsing gesagt hatte, aber ich mochte sie nicht entfernen, und außerdem wollte ich jetzt einige der Bediensteten haben, die bei mir wachen. Ich war überrascht, dass die Mädchen nicht zurückkamen. Ich rief nach ihnen, erhielt aber keine Antwort, also ging ich ins Esszimmer, um nach ihnen zu suchen. Mein Herz sank, als ich sah, was passiert war. Alle vier lagen bewegungslos auf dem Boden und atmeten schwer. Die Flasche Sherry stand halb voll auf dem Tisch, aber es gab einen seltsamen, beißenden Geruch. Ich wurde misstrauisch und untersuchte die Flasche. Sie roch nach Laudanum, und als ich auf dem Sideboard sah, stellte ich fest, dass die Flasche, die der Arzt meiner Mutter verwendet - oh! verwendet hatte - leer war. Was soll ich tun? Was soll ich tun? Ich bin zurück im Zimmer bei meiner Mutter. Ich kann sie nicht allein lassen, und ich bin allein, bis auf die schlafenden Diener, die jemand betäubt hat. Allein mit dem Toten! Ich wage es nicht, hinauszugehen, denn ich kann das leise Heulen des Wolfs durch das zerbrochene Fenster hören. Die Luft scheint voller Punkte zu sein, die im Luftzug vom Fenster herumschwirren und kreisen, und die Lichter brennen blau und schwach. Was soll ich tun? Gott schütze mich vor Schaden diese Nacht! Ich werde dieses Papier in meiner Brust verstecken, wo sie es finden werden, wenn sie kommen, um mich zur Ruhe zu betten. Meine liebe Mutter ist gegangen! Es ist Zeit, dass auch ich gehe. Auf Wiedersehen, lieber Arthur, falls ich diese Nacht nicht überleben sollte. Gott behüte dich, mein Lieber, und Gott helfe mir! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Am Morgen kehren Van Helsing und Dr. Seward zum Westenra-Haus zurück. Sie werden von Lucys Mutter empfangen, die ihnen erzählt, dass sie in der Nacht alle "schrecklichen, stark riechenden Blumen" aus Lucys Zimmer entfernt und die Fenster geöffnet hat, um frische Luft hereinzulassen. Nachdem Frau Westenra das Zimmer verlassen hat, bricht Van Helsing fast zusammen. Er und Seward eilen zu ihrer Patientin und finden sie dem Tod nahe. Nur eine weitere Bluttransfusion von Van Helsing bringt sie zurück ins Leben. Van Helsing warnt Frau Westenra davor, niemals etwas aus Lucys Zimmer zu entfernen. In den nächsten vier Tagen ist alles gut, und Lucy erklärt, dass sie sich viel besser fühlt. Ein Ausschnitt aus der Pall Mall Gazette meldet, dass ein großer Wolf aus dem Zoologischen Garten entkommen ist. Das Tier kehrt am nächsten Morgen mit zerbrochenem Glas bedeckt zurück. Seward Eintrag im Tagebuch vom 17. September berichtet, dass Renfield den jungen Arzt in seinem Büro angreift und ihm das Handgelenk aufschlitzt. Renfield leckt daraufhin das Blut auf und wiederholt immer wieder den Satz "Das Blut ist das Leben". Van Helsing schickt Seward an diesem Tag ein Telegramm und rät ihm, die Nacht bei Lucy zu verbringen, aber es gibt eine Verzögerung und die Nachricht trifft erst am nächsten Morgen ein. Am 17. September, in der Nacht der Flucht des Wolfs, erwacht Lucy erschrocken durch ein Flattern am Fenster und ein Heulen draußen. Auch Frau Westenra erschrickt durch den Lärm und kommt herein und legt sich zu ihrer Tochter ins Bett. Plötzlich zerbricht das Fenster und der Kopf eines riesigen Wolfs taucht auf. Voller Angst reißt Lucys Mutter den Knoblauchkranz vom Hals ihrer Tochter und erleidet einen tödlichen Herzinfarkt. Während Lucy das Bewusstsein verliert, sieht sie, wie der Wolf seinen Kopf vom Fenster zurückzieht. Die vier Haushaltsmädchen treten ein, entsetzt vom Anblick ihrer toten Herrin. Die Frauen gehen in das Esszimmer, um ein Glas Wein zu trinken, doch der Wein ist verabreicht und sie verlieren alle das Bewusstsein. Alleine und schutzlos versteckt Lucy den neuesten Tagebucheintrag in ihrem Mieder in der Hoffnung, dass "sie es finden, wenn sie mich aufbahren".

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: XIX. AMY'S WILL. While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and, for the first time in her life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted any one; she did not approve of it; but she meant to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children, though she didn't think proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made! Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy in hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago,--a process which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider. [Illustration: Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot] She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses, till they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was! Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had claw legs, and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly must be fed, the lap-dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down, to get things, or deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it? Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March, till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode, and had capital times. After dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two. If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking at him while Madam dozed; called her names before company, and behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure the dog,--a fat, cross beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back, with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of the young lady. [Illustration: On his back, with all his legs in the air] Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with "Madame," as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd stories of her life in France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces. She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests; for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeon-holes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in which, on velvet cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding-day, her lover's diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows made of hair inside; the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn; Uncle March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding-ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away, like the most precious jewel of them all. [Illustration: I should choose this] "Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables. "I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads, from which hung a heavy cross of the same. "I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic," said Esther, eying the handsome thing wistfully. "Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging over your glass?" asked Amy. "Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou." "You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could." "If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort; but, as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day, to meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble." "Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who, in her loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her of it. "It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange the little dressing-room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God to preserve your sister." Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good. "I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the jewel-cases one by one. "To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I witnessed her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther, smiling. "How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Pro-cras-ti-nation is not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds. "It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first one who is affianced will have the pearls--Madame has said it; and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming manners." "Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt March, after all;" and Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face, and a firm resolve to earn it. From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the divine mother, while tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little Testament and hymn-book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every day to "sit alone, thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear God to preserve her sister." Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers. The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone outside the safe home-nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way, and walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done; so that if she _did_ fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady's jewels. During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms, and, when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved, and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes, with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately courtesies, and sweeping her train about, with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, "Ain't we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! ha!" [Illustration: Gravely promenaded to and fro] Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received. "Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to consult you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown her splendor, and driven Polly into a corner. "That bird is the trial of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. "Yesterday, when aunt was asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, 'Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I _couldn't_ help laughing, which made Poll swear, and aunt woke up and scolded us both." "Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie, yawning. "Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! catch her! catch her!' as I chased the spider. "That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes. "I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side, and gravely croaked, "Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!" "Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper out of her pocket. "I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb." [Illustration: Amy's Will] Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:-- "MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT. "I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeethe all my earthly property--viz. to wit:--namely "To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with. "To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets,--also my likeness, and my medal, with much love. "To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her 'little girl.' "To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her story. "To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna. "To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best. "To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, specially Beth. "I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss. "To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work I leave hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see.' "And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every one, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen. "To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861. "AMY CURTIS MARCH. {ESTELLE VALNOR, "_Witnesses_: { {THEODORE LAURENCE." The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly. "What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth's giving away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing-wax, a taper, and a standish before him. She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?" "I'm sorry I spoke; but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to grandpa. _She_ never thought of a will." Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but she only said, "Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?" "Yes; 'codicils,' they call them." "Put one in mine then--that I wish _all_ my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks." Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper, with trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?" "I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear;" and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting. When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side] Können Sie eine geeignete 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.

Während ihre Schwestern sich um Beth kümmern, leidet Amy unter den strengen Regeln von Tante Marchs Haus. Tante March liebt Amy zwar, zeigt es aber nicht wirklich. Sie versucht Amys Charakter zu verbessern, indem sie sie zu einem harten Tagesablauf zwingt, der viele Hausarbeiten, Unterricht, das Vorlesen für Tante March und das Zuhören von langen Vorträgen beinhaltet. Amy wird durch ihre Freundschaft mit Laurie unterstützt, der sie regelmäßig besucht, und durch die Freundlichkeit von Tante Marchs Magd Esther. Sogar Tante Marchs Haustiere reizen Amy - der Papagei zieht ihr an den Haaren und beleidigt sie, und der kleine Hund bellt sie an. Esther, die Magd, ist Amys einzige Freundin im Haus. Ihr richtiger Name ist Estelle, und sie ist eine französische Katholikin - Tante March zwingt, wie viele englische und amerikanische Arbeitgeber des 19. Jahrhunderts, ihre ausländischen Angestellten dazu, englische Namen anzunehmen. Esther erzählt Amy Geschichten über ihre Heimat und zeigt ihr den Schmuck und andere Schätze, die Tante March im Laufe der Jahre gesammelt hat. Eines Tages fragt Esther Amy, welches Schmuckstück von Tante March sie wählen würde, wenn sie eins haben könnte. Amy wählt eine Kette aus goldenen und ebenhölzernen Perlen, und Esther erklärt ihr, dass es sich tatsächlich um einen Rosenkranz handelt - der von Katholiken zum Beten verwendet wird. Esther und Amy sprechen über den Trost des Gebets. Esther bietet an, für Amy eine kleine Kapelle in einem Gästezimmer von Tante Marchs Herrenhaus einzurichten. Amy fragt Esther, wer Tante Marchs Schmuck bekommen wird, wenn sie stirbt. Esther sagt, dass Tante March in ihrem Testament den Schmuck Amy und ihren Schwestern vermacht hat. Amy wünscht sich, schon jetzt etwas von Tante Marchs Schmuck zu haben. Esther zeigt ihr einen türkisenen Ring und erzählt ihr, dass Tante March vorhat, ihn ihr zu geben, wenn sie zurück nach Hause geht, als Belohnung für ihr gutes Verhalten. Amy bemüht sich noch mehr, brav und gehorsam gegenüber Tante March zu sein, um den türkisen Ring zu verdienen. Esther richtet für Amy eine kleine Kapelle ein und verwendet ein Porträt von Maria mit dem Jesuskind, das im Haus aufbewahrt wurde. Amy fügt eine Vase mit Blumen, ihr Exemplar des Neuen Testaments, ihre Liederbuch und einen Rosenkranz, den ihr Esther gegeben hat, hinzu. Den Rosenkranz benutzt sie nicht, weil sie Protestantin ist, aber sie hängt ihn in den Raum. Amy versucht, ihre kleine Kapelle und ihre Gebete zu nutzen, um den Einfluss und die Ratschläge ihrer Mutter zu ersetzen. Sie wird religiöser und kommt Gott näher, obwohl sie nur ein kleines Mädchen ist. Amy fängt an darüber nachzudenken, was passieren wird, wenn sie an Scharlachfieber erkrankt und stirbt. Mit Esthers Hilfe schreibt sie ein eigenes Testament. Eines Tages, als Amy sich in einigen von Tante Marchs Kleidern verkleidet, kommt Laurie herein, um sie zu sehen. Amy räumt die Kleider weg und erzählt Laurie von ihrem Testament. Sie bittet ihn, es als Zeuge zu unterschreiben. Laurie, der sein Bestes tut, um sich nicht über Amy lustig zu machen, liest ihr Testament. Sie hat einige ihrer Besitztümer ihrem Vater, ihrer Mutter, ihren Schwestern, Laurie, Mr. Laurence, Hannah und ihrer Freundin Kitty Bryant hinterlassen. Laurie fragt Amy, was sie dazu gebracht hat, das Testament zu schreiben, und erzählt ihr, dass Beth bereits ihre Besitztümer verschenkt hat. Während Laurie Amys Testament als Zeuge unterschreibt, fügt sie eine zusätzliche Auflage hinzu - dass ihre Locken abgeschnitten werden sollen und jeder ihrer Familie und Freunden eine gegeben werden soll. Amy fragt Laurie, ob Beth wirklich in Gefahr ist zu sterben. Laurie sagt, dass sie es ist und versucht, Amy zu trösten. Nachdem Laurie gegangen ist, geht Amy in ihre Kapelle und betet für Beth.

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 do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing." "A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?" "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." "You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley." "Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle." "Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know." "Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not." "I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so _then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished." "There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her." "I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_ recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held." "Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor." "Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston." "Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him." "I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter." "Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little polish." "I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!" "Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty." "Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?" "I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend." "Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?" "I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm." "And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times." "Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me." "I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office." "Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to." "Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister." "Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!" "So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much." "She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home." "There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you." Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Herr Knightley und Frau Weston treffen sich, um über Emma zu sprechen. Gewöhnt euch daran - über Emma zu sprechen ist eine der beliebtesten Vergnügen der Stadt. Knightley ist davon überzeugt, dass Harriet Emma nicht gut tut. Immerhin, wie viele weitere Ego-Boosts braucht Emma eigentlich? Das Emma-Liebesfest beginnt: Knightley und Frau Weston sprechen darüber, wie hübsch und liebenswert Emma ist. Trotzdem hat Knightley ein paar "älterer Bruder"-kritische Bemerkungen. Zum einen hat Emma noch nie etwas zu Ende gebracht. Zum anderen braucht sie ein gutes altes Herzschmerz, um ihren Platz zu finden. Frau Weston erzählt Mr. Knightley, dass sie heimlich hofft, dass Frank in die Stadt kommt - und Emma von den Füßen fegt. Mr. Knightley verspricht, Emmas Schwester nicht zu verärgern, indem er ihr von Emmas unangemessener Freundschaft erzählt.

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. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo. Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Enter Juliet above at a window. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady; O, it is my love! O that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! Jul. Ay me! Rom. She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air. Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. Rom. [aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumblest on my counsel? Rom. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee. Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight; And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Jul. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell compliment! Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay'; And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries, They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops- Jul. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by? Jul. Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love- Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night. It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet. Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast! Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu! [Nurse] calls within. Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.] Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. I come, anon.- But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee- Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. By-and-by I come.- To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. To-morrow will I send. Rom. So thrive my soul- Jul. A thousand times good night! Exit. Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light! Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. Enter Juliet again, [above]. Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer's voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo's name. Romeo! Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! Jul. Romeo! Rom. My dear? Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee? Rom. By the hour of nine. Jul. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring how I love thy company. Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone- And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [Exit.] Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. Exit Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Romeo steht im Schatten unterhalb von Julias Schlafzimmerfenster. Julia erscheint auf dem Balkon und denkt, sie sei allein. In einem Monolog offenbart sie ihre Liebe zu Romeo. Sie verzweifelt über die Fehde zwischen den beiden Familien und den Problemen, die diese Fehde mit sich bringt. Romeo hört zu und als Julia ihn auffordert, seinen Namen abzulegen, tritt er aus der Dunkelheit und sagt: "Nenn mich nur Liebe." Nachdem sich die beiden gegenseitig ihre Zuneigung bekundet haben, ruft die Amme Julia vom Balkon aus. Julia geht, kehrt aber kurz darauf zurück. Sie vereinbaren zu heiraten. Julia verspricht, am nächsten Tag einen Boten zu schicken, damit Romeo ihr mitteilen kann, welche Hochzeitsarrangements er getroffen hat. Die Szene endet, als der Tag anbricht und Romeo geht, um den Rat von Pfarrer Lorenz zu suchen.

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: Trust me each state must have its policies: Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters; Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline; For not since Adam wore his verdant apron, Hath man with man in social union dwelt, But laws were made to draw that union closer. --Old Play The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the oak forest. The green boughs glittered with all their pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn from the covert of high fern to the more open walks of the greenwood, and no huntsman was there to watch or intercept the stately hart, as he paced at the head of the antler'd herd. The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree in the Harthill-walk, where they had spent the night in refreshing themselves after the fatigues of the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many with hearing and recounting the events of the day, and computing the heaps of plunder which their success had placed at the disposal of their Chief. The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding that much was consumed, a great deal of plate, rich armour, and splendid clothing, had been secured by the exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could be appalled by no danger when such rewards were in view. Yet so strict were the laws of their society, that no one ventured to appropriate any part of the booty, which was brought into one common mass, to be at the disposal of their leader. The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not however the same to which Locksley had conducted Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story, but one which was the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half a mile of the demolished castle of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his seat--a throne of turf erected under the twisted branches of the huge oak, and the silvan followers were gathered around him. He assigned to the Black Knight a seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon his left. "Pardon my freedom, noble sirs," he said, "but in these glades I am monarch--they are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck but little of my power, were I, within my own dominions, to yield place to mortal man.--Now, sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal Friar? A mass amongst Christian men best begins a busy morning."--No one had seen the Clerk of Copmanhurst. "Over gods forbode!" said the outlaw chief, "I trust the jolly priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot a thought too late. Who saw him since the castle was ta'en?" "I," quoth the Miller, "marked him busy about the door of a cellar, swearing by each saint in the calendar he would taste the smack of Front-de-Boeuf's Gascoigne wine." "Now, the saints, as many as there be of them," said the Captain, "forefend, lest he has drunk too deep of the wine-butts, and perished by the fall of the castle!--Away, Miller!--take with you enow of men, seek the place where you last saw him--throw water from the moat on the scorching ruins--I will have them removed stone by stone ere I lose my curtal Friar." The numbers who hastened to execute this duty, considering that an interesting division of spoil was about to take place, showed how much the troop had at heart the safety of their spiritual father. "Meanwhile, let us proceed," said Locksley; "for when this bold deed shall be sounded abroad, the bands of De Bracy, of Malvoisin, and other allies of Front-de-Boeuf, will be in motion against us, and it were well for our safety that we retreat from the vicinity.--Noble Cedric," he said, turning to the Saxon, "that spoil is divided into two portions; do thou make choice of that which best suits thee, to recompense thy people who were partakers with us in this adventure." "Good yeoman," said Cedric, "my heart is oppressed with sadness. The noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh is no more--the last sprout of the sainted Confessor! Hopes have perished with him which can never return!--A sparkle hath been quenched by his blood, which no human breath can again rekindle! My people, save the few who are now with me, do but tarry my presence to transport his honoured remains to their last mansion. The Lady Rowena is desirous to return to Rotherwood, and must be escorted by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, ere now, have left this place; and I waited--not to share the booty, for, so help me God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch the value of a liard,--I waited but to render my thanks to thee and to thy bold yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved." "Nay, but," said the chief Outlaw, "we did but half the work at most--take of the spoil what may reward your own neighbours and followers." "I am rich enough to reward them from mine own wealth," answered Cedric. "And some," said Wamba, "have been wise enough to reward themselves; they do not march off empty-handed altogether. We do not all wear motley." "They are welcome," said Locksley; "our laws bind none but ourselves." "But, thou, my poor knave," said Cedric, turning about and embracing his Jester, "how shall I reward thee, who feared not to give thy body to chains and death instead of mine!--All forsook me, when the poor fool was faithful!" A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he spoke--a mark of feeling which even the death of Athelstane had not extracted; but there was something in the half-instinctive attachment of his clown, that waked his nature more keenly than even grief itself. "Nay," said the Jester, extricating himself from master's caress, "if you pay my service with the water of your eye, the Jester must weep for company, and then what becomes of his vocation?--But, uncle, if you would indeed pleasure me, I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole a week from your service to bestow it on your son." "Pardon him!" exclaimed Cedric; "I will both pardon and reward him.--Kneel down, Gurth."--The swineherd was in an instant at his master's feet--"THEOW and ESNE [40] art thou no longer," said Cedric touching him with a wand; "FOLKFREE and SACLESS [41] art thou in town and from town, in the forest as in the field. A hide of land I give to thee in my steads of Walbrugham, from me and mine to thee and thine aye and for ever; and God's malison on his head who this gainsays!" No longer a serf, but a freeman and a landholder, Gurth sprung upon his feet, and twice bounded aloft to almost his own height from the ground. "A smith and a file," he cried, "to do away the collar from the neck of a freeman!--Noble master! doubled is my strength by your gift, and doubly will I fight for you!--There is a free spirit in my breast--I am a man changed to myself and all around.--Ha, Fangs!" he continued,--for that faithful cur, seeing his master thus transported, began to jump upon him, to express his sympathy,--"knowest thou thy master still?" "Ay," said Wamba, "Fangs and I still know thee, Gurth, though we must needs abide by the collar; it is only thou art likely to forget both us and thyself." "I shall forget myself indeed ere I forget thee, true comrade," said Gurth; "and were freedom fit for thee, Wamba, the master would not let thee want it." "Nay," said Wamba, "never think I envy thee, brother Gurth; the serf sits by the hall-fire when the freeman must forth to the field of battle--And what saith Oldhelm of Malmsbury--Better a fool at a feast than a wise man at a fray." The tramp of horses was now heard, and the Lady Rowena appeared, surrounded by several riders, and a much stronger party of footmen, who joyfully shook their pikes and clashed their brown-bills for joy of her freedom. She herself, richly attired, and mounted on a dark chestnut palfrey, had recovered all the dignity of her manner, and only an unwonted degree of paleness showed the sufferings she had undergone. Her lovely brow, though sorrowful, bore on it a cast of reviving hope for the future, as well as of grateful thankfulness for the past deliverance--She knew that Ivanhoe was safe, and she knew that Athelstane was dead. The former assurance filled her with the most sincere delight; and if she did not absolutely rejoice at the latter, she might be pardoned for feeling the full advantage of being freed from further persecution on the only subject in which she had ever been contradicted by her guardian Cedric. As Rowena bent her steed towards Locksley's seat, that bold yeoman, with all his followers, rose to receive her, as if by a general instinct of courtesy. The blood rose to her cheeks, as, courteously waving her hand, and bending so low that her beautiful and loose tresses were for an instant mixed with the flowing mane of her palfrey, she expressed in few but apt words her obligations and her gratitude to Locksley and her other deliverers.--"God bless you, brave men," she concluded, "God and Our Lady bless you and requite you for gallantly perilling yourselves in the cause of the oppressed!--If any of you should hunger, remember Rowena has food--if you should thirst, she has many a butt of wine and brown ale--and if the Normans drive ye from these walks, Rowena has forests of her own, where her gallant deliverers may range at full freedom, and never ranger ask whose arrow hath struck down the deer." "Thanks, gentle lady," said Locksley; "thanks from my company and myself. But, to have saved you requites itself. We who walk the greenwood do many a wild deed, and the Lady Rowena's deliverance may be received as an atonement." Again bowing from her palfrey, Rowena turned to depart; but pausing a moment, while Cedric, who was to attend her, was also taking his leave, she found herself unexpectedly close by the prisoner De Bracy. He stood under a tree in deep meditation, his arms crossed upon his breast, and Rowena was in hopes she might pass him unobserved. He looked up, however, and, when aware of her presence, a deep flush of shame suffused his handsome countenance. He stood a moment most irresolute; then, stepping forward, took her palfrey by the rein, and bent his knee before her. "Will the Lady Rowena deign to cast an eye--on a captive knight--on a dishonoured soldier?" "Sir Knight," answered Rowena, "in enterprises such as yours, the real dishonour lies not in failure, but in success." "Conquest, lady, should soften the heart," answered De Bracy; "let me but know that the Lady Rowena forgives the violence occasioned by an ill-fated passion, and she shall soon learn that De Bracy knows how to serve her in nobler ways." "I forgive you, Sir Knight," said Rowena, "as a Christian." "That means," said Wamba, "that she does not forgive him at all." "But I can never forgive the misery and desolation your madness has occasioned," continued Rowena. "Unloose your hold on the lady's rein," said Cedric, coming up. "By the bright sun above us, but it were shame, I would pin thee to the earth with my javelin--but be well assured, thou shalt smart, Maurice de Bracy, for thy share in this foul deed." "He threatens safely who threatens a prisoner," said De Bracy; "but when had a Saxon any touch of courtesy?" Then retiring two steps backward, he permitted the lady to move on. Cedric, ere they departed, expressed his peculiar gratitude to the Black Champion, and earnestly entreated him to accompany him to Rotherwood. "I know," he said, "that ye errant knights desire to carry your fortunes on the point of your lance, and reck not of land or goods; but war is a changeful mistress, and a home is sometimes desirable even to the champion whose trade is wandering. Thou hast earned one in the halls of Rotherwood, noble knight. Cedric has wealth enough to repair the injuries of fortune, and all he has is his deliverer's--Come, therefore, to Rotherwood, not as a guest, but as a son or brother." "Cedric has already made me rich," said the Knight,--"he has taught me the value of Saxon virtue. To Rotherwood will I come, brave Saxon, and that speedily; but, as now, pressing matters of moment detain me from your halls. Peradventure when I come hither, I will ask such a boon as will put even thy generosity to the test." "It is granted ere spoken out," said Cedric, striking his ready hand into the gauntleted palm of the Black Knight,--"it is granted already, were it to affect half my fortune." "Gage not thy promise so lightly," said the Knight of the Fetterlock; "yet well I hope to gain the boon I shall ask. Meanwhile, adieu." "I have but to say," added the Saxon, "that, during the funeral rites of the noble Athelstane, I shall be an inhabitant of the halls of his castle of Coningsburgh--They will be open to all who choose to partake of the funeral banqueting; and, I speak in name of the noble Edith, mother of the fallen prince, they will never be shut against him who laboured so bravely, though unsuccessfully, to save Athelstane from Norman chains and Norman steel." "Ay, ay," said Wamba, who had resumed his attendance on his master, "rare feeding there will be--pity that the noble Athelstane cannot banquet at his own funeral.--But he," continued the Jester, lifting up his eyes gravely, "is supping in Paradise, and doubtless does honour to the cheer." "Peace, and move on," said Cedric, his anger at this untimely jest being checked by the recollection of Wamba's recent services. Rowena waved a graceful adieu to him of the Fetterlock--the Saxon bade God speed him, and on they moved through a wide glade of the forest. They had scarce departed, ere a sudden procession moved from under the greenwood branches, swept slowly round the silvan amphitheatre, and took the same direction with Rowena and her followers. The priests of a neighbouring convent, in expectation of the ample donation, or "soul-scat", which Cedric had propined, attended upon the car in which the body of Athelstane was laid, and sang hymns as it was sadly and slowly borne on the shoulders of his vassals to his castle of Coningsburgh, to be there deposited in the grave of Hengist, from whom the deceased derived his long descent. Many of his vassals had assembled at the news of his death, and followed the bier with all the external marks, at least, of dejection and sorrow. Again the outlaws arose, and paid the same rude and spontaneous homage to death, which they had so lately rendered to beauty--the slow chant and mournful step of the priests brought back to their remembrance such of their comrades as had fallen in the yesterday's array. But such recollections dwell not long with those who lead a life of danger and enterprise, and ere the sound of the death-hymn had died on the wind, the outlaws were again busied in the distribution of their spoil. "Valiant knight," said Locksley to the Black Champion, "without whose good heart and mighty arm our enterprise must altogether have failed, will it please you to take from that mass of spoil whatever may best serve to pleasure you, and to remind you of this my Trysting-tree?" "I accept the offer," said the Knight, "as frankly as it is given; and I ask permission to dispose of Sir Maurice de Bracy at my own pleasure." "He is thine already," said Locksley, "and well for him! else the tyrant had graced the highest bough of this oak, with as many of his Free-Companions as we could gather, hanging thick as acorns around him.--But he is thy prisoner, and he is safe, though he had slain my father." "De Bracy," said the Knight, "thou art free--depart. He whose prisoner thou art scorns to take mean revenge for what is past. But beware of the future, lest a worse thing befall thee.--Maurice de Bracy, I say BEWARE!" De Bracy bowed low and in silence, and was about to withdraw, when the yeomen burst at once into a shout of execration and derision. The proud knight instantly stopped, turned back, folded his arms, drew up his form to its full height, and exclaimed, "Peace, ye yelping curs! who open upon a cry which ye followed not when the stag was at bay--De Bracy scorns your censure as he would disdain your applause. To your brakes and caves, ye outlawed thieves! and be silent when aught knightly or noble is but spoken within a league of your fox-earths." This ill-timed defiance might have procured for De Bracy a volley of arrows, but for the hasty and imperative interference of the outlaw Chief. Meanwhile the knight caught a horse by the rein, for several which had been taken in the stables of Front-de-Boeuf stood accoutred around, and were a valuable part of the booty. He threw himself upon the saddle, and galloped off through the wood. When the bustle occasioned by this incident was somewhat composed, the chief Outlaw took from his neck the rich horn and baldric which he had recently gained at the strife of archery near Ashby. "Noble knight." he said to him of the Fetterlock, "if you disdain not to grace by your acceptance a bugle which an English yeoman has once worn, this I will pray you to keep as a memorial of your gallant bearing--and if ye have aught to do, and, as happeneth oft to a gallant knight, ye chance to be hard bested in any forest between Trent and Tees, wind three mots [42] upon the horn thus, 'Wa-sa-hoa!' and it may well chance ye shall find helpers and rescue." He then gave breath to the bugle, and winded once and again the call which he described, until the knight had caught the notes. "Gramercy for the gift, bold yeoman," said the Knight; "and better help than thine and thy rangers would I never seek, were it at my utmost need." And then in his turn he winded the call till all the greenwood rang. "Well blown and clearly," said the yeoman; "beshrew me an thou knowest not as much of woodcraft as of war!--thou hast been a striker of deer in thy day, I warrant.--Comrades, mark these three mots--it is the call of the Knight of the Fetterlock; and he who hears it, and hastens not to serve him at his need, I will have him scourged out of our band with his own bowstring." "Long live our leader!" shouted the yeomen, "and long live the Black Knight of the Fetterlock!--May he soon use our service, to prove how readily it will be paid." Locksley now proceeded to the distribution of the spoil, which he performed with the most laudable impartiality. A tenth part of the whole was set apart for the church, and for pious uses; a portion was next allotted to a sort of public treasury; a part was assigned to the widows and children of those who had fallen, or to be expended in masses for the souls of such as had left no surviving family. The rest was divided amongst the outlaws, according to their rank and merit, and the judgment of the Chief, on all such doubtful questions as occurred, was delivered with great shrewdness, and received with absolute submission. The Black Knight was not a little surprised to find that men, in a state so lawless, were nevertheless among themselves so regularly and equitably governed, and all that he observed added to his opinion of the justice and judgment of their leader. When each had taken his own proportion of the booty, and while the treasurer, accompanied by four tall yeomen, was transporting that belonging to the state to some place of concealment or of security, the portion devoted to the church still remained unappropriated. "I would," said the leader, "we could hear tidings of our joyous chaplain--he was never wont to be absent when meat was to be blessed, or spoil to be parted; and it is his duty to take care of these the tithes of our successful enterprise. It may be the office has helped to cover some of his canonical irregularities. Also, I have a holy brother of his a prisoner at no great distance, and I would fain have the Friar to help me to deal with him in due sort--I greatly misdoubt the safety of the bluff priest." "I were right sorry for that," said the Knight of the Fetterlock, "for I stand indebted to him for the joyous hospitality of a merry night in his cell. Let us to the ruins of the castle; it may be we shall there learn some tidings of him." While they thus spoke, a loud shout among the yeomen announced the arrival of him for whom they feared, as they learned from the stentorian voice of the Friar himself, long before they saw his burly person. "Make room, my merry-men!" he exclaimed; "room for your godly father and his prisoner--Cry welcome once more.--I come, noble leader, like an eagle with my prey in my clutch."--And making his way through the ring, amidst the laughter of all around, he appeared in majestic triumph, his huge partisan in one hand, and in the other a halter, one end of which was fastened to the neck of the unfortunate Isaac of York, who, bent down by sorrow and terror, was dragged on by the victorious priest, who shouted aloud, "Where is Allan-a-Dale, to chronicle me in a ballad, or if it were but a lay?--By Saint Hermangild, the jingling crowder is ever out of the way where there is an apt theme for exalting valour!" "Curtal Priest," said the Captain, "thou hast been at a wet mass this morning, as early as it is. In the name of Saint Nicholas, whom hast thou got here?" "A captive to my sword and to my lance, noble Captain," replied the Clerk of Copmanhurst; "to my bow and to my halberd, I should rather say; and yet I have redeemed him by my divinity from a worse captivity. Speak, Jew--have I not ransomed thee from Sathanas?--have I not taught thee thy 'credo', thy 'pater', and thine 'Ave Maria'?--Did I not spend the whole night in drinking to thee, and in expounding of mysteries?" "For the love of God!" ejaculated the poor Jew, "will no one take me out of the keeping of this mad--I mean this holy man?" "How's this, Jew?" said the Friar, with a menacing aspect; "dost thou recant, Jew?--Bethink thee, if thou dost relapse into thine infidelity, though thou are not so tender as a suckling pig--I would I had one to break my fast upon--thou art not too tough to be roasted! Be conformable, Isaac, and repeat the words after me. 'Ave Maria'!--" "Nay, we will have no profanation, mad Priest," said Locksley; "let us rather hear where you found this prisoner of thine." "By Saint Dunstan," said the Friar, "I found him where I sought for better ware! I did step into the cellarage to see what might be rescued there; for though a cup of burnt wine, with spice, be an evening's drought for an emperor, it were waste, methought, to let so much good liquor be mulled at once; and I had caught up one runlet of sack, and was coming to call more aid among these lazy knaves, who are ever to seek when a good deed is to be done, when I was avised of a strong door--Aha! thought I, here is the choicest juice of all in this secret crypt; and the knave butler, being disturbed in his vocation, hath left the key in the door--In therefore I went, and found just nought besides a commodity of rusted chains and this dog of a Jew, who presently rendered himself my prisoner, rescue or no rescue. I did but refresh myself after the fatigue of the action, with the unbeliever, with one humming cup of sack, and was proceeding to lead forth my captive, when, crash after crash, as with wild thunder-dint and levin-fire, down toppled the masonry of an outer tower, (marry beshrew their hands that built it not the firmer!) and blocked up the passage. The roar of one falling tower followed another--I gave up thought of life; and deeming it a dishonour to one of my profession to pass out of this world in company with a Jew, I heaved up my halberd to beat his brains out; but I took pity on his grey hairs, and judged it better to lay down the partisan, and take up my spiritual weapon for his conversion. And truly, by the blessing of Saint Dunstan, the seed has been sown in good soil; only that, with speaking to him of mysteries through the whole night, and being in a manner fasting, (for the few droughts of sack which I sharpened my wits with were not worth marking,) my head is well-nigh dizzied, I trow.--But I was clean exhausted.--Gilbert and Wibbald know in what state they found me--quite and clean exhausted." "We can bear witness," said Gilbert; "for when we had cleared away the ruin, and by Saint Dunstan's help lighted upon the dungeon stair, we found the runlet of sack half empty, the Jew half dead, and the Friar more than half--exhausted, as he calls it." "Ye be knaves! ye lie!" retorted the offended Friar; "it was you and your gormandizing companions that drank up the sack, and called it your morning draught--I am a pagan, an I kept it not for the Captain's own throat. But what recks it? The Jew is converted, and understands all I have told him, very nearly, if not altogether, as well as myself." "Jew," said the Captain, "is this true? hast thou renounced thine unbelief?" "May I so find mercy in your eyes," said the Jew, "as I know not one word which the reverend prelate spake to me all this fearful night. Alas! I was so distraught with agony, and fear, and grief, that had our holy father Abraham come to preach to me, he had found but a deaf listener." "Thou liest, Jew, and thou knowest thou dost." said the Friar; "I will remind thee of but one word of our conference--thou didst promise to give all thy substance to our holy Order." "So help me the Promise, fair sirs," said Isaac, even more alarmed than before, "as no such sounds ever crossed my lips! Alas! I am an aged beggar'd man--I fear me a childless--have ruth on me, and let me go!" "Nay," said the Friar, "if thou dost retract vows made in favour of holy Church, thou must do penance." Accordingly, he raised his halberd, and would have laid the staff of it lustily on the Jew's shoulders, had not the Black Knight stopped the blow, and thereby transferred the Holy Clerk's resentment to himself. "By Saint Thomas of Kent," said he, "an I buckle to my gear, I will teach thee, sir lazy lover, to mell with thine own matters, maugre thine iron case there!" "Nay, be not wroth with me," said the Knight; "thou knowest I am thy sworn friend and comrade." "I know no such thing," answered the Friar; "and defy thee for a meddling coxcomb!" "Nay, but," said the Knight, who seemed to take a pleasure in provoking his quondam host, "hast thou forgotten how, that for my sake (for I say nothing of the temptation of the flagon and the pasty) thou didst break thy vow of fast and vigil?" "Truly, friend," said the Friar, clenching his huge fist, "I will bestow a buffet on thee." "I accept of no such presents," said the Knight; "I am content to take thy cuff [421] as a loan, but I will repay thee with usury as deep as ever thy prisoner there exacted in his traffic." "I will prove that presently," said the Friar. "Hola!" cried the Captain, "what art thou after, mad Friar? brawling beneath our Trysting-tree?" "No brawling," said the Knight, "it is but a friendly interchange of courtesy.--Friar, strike an thou darest--I will stand thy blow, if thou wilt stand mine." "Thou hast the advantage with that iron pot on thy head," said the churchman; "but have at thee--Down thou goest, an thou wert Goliath of Gath in his brazen helmet." The Friar bared his brawny arm up to the elbow, and putting his full strength to the blow, gave the Knight a buffet that might have felled an ox. But his adversary stood firm as a rock. A loud shout was uttered by all the yeomen around; for the Clerk's cuff was proverbial amongst them, and there were few who, in jest or earnest, had not had the occasion to know its vigour. "Now, Priest," said, the Knight, pulling off his gauntlet, "if I had vantage on my head, I will have none on my hand--stand fast as a true man." "'Genam meam dedi vapulatori'--I have given my cheek to the smiter," said the Priest; "an thou canst stir me from the spot, fellow, I will freely bestow on thee the Jew's ransom." So spoke the burly Priest, assuming, on his part, high defiance. But who may resist his fate? The buffet of the Knight was given with such strength and good-will, that the Friar rolled head over heels upon the plain, to the great amazement of all the spectators. But he arose neither angry nor crestfallen. "Brother," said he to the Knight, "thou shouldst have used thy strength with more discretion. I had mumbled but a lame mass an thou hadst broken my jaw, for the piper plays ill that wants the nether chops. Nevertheless, there is my hand, in friendly witness, that I will exchange no more cuffs with thee, having been a loser by the barter. End now all unkindness. Let us put the Jew to ransom, since the leopard will not change his spots, and a Jew he will continue to be." "The Priest," said Clement, "is not half so confident of the Jew's conversion, since he received that buffet on the ear." "Go to, knave, what pratest thou of conversions?--what, is there no respect?--all masters and no men?--I tell thee, fellow, I was somewhat totty when I received the good knight's blow, or I had kept my ground under it. But an thou gibest more of it, thou shalt learn I can give as well as take." "Peace all!" said the Captain. "And thou, Jew, think of thy ransom; thou needest not to be told that thy race are held to be accursed in all Christian communities, and trust me that we cannot endure thy presence among us. Think, therefore, of an offer, while I examine a prisoner of another cast." "Were many of Front-de-Boeuf's men taken?" demanded the Black Knight. "Keiner von ihnen war wichtig genug, um Lösegeld zu verlangen," antwortete der Kapitän; "es waren eine Gruppe von unbedeutenden Kerlen, die wir entlassen haben, um sich einen neuen Herrn zu suchen - genug war für Rache und Profit getan worden; die Meute von ihnen war nicht einmal einen Cardecu wert. Der Gefangene, über den ich spreche, ist eine bessere Beute - ein fröhlicher Mönch, der auf dem Weg ist, seine Geliebte zu besuchen, wenn ich sein Pferdegeschirr und seine Kleidung richtig beurteile. - Hier kommt der würdige Prälat, so munter wie eine Elster." Und zwischen zwei Bogenschützen wurde Prior Aymer von Jorvaulx, unser alter Freund, vor den silbernen Thron des Gesetzlosen-Häuptlings gebracht. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Früh am nächsten Morgen treffen sich die befreiten Gefangenen und ihre Retter, die Gesetzlosen, im Wald. Robin von Locksley stellt Cedric auf seine linke Seite und den Schwarzen Ritter auf seine rechte Seite. Die Beute, die von der Burg geplündert wurde, wird gleichmäßig aufgeteilt. Cedric lehnt seinen Anteil ab und sagt, dass Rowena und er Locksley für seine Hilfe dankbar sind. Er bietet seinen Anteil dem Schwarzen Ritter an, der ebenfalls ablehnt, irgendeine Beute anzunehmen. Als Dank für seine Hilfe befreit Cedric seinen Sklaven Gurth. De Bracy, der jetzt ein Gefangener ist, versucht mit Rowena zu sprechen, wird aber von Cedric beleidigt. Athelstanes Leichnam wird auf einer Trage hereingebracht. Dann kommt Friar Tuck und führt Isaac an einer am Hals angebundenen Leine. Er und der Schwarze Ritter liefern sich einen freundlichen Kampf um Isaac. Der Schwarze Ritter gewinnt und Isaac wird freigelassen. Zwei andere Männer bringen einen weiteren Gefangenen herein, den Prior von Jorvaulx.

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: "C'est beaucoup que le jugement des hommes sur les actions humaines; tot ou tard il devient efficace."--GUIZOT. Sir James Chettam could not look with any satisfaction on Mr. Brooke's new courses; but it was easier to object than to hinder. Sir James accounted for his having come in alone one day to lunch with the Cadwalladers by saying-- "I can't talk to you as I want, before Celia: it might hurt her. Indeed, it would not be right." "I know what you mean--the 'Pioneer' at the Grange!" darted in Mrs. Cadwallader, almost before the last word was off her friend's tongue. "It is frightful--this taking to buying whistles and blowing them in everybody's hearing. Lying in bed all day and playing at dominoes, like poor Lord Plessy, would be more private and bearable." "I see they are beginning to attack our friend Brooke in the 'Trumpet,'" said the Rector, lounging back and smiling easily, as he would have done if he had been attacked himself. "There are tremendous sarcasms against a landlord not a hundred miles from Middlemarch, who receives his own rents, and makes no returns." "I do wish Brooke would leave that off," said Sir James, with his little frown of annoyance. "Is he really going to be put in nomination, though?" said Mr. Cadwallader. "I saw Farebrother yesterday--he's Whiggish himself, hoists Brougham and Useful Knowledge; that's the worst I know of him;--and he says that Brooke is getting up a pretty strong party. Bulstrode, the banker, is his foremost man. But he thinks Brooke would come off badly at a nomination." "Exactly," said Sir James, with earnestness. "I have been inquiring into the thing, for I've never known anything about Middlemarch politics before--the county being my business. What Brooke trusts to, is that they are going to turn out Oliver because he is a Peelite. But Hawley tells me that if they send up a Whig at all it is sure to be Bagster, one of those candidates who come from heaven knows where, but dead against Ministers, and an experienced Parliamentary man. Hawley's rather rough: he forgot that he was speaking to me. He said if Brooke wanted a pelting, he could get it cheaper than by going to the hustings." "I warned you all of it," said Mrs. Cadwallader, waving her hands outward. "I said to Humphrey long ago, Mr. Brooke is going to make a splash in the mud. And now he has done it." "Well, he might have taken it into his head to marry," said the Rector. "That would have been a graver mess than a little flirtation with politics." "He may do that afterwards," said Mrs. Cadwallader--"when he has come out on the other side of the mud with an ague." "What I care for most is his own dignity," said Sir James. "Of course I care the more because of the family. But he's getting on in life now, and I don't like to think of his exposing himself. They will be raking up everything against him." "I suppose it's no use trying any persuasion," said the Rector. "There's such an odd mixture of obstinacy and changeableness in Brooke. Have you tried him on the subject?" "Well, no," said Sir James; "I feel a delicacy in appearing to dictate. But I have been talking to this young Ladislaw that Brooke is making a factotum of. Ladislaw seems clever enough for anything. I thought it as well to hear what he had to say; and he is against Brooke's standing this time. I think he'll turn him round: I think the nomination may be staved off." "I know," said Mrs. Cadwallader, nodding. "The independent member hasn't got his speeches well enough by heart." "But this Ladislaw--there again is a vexatious business," said Sir James. "We have had him two or three times to dine at the Hall (you have met him, by the bye) as Brooke's guest and a relation of Casaubon's, thinking he was only on a flying visit. And now I find he's in everybody's mouth in Middlemarch as the editor of the 'Pioneer.' There are stories going about him as a quill-driving alien, a foreign emissary, and what not." "Casaubon won't like that," said the Rector. "There _is_ some foreign blood in Ladislaw," returned Sir James. "I hope he won't go into extreme opinions and carry Brooke on." "Oh, he's a dangerous young sprig, that Mr. Ladislaw," said Mrs. Cadwallader, "with his opera songs and his ready tongue. A sort of Byronic hero--an amorous conspirator, it strikes me. And Thomas Aquinas is not fond of him. I could see that, the day the picture was brought." "I don't like to begin on the subject with Casaubon," said Sir James. "He has more right to interfere than I. But it's a disagreeable affair all round. What a character for anybody with decent connections to show himself in!--one of those newspaper fellows! You have only to look at Keck, who manages the 'Trumpet.' I saw him the other day with Hawley. His writing is sound enough, I believe, but he's such a low fellow, that I wished he had been on the wrong side." "What can you expect with these peddling Middlemarch papers?" said the Rector. "I don't suppose you could get a high style of man anywhere to be writing up interests he doesn't really care about, and for pay that hardly keeps him in at elbows." "Exactly: that makes it so annoying that Brooke should have put a man who has a sort of connection with the family in a position of that kind. For my part, I think Ladislaw is rather a fool for accepting." "It is Aquinas's fault," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Why didn't he use his interest to get Ladislaw made an attache or sent to India? That is how families get rid of troublesome sprigs." "There is no knowing to what lengths the mischief may go," said Sir James, anxiously. "But if Casaubon says nothing, what can I do?" "Oh my dear Sir James," said the Rector, "don't let us make too much of all this. It is likely enough to end in mere smoke. After a month or two Brooke and this Master Ladislaw will get tired of each other; Ladislaw will take wing; Brooke will sell the 'Pioneer,' and everything will settle down again as usual." "There is one good chance--that he will not like to feel his money oozing away," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "If I knew the items of election expenses I could scare him. It's no use plying him with wide words like Expenditure: I wouldn't talk of phlebotomy, I would empty a pot of leeches upon him. What we good stingy people don't like, is having our sixpences sucked away from us." "And he will not like having things raked up against him," said Sir James. "There is the management of his estate. They have begun upon that already. And it really is painful for me to see. It is a nuisance under one's very nose. I do think one is bound to do the best for one's land and tenants, especially in these hard times." "Perhaps the 'Trumpet' may rouse him to make a change, and some good may come of it all," said the Rector. "I know I should be glad. I should hear less grumbling when my tithe is paid. I don't know what I should do if there were not a modus in Tipton." "I want him to have a proper man to look after things--I want him to take on Garth again," said Sir James. "He got rid of Garth twelve years ago, and everything has been going wrong since. I think of getting Garth to manage for me--he has made such a capital plan for my buildings; and Lovegood is hardly up to the mark. But Garth would not undertake the Tipton estate again unless Brooke left it entirely to him." "In the right of it too," said the Rector. "Garth is an independent fellow: an original, simple-minded fellow. One day, when he was doing some valuation for me, he told me point-blank that clergymen seldom understood anything about business, and did mischief when they meddled; but he said it as quietly and respectfully as if he had been talking to me about sailors. He would make a different parish of Tipton, if Brooke would let him manage. I wish, by the help of the 'Trumpet,' you could bring that round." "If Dorothea had kept near her uncle, there would have been some chance," said Sir James. "She might have got some power over him in time, and she was always uneasy about the estate. She had wonderfully good notions about such things. But now Casaubon takes her up entirely. Celia complains a good deal. We can hardly get her to dine with us, since he had that fit." Sir James ended with a look of pitying disgust, and Mrs. Cadwallader shrugged her shoulders as much as to say that _she_ was not likely to see anything new in that direction. "Poor Casaubon!" the Rector said. "That was a nasty attack. I thought he looked shattered the other day at the Archdeacon's." "In point of fact," resumed Sir James, not choosing to dwell on "fits," "Brooke doesn't mean badly by his tenants or any one else, but he has got that way of paring and clipping at expenses." "Come, that's a blessing," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "That helps him to find himself in a morning. He may not know his own opinions, but he does know his own pocket." "I don't believe a man is in pocket by stinginess on his land," said Sir James. "Oh, stinginess may be abused like other virtues: it will not do to keep one's own pigs lean," said Mrs. Cadwallader, who had risen to look out of the window. "But talk of an independent politician and he will appear." "What! Brooke?" said her husband. "Yes. Now, you ply him with the 'Trumpet,' Humphrey; and I will put the leeches on him. What will you do, Sir James?" "The fact is, I don't like to begin about it with Brooke, in our mutual position; the whole thing is so unpleasant. I do wish people would behave like gentlemen," said the good baronet, feeling that this was a simple and comprehensive programme for social well-being. "Here you all are, eh?" said Mr. Brooke, shuffling round and shaking hands. "I was going up to the Hall by-and-by, Chettam. But it's pleasant to find everybody, you know. Well, what do you think of things?--going on a little fast! It was true enough, what Lafitte said--'Since yesterday, a century has passed away:'--they're in the next century, you know, on the other side of the water. Going on faster than we are." "Why, yes," said the Rector, taking up the newspaper. "Here is the 'Trumpet' accusing you of lagging behind--did you see?" "Eh? no," said Mr. Brooke, dropping his gloves into his hat and hastily adjusting his eye-glass. But Mr. Cadwallader kept the paper in his hand, saying, with a smile in his eyes-- "Look here! all this is about a landlord not a hundred miles from Middlemarch, who receives his own rents. They say he is the most retrogressive man in the county. I think you must have taught them that word in the 'Pioneer.'" "Oh, that is Keck--an illiterate fellow, you know. Retrogressive, now! Come, that's capital. He thinks it means destructive: they want to make me out a destructive, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with that cheerfulness which is usually sustained by an adversary's ignorance. "I think he knows the meaning of the word. Here is a sharp stroke or two. If we had to describe a man who is retrogressive in the most evil sense of the word--we should say, he is one who would dub himself a reformer of our constitution, while every interest for which he is immediately responsible is going to decay: a philanthropist who cannot bear one rogue to be hanged, but does not mind five honest tenants being half-starved: a man who shrieks at corruption, and keeps his farms at rack-rent: who roars himself red at rotten boroughs, and does not mind if every field on his farms has a rotten gate: a man very open-hearted to Leeds and Manchester, no doubt; he would give any number of representatives who will pay for their seats out of their own pockets: what he objects to giving, is a little return on rent-days to help a tenant to buy stock, or an outlay on repairs to keep the weather out at a tenant's barn-door or make his house look a little less like an Irish cottier's. But we all know the wag's definition of a philanthropist: a man whose charity increases directly as the square of the distance. And so on. All the rest is to show what sort of legislator a philanthropist is likely to make," ended the Rector, throwing down the paper, and clasping his hands at the back of his head, while he looked at Mr. Brooke with an air of amused neutrality. "Come, that's rather good, you know," said Mr. Brooke, taking up the paper and trying to bear the attack as easily as his neighbor did, but coloring and smiling rather nervously; "that about roaring himself red at rotten boroughs--I never made a speech about rotten boroughs in my life. And as to roaring myself red and that kind of thing--these men never understand what is good satire. Satire, you know, should be true up to a certain point. I recollect they said that in 'The Edinburgh' somewhere--it must be true up to a certain point." "Well, that is really a hit about the gates," said Sir James, anxious to tread carefully. "Dagley complained to me the other day that he hadn't got a decent gate on his farm. Garth has invented a new pattern of gate--I wish you would try it. One ought to use some of one's timber in that way." "You go in for fancy farming, you know, Chettam," said Mr. Brooke, appearing to glance over the columns of the "Trumpet." "That's your hobby, and you don't mind the expense." "I thought the most expensive hobby in the world was standing for Parliament," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "They said the last unsuccessful candidate at Middlemarch--Giles, wasn't his name?--spent ten thousand pounds and failed because he did not bribe enough. What a bitter reflection for a man!" "Somebody was saying," said the Rector, laughingly, "that East Retford was nothing to Middlemarch, for bribery." "Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Brooke. "The Tories bribe, you know: Hawley and his set bribe with treating, hot codlings, and that sort of thing; and they bring the voters drunk to the poll. But they are not going to have it their own way in future--not in future, you know. Middlemarch is a little backward, I admit--the freemen are a little backward. But we shall educate them--we shall bring them on, you know. The best people there are on our side." "Hawley says you have men on your side who will do you harm," remarked Sir James. "He says Bulstrode the banker will do you harm." "And that if you got pelted," interposed Mrs. Cadwallader, "half the rotten eggs would mean hatred of your committee-man. Good heavens! Think what it must be to be pelted for wrong opinions. And I seem to remember a story of a man they pretended to chair and let him fall into a dust-heap on purpose!" "Pelting is nothing to their finding holes in one's coat," said the Rector. "I confess that's what I should be afraid of, if we parsons had to stand at the hustings for preferment. I should be afraid of their reckoning up all my fishing days. Upon my word, I think the truth is the hardest missile one can be pelted with." "The fact is," said Sir James, "if a man goes into public life he must be prepared for the consequences. He must make himself proof against calumny." "My dear Chettam, that is all very fine, you know," said Mr. Brooke. "But how will you make yourself proof against calumny? You should read history--look at ostracism, persecution, martyrdom, and that kind of thing. They always happen to the best men, you know. But what is that in Horace?--'fiat justitia, ruat . . . something or other." "Exactly," said Sir James, with a little more heat than usual. "What I mean by being proof against calumny is being able to point to the fact as a contradiction." "And it is not martyrdom to pay bills that one has run into one's self," said Mrs. Cadwallader. But it was Sir James's evident annoyance that most stirred Mr. Brooke. "Well, you know, Chettam," he said, rising, taking up his hat and leaning on his stick, "you and I have a different system. You are all for outlay with your farms. I don't want to make out that my system is good under all circumstances--under all circumstances, you know." "There ought to be a new valuation made from time to time," said Sir James. "Returns are very well occasionally, but I like a fair valuation. What do you say, Cadwallader?" "I agree with you. If I were Brooke, I would choke the 'Trumpet' at once by getting Garth to make a new valuation of the farms, and giving him carte blanche about gates and repairs: that's my view of the political situation," said the Rector, broadening himself by sticking his thumbs in his armholes, and laughing towards Mr. Brooke. "That's a showy sort of thing to do, you know," said Mr. Brooke. "But I should like you to tell me of another landlord who has distressed his tenants for arrears as little as I have. I let the old tenants stay on. I'm uncommonly easy, let me tell you, uncommonly easy. I have my own ideas, and I take my stand on them, you know. A man who does that is always charged with eccentricity, inconsistency, and that kind of thing. When I change my line of action, I shall follow my own ideas." After that, Mr. Brooke remembered that there was a packet which he had omitted to send off from the Grange, and he bade everybody hurriedly good-by. "I didn't want to take a liberty with Brooke," said Sir James; "I see he is nettled. But as to what he says about old tenants, in point of fact no new tenant would take the farms on the present terms." "I have a notion that he will be brought round in time," said the Rector. "But you were pulling one way, Elinor, and we were pulling another. You wanted to frighten him away from expense, and we want to frighten him into it. Better let him try to be popular and see that his character as a landlord stands in his way. I don't think it signifies two straws about the 'Pioneer,' or Ladislaw, or Brooke's speechifying to the Middlemarchers. But it does signify about the parishioners in Tipton being comfortable." "Excuse me, it is you two who are on the wrong tack," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "You should have proved to him that he loses money by bad management, and then we should all have pulled together. If you put him a-horseback on politics, I warn you of the consequences. It was all very well to ride on sticks at home and call them ideas." Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Sir James besucht das Haus der Cadwalladers und beschwert sich darüber, dass Herr Brooke als Whig in die Politik geht. Bedenken Sie, dass Sir James Celia, die Nichte von Herrn Brooke, geheiratet hat, daher hat er ein familiäres Interesse daran, Herrn Brooke davon abzuhalten, sich lächerlich zu machen. Zeitlicher Kontext: Die meisten alten, wohlhabenden Familien wie die Brookes oder die Chettams waren konservative Tories. Sie hatten ein offensichtliches Interesse daran, den Status quo aufrechtzuerhalten - schließlich bedeutete der Status quo, dass sie weiterhin reich und mächtig sein durften. Die Whigs wollten allmähliche Veränderungen, und die Radikalen wollten nun, radikale Veränderungen. Die Tatsache, dass Brooke die liberale Zeitung gekauft hat, ist also nur ein Schlag ins Gesicht. Herr Cadwallader und Herr Farebrother sagen, dass Brooke nicht nur die liberale Zeitung veröffentlicht, sondern tatsächlich darüber nachdenkt, als Whig für das Parlament zu kandidieren. Aber sie glauben nicht, dass er gegen Bagster, den anderen Whig-Kandidaten, große Chancen hat. Bulstrode dagegen setzt sich für Brooke ein, und Bulstrodes Meinung hat in Middlemarch viel Gewicht. Sir James erwähnt dann den "jungen Ladislaw", einen Verwandten von Casaubon und Brookes Zeitungsredakteur. Frau Cadwallader nennt ihn einen "ärgerlichen Nachwuchs". Sir James möchte nicht, dass Brooke aus verschiedenen Gründen für das Parlament kandidiert - Brooke ist ein schlechter Vermieter, und die Oppositonszeitung mit dem Namen The Trumpet hat bereits begonnen, schlechte Geschichten über den Zustand der Hütten auf dem Anwesen von Brooke aufzudecken. In diesem Moment tritt Brooke ein, und Frau Cadwallader zeigt ihm den Artikel in The Trumpet, der die Verwaltung seines Anwesens kritisiert. Sir James deutet an, dass Brooke zumindest neue Tore auf seinem Anwesen installieren sollte, und schlägt vor, dass er Caleb Garth beauftragen solle, den Job zu erledigen. Brooke lehnt die Idee als zu teuer ab, und Frau Cadwallader weist darauf hin, dass eine Kandidatur für das Parlament noch teurer sein wird. Aber Brooke lehnt auch das ab und verlässt in Eile das Haus, um weiteren Kritiken seiner Freunde zu entgehen.

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 3. Ein Raum im Gasthaus "The Garter". [Der Wirt und Bardolph betreten den Raum.] BARDOLPH. Herr, die Deutschen mögen drei Ihrer Pferde haben; Der Herzog wird morgen selbst am Hof sein und sie werden ihn treffen. WIRT. Welcher Herzog könnte das sein, der so geheimnisvoll kommt? Ich habe nichts von ihm am Hof gehört. Lassen Sie mich mit den Herren sprechen; Sprechen sie Englisch? BARDOLPH. Ja, Herr; Ich werde sie zu Ihnen rufen. WIRT. Sie sollen meine Pferde haben, aber ich werde sie zahlen lassen; Ich werde ihnen einen Saucen geben; Sie haben meine Unterkunft eine Woche lang in Beschlag genommen; Ich habe meine anderen Gäste abgewiesen. Sie müssen abhauen; Ich werde ihnen einen Saucen geben. Kommen Sie. [Hinausgehen.] Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Szene 3 ist ein Zwischenspiel, in dem Bardolph dem Wirt des Gasthofs zur Gürtelschnalle von der Ankunft eines deutschen Herzogs erzählt. Drei seiner Landsleute müssen Pferde mieten, um ihn zu treffen. Der Wirt betont, dass er "sie bezahlen lassen wird; Ich werde ihnen die Stirn bieten".

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. Fife. Ein Raum in Macduffs Schloss. [Lady Macduff, ihr Sohn und Ross betreten die Bühne.] LADY MACDUFF. Was hat er getan, dass er das Land verlässt? ROSS. Seid geduldig, gnädige Frau. LADY MACDUFF. Geduld? Das hatte er nicht! Sein Flucht war Wahnsinn. Wenn unsere Taten es nicht tun, machen uns unsere Ängste zu Verrätern. ROSS. Ihr wisst nicht, ob es seine Weisheit oder seine Angst war. LADY MACDUFF. Weisheit! Seine Frau, seine Kinder, sein Anwesen und seine Titel zurückzulassen und aus einem Ort zu fliehen? Er liebt uns nicht: Er hat nicht das natürliche Gefühl; denn der arme Zaunkönig, der kleinste aller Vögel, wird kämpfen, für ihre Jungen in ihrem Nest, gegen die Eule. Es ist alles Angst und nichts Liebe; ebenso wenig ist es Weisheit, wenn die Flucht allen Vernunft widerspricht. ROSS. Meine liebste Cousine, ich bitte euch, beherrscht euch. Aber was euren Ehemann betrifft, er ist adlig, weise, urteilsfähig und weiß am besten wie man sich den Jahreszeiten anpasst. Ich darf nicht weiter sprechen: Aber grausam sind die Zeiten, in denen wir Verräter sind, ohne uns selbst zu kennen; wenn wir Gerüchte von dem, was wir fürchten, halten, aber nicht wissen, worin unsere Furcht besteht, und auf einem wilden und stürmischen Meer treiben, in alle möglichen Richtungen. - Ich verabschiede mich von euch: Ich werde nicht lange fort sein, aber ich komme wieder: Es wird sich alles zum Besseren wenden oder wieder so werden, wie es zuvor war. - Mein hübsches Kuzinchen, Gott segne euch! LADY MACDUFF. Er ist zwar gezeugt, aber dennoch ohne Vater. ROSS. Ich bin solch ein Narr, wenn ich noch länger bleibe, wäre es meine Schande und euer Unbehagen: Ich verabschiede mich auf einmal. [Er geht ab.] LADY MACDUFF. Du, mein Sohn, dein Vater ist tot; Und was wirst du jetzt tun? Wie wirst du leben? SOHN. Wie Vögel, Mutter. LADY MACDUFF. Was, mit Würmern und Fliegen? SOHN. Mit dem, was ich bekomme, meine ich; und so machen sie es auch. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Vogel! Du würdest weder das Netz noch den Klebstoff fürchten, die Fallgrube noch die Schlinge. SOHN. Warum sollte ich, Mutter? Die armen Vögel sind nicht dafür bestimmt. Mein Vater ist nicht tot, trotz allem, was du sagst. LADY MACDUFF. Doch, er ist tot: Wie wirst du ohne Vater klarkommen? SOHN. Na, wie wirst du ohne Ehemann klarkommen? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, ich kann mir leicht zwanzig kaufen. SOHN. Dann wirst du sie wieder verkaufen. LADY MACDUFF. Du sprichst mit all deinem Verstand; und doch, genug Verstand für dich. SOHN. War mein Vater ein Verräter, Mutter? LADY MACDUFF. Ja, das war er. SOHN. Was ist ein Verräter? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, einer, der schwört und lügt. SOHN. Und sind dann alle Verräter, die das tun? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder, der das tut, ist ein Verräter und muss gehängt werden. SOHN. Und müssen sie alle gehängt werden, die schwören und lügen? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder einzelne. SOHN. Wer muss sie hängen? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, die ehrlichen Männer. SOHN. Dann sind die Lügner und Schwörer Narren: denn es gibt genug Lügner und Schwörer, um die ehrlichen Männer zu besiegen und sie aufzuhängen. LADY MACDUFF. Nun, Gott helfe dir, armes Affenkind! Aber wie wirst du ohne Vater klarkommen? SOHN. Wenn er tot wäre, würdet ihr um ihn weinen: Wenn nicht, wäre es ein gutes Zeichen, dass ich schnell einen neuen Vater bekommen würde. LADY MACDUFF. Arme Schwätzerin, wie du redest! [Ein Bote tritt auf.] BOTE. Gesegnet seist du, schöne Dame! Ich bin dir nicht bekannt, obwohl ich deinen hohen Stand vollkommen kenne. Ich fürchte, dir droht Gefahr: Wenn du den Rat eines einfachen Mannes befolgst, bleib hier nicht; geh weg mit deinen kleinen Kindern. Dich so zu erschrecken, erscheint mir zu wild; Dir Schlimmeres anzutun wäre grausame Grausamkeit, die dir zu nahe kommt. Gott behüte dich! Ich kann nicht länger bleiben. [Er geht ab.] LADY MACDUFF. Wohin soll ich fliehen? Ich habe nichts Böses getan. Aber ich erinnere mich jetzt, dass ich in dieser weltlichen Welt bin, wo es manchmal lobenswert ist, Böses zu tun; manchmal wird Gutes als gefährliche Törichtkeit angesehen: Warum bringe ich dann diese weibliche Verteidigung vor, zu sagen, dass ich nichts Böses getan habe? - Was sind das für Gesichter? [Die Mörder treten auf.] ERSTER MÖRDER. Wo ist dein Ehemann? LADY MACDUFF. Ich hoffe, an keinem Ort, so unsakral, wo du ihn finden würdest. ERSTER MÖRDER. Er ist ein Verräter. SOHN. Du lügst, du strubbelhaariger Schurke! ERSTER MÖRDER. Was, du Ei! [Ihn erstechend.] Junge Brut des Verrats! SOHN. Er hat mich getötet, Mutter. Lauf weg, ich bitte dich! [Er stirbt. Lady Macduff geht ab und ruft Mord, verfolgt von den Mördern.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lady Macduff fragt Ross, warum ihr Mann plötzlich nach England geflohen ist. Sie ist sich der Probleme zwischen Macbeth und Macduff nicht bewusst und realisiert nicht, dass sie in Gefahr ist. Lady Macduff entscheidet, dass ihr Mann seine Familie verlassen hat, weil er sie nicht mehr liebt. Ross versucht, sie zu trösten und warnt sie davor, dass Schottland derzeit ein gefährlicher Ort ist. Lady Macduff erzählt ihrem jungen Sohn, dass Macduff tot ist, um den Schmerz über seine Abwesenheit von der Familie zu lindern. Sie erzählt ihm auch, dass sein Vater ein Verräter war. Ein Bote läuft herein und unterbricht das Gespräch zwischen Mutter und Sohn und sagt Lady Macduff, dass sie entkommen solle, solange sie noch kann. Wenige Augenblicke später betreten Mörder, im Auftrag von Macbeth, die Burg und töten Lady Macduff und ihren Sohn.

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: Anne musste tatsächlich über zwei Wochen lang leben. Fast ein Monat war vergangen, seitdem der Vorfall mit dem Linimentkuchen passiert war, und es wurde höchste Zeit, dass sie sich in frischen Ärger jeglicher Art verwickelte, kleine Fehler wie zum Beispiel absichtslos eine Pfanne mit abgeschöpfter Milch in einen Korb mit Wollknäueln in der Speisekammer zu leeren anstatt in den Eimer für die Schweine oder über den Rand der Baumstammbrücke in den Bach zu treten, während sie von ihren Fantasien umhüllt war und in Gedanken versunken. Diese kleinen Fehler waren es nicht wirklich wert, gezählt zu werden. Eine Woche nach dem Tee im Pfarrhaus veranstaltete Diana Barry eine Party. "Klein und exklusiv", versicherte Anne Marilla. "Nur die Mädchen aus unserer Klasse." Sie hatten eine sehr gute Zeit und es passierte nichts Ungeheuerliches, bis nach dem Tee, als sie sich im Garten der Barrys wiederfanden. Sie waren ein wenig müde von all ihren Spielen und bereit für jede verlockende Form von Unfug, die sich anbieten mochte. Das nahm schließlich die Form von "Mutproben" an. Mutproben waren damals der beliebte Zeitvertreib unter den kleinen Leuten von Avonlea. Es hatte unter den Jungen begonnen, verbreitete sich aber bald auf die Mädchen und all die dummen Dinge, die an diesem Sommer in Avonlea getan wurden, weil diejenigen, die sie taten, dazu "ermutigt" wurden, würden für sich alleine schon ein Buch füllen. Zuallererst wagte Carrie Sloane Ruby Gillis, bis zu einem bestimmten Punkt in der riesigen alten Weide vor der Haustür zu klettern. Ruby Gillis, obwohl sie sterbliche Angst vor den fetten grünen Raupen hatte, mit denen der Baum befallen war und aus Angst vor ihrer Mutter, wenn sie ihr neues Musselinkleid zerreissen sollte, tat es flink und zur Verlegenheit der eben genannten Carrie Sloane. Dann wagte Josie Pye Jane Andrews, im Garten auf einem Bein herumzuhüpfen, ohne auch nur einmal anzuhalten oder den rechten Fuß auf den Boden zu setzen. Jane Andrews versuchte tapfer, es zu tun, gab aber an der dritten Ecke auf und musste sich geschlagen geben. Josies Triumph war etwas auffälliger, als es der gute Geschmack erlaubte, und Anne Shirley forderte sie heraus, auf der Oberseite des Bretterzauns, der den Garten nach Osten abgrenzte, entlangzugehen. Nun erfordert es mehr Geschicklichkeit und Standfestigkeit von Kopf und Ferse, Bretterzäune zu "gehen", als man vermuten könnte, wenn man es noch nie ausprobiert hat. Aber Josie Pye, wenn sie auch in manchen Eigenschaften, die für Beliebtheit förderlich sind, mangelte, hatte zumindest ein natürliches und angeborenes Talent, das sie fleißig kultivierte, um Bretterzäune zu überwinden. Josie ging mit einer lässigen Gelassenheit den Zaun von Barry entlang, was zu implizieren schien, dass eine solche Kleinigkeit nicht wert war, dass man sich dafür "traute". Es gab zögerliche Bewunderung für ihre Heldentat, da die meisten der anderen Mädchen es zu schätzen wussten, nachdem sie selbst viele Anstrengungen unternommen hatten, um Zäune zu überwinden. Josie stieg von ihrem Aussichtspunkt herunter, von Sieg erfüllt, und warf Anne einen herausfordernden Blick zu. Anne warf ihre roten Zöpfe umher. "Ich denke nicht, dass es eine so wunderbare Sache ist, ein wenig niedriger Zaun zu gehen", sagte sie. "Ich kannte ein Mädchen in Marysville, das auf dem First eines Dachs gehen konnte." "Ich glaube es nicht", sagte Josie flach. "Ich glaube nicht, dass irgendjemand auf einem First gehen könnte. _Du_ könntest es sowieso nicht." "Könnte ich nicht?", rief Anne waghalsig. "Dann fordere ich dich heraus, es zu tun", sagte Josie trotzig. "Ich fordere dich heraus, dort hochzuklettern und auf dem First des Daches von Mr. Barry entlangzugehen." Anne wurde blass, aber es gab offensichtlich nur eine Sache, die zu tun war. Sie ging auf das Haus zu, wo eine Leiter gegen das Dach des Küchens lehnte. Alle Mädchen der fünften Klasse sagten "Oh!" zum Teil vor Aufregung, zum Teil vor Bestürzung. "Tu es nicht, Anne", flehte Diana. "Du wirst herunterfallen und sterben. Ignoriere Josie Pye. Es ist nicht fair, jemanden zu etwas so Gefährlichem herauszufordern." "Ich muss es tun. Meine Ehre steht auf dem Spiel", sagte Anne feierlich. "Ich werde diesen First gehen, Diana, oder bei dem Versuch sterben. Wenn ich sterbe, sollst du meinen Perlenring bekommen." Anne stieg die Leiter hinauf in atemloser Stille, erreichte den First, balancierte sich aufrecht auf diesem unsicheren Untergrund und begann, darauf entlang zu gehen. Sie war sich schwindelerregend bewusst, dass sie unangenehm hoch oben in der Welt war und dass das Gehen auf einem First keine Sache war, bei der einem die Vorstellungskraft viel half. Dennoch schaffte sie mehrere Schritte, bevor die Katastrophe hereinbrach. Dann schwankte sie, verlor das Gleichgewicht, stolperte, taumelte und fiel, glitt vom sonnenbeschienenen Dach herunter und stürzte durch das Gewirr des wilden Weinlaubs darunter hindurch, alles, bevor der bestürzte Kreis unten einen gleichzeitigen, erschrockenen Schrei ausstoßen konnte. Wenn Anne vom Dach auf der Seite abgestürzt wäre, auf der sie hinaufgestiegen war, hätte Diana wahrscheinlich in diesem Moment das Perlenring geerbt. Glücklicherweise fiel sie auf die andere Seite, auf der das Dach fast bis zum Boden über die Veranda hinausragte, sodass ein Sturz von dort aus eine weit weniger schlimme Sache war. Als Diana und die anderen Mädchen wild um das Haus herumgestürzt kamen – außer Ruby Gillis, die wie angewurzelt stehen blieb und hysterisch wurde – fanden sie Anne bleich und schlaff zwischen den Trümmern des wilden Weinlaubs liegen. "Anne, bist du tot?", schrie Diana und warf sich kniend neben ihre Freundin. "Oh, Anne, liebe Anne, sag wenigstens ein Wort zu mir und sag mir, ob du tot bist." Zu großer Erleichterung aller Mädchen und besonders von Josie Pye, die trotz mangelnder Vorstellungskraft entsetzliche Visionen von einer Zukunft bekommen hatte, in der sie als Mädchen gebrandmarkt war, das für Annes frühen und tragischen Tod verantwortlich war, setzte sich Anne schwindelig auf und antwortete unbestimmt: "Nein, Diana, ich bin nicht tot, aber ich glaube, ich bin bewusstlos." "Wo?", schluchzte Carrie Sloane. "Oh, wo, Anne?" Ehe Anne antworten konnte, tauchte Mrs. Barry auf. Beim Anblick ihrer Anne versuchte Anne, aufzustehen, sank aber mit einem scharfen kleinen Schmerzensausruf wieder zurück. "Was ist los? Wo hast du dich verletzt?", verlangte Mrs. Barry zu wissen. "Mein Knöchel", keuchte Anne. "Oh, Diana, bitte finde deinen Vater und bitte ihn, mich nach Hause zu bringen. Ich weiß, dass ich niemals dorthin laufen kann. Und ich bin sicher, dass ich auf einem Fuß nicht so weit hüpfen könnte, wenn Jane nicht einmal durch den Garten hüpfen konnte." Marilla war gerade im Obstgarten dabei, eine Pfanne voll Sommerepfel zu pflücken, als sie Mr. Barry über die Baumstammbrücke und den Hang heraufkommen sah, neben ihm Mrs. Barry und eine ganze Prozession kleiner Mädchen. Er trug Anne im Arm, deren Kopf schlaff an seiner Schulter lag. In diesem Moment hatte Marilla eine Offenbarung. In Aber du hast so einen starken Willen, Marilla. Das habe ich nicht. Ich fühlte nur, dass ich Josie Pyes Verachtung nicht ertragen konnte. Sie hätte mich mein ganzes Leben lang verspottet. Und ich denke, ich wurde schon genug bestraft, sodass du nicht sehr böse auf mich sein musst, Marilla. Es ist überhaupt nicht schön, in Ohnmacht zu fallen. Und der Doktor hat mir entsetzliche Schmerzen bereitet, als er meinen Knöchel eingegipst hat. Ich werde sechs oder sieben Wochen lang nicht herumlaufen können und die neue Lehrerin verpassen. Bis ich wieder zur Schule gehen kann, wird sie nicht mehr neu sein. Und Gil - jeder wird mich in der Klasse überholen. Oh, ich bin ein geplagtes Menschenkind. Aber ich werde versuchen, alles tapfer zu ertragen, wenn du nur nicht böse auf mich bist, Marilla." "Na komm, ich bin nicht böse", sagte Marilla. "Du bist ein unglückliches Kind, da besteht kein Zweifel; aber wie du sagst, wirst du darunter leiden. Hier, versuch mal etwas Abendessen zu essen." "Ist es nicht glücklich, dass ich so eine lebhafte Vorstellungskraft habe?", sagte Anne. "Das wird mir bestimmt sehr helfen. Was machen wohl die Menschen, die keine Vorstellungskraft haben, wenn sie sich Knochen brechen, denkst du, Marilla?" Anne hatte guten Grund, ihre Vorstellungskraft oft in den langweiligen sieben Wochen zu segnen, die folgten. Aber sie war nicht ausschließlich darauf angewiesen. Sie hatte viele Besucher und kein Tag verging, an dem nicht eine oder mehrere Schülerinnen hereinkamen, um ihr Blumen und Bücher zu bringen und ihr von allem, was in der kindlichen Welt von Avonlea geschah, zu erzählen. "Jeder war so gut und nett, Marilla", seufzte Anne glücklich an dem Tag, an dem sie zum ersten Mal humpelnd über den Boden gehen konnte. "Es ist zwar nicht sehr angenehm, ans Bett gefesselt zu sein, aber es hat auch seine Vorteile, Marilla. Man findet heraus, wie viele Freunde man hat. Selbst Superintendent Bell ist zu Besuch gekommen, und er ist wirklich ein sehr feiner Mensch. Kein verwandter Geist, natürlich; aber ich mag ihn und es tut mir furchtbar leid, dass ich jemals seine Gebete kritisiert habe. Ich glaube jetzt, er meint sie wirklich ernst, nur hat er sich angewöhnt, sie so zu sagen, als ob er es nicht täte. Das könnte er ablegen, wenn er sich ein wenig Mühe geben würde. Ich habe ihm einen deutlichen Hinweis gegeben. Ich habe ihm erzählt, wie schwer ich versuche, meine eigenen kleinen privaten Gebete interessant zu gestalten. Er hat mir alles über die Zeit erzählt, als er sich als Junge den Knöchel gebrochen hat. Es ist so seltsam, sich vorzustellen, dass Superintendent Bell jemals ein Junge war. Selbst meine Vorstellungskraft hat Grenzen, denn ich kann mir das nicht vorstellen. Wenn ich versuche, ihn als Jungen vorzustellen, sehe ich ihn mit grauen Schnurrbärten und einer Brille, genauso wie er im Sonntagsschulunterricht aussieht, nur kleiner. Jetzt ist es so einfach, sich vorzustellen, wie Mrs. Allan als kleines Mädchen aussah. Mrs. Allan war bereits vierzehn Mal bei mir zu Besuch. Ist das nicht etwas, worauf man stolz sein kann, Marilla? Wenn die Frau eines Pfarrers so viele Ansprüche auf ihre Zeit hat! Sie ist so eine fröhliche Person, die zu Besuch kommt. Sie sagt dir nie, dass es deine eigene Schuld ist und hofft, dass du ein besseres Mädchen sein wirst. Mrs. Lynde hat mir das immer gesagt, wenn sie zu Besuch kam; und sie hat es auf eine Art und Weise gesagt, die mich fühlen ließ, dass sie vielleicht hofft, ich werde ein besseres Mädchen sein, aber eigentlich nicht daran glaubt. Sogar Josie Pye ist zu Besuch gekommen. Ich habe sie so höflich empfangen, wie ich konnte, weil ich denke, dass sie es bereut hat, mich dazu aufgefordert zu haben, über den Firstbalken zu laufen. Wenn ich gestorben wäre, hätte sie ein dunkles Schuldgefühl ihr ganzes Leben lang mit sich herumtragen müssen. Diana war eine treue Freundin. Sie war jeden Tag da, um mein einsames Kopfkissen aufzumuntern. Aber oh, ich werde so froh sein, wenn ich wieder zur Schule gehen kann, denn ich habe so spannende Dinge über die neue Lehrerin gehört. Die Mädchen finden sie alle unheimlich süß. Diana sagt, sie hat die schönsten, lockigen blonden Haare und so faszinierende Augen. Sie kleidet sich wunderschön, und ihre Ärmelpuffs sind größer als die aller anderen in Avonlea. Jeden zweiten Freitag nachmittag hat sie Vorträge und jeder muss ein Gedicht aufsagen oder an einem Dialog teilnehmen. Oh, es ist einfach großartig, daran zu denken. Josie Pye sagt, sie hasst es, aber das liegt nur daran, dass Josie so wenig Vorstellungskraft hat. Diana, Ruby Gillis und Jane Andrews bereiten gerade einen Dialog vor, der 'Ein Morgenbesuch' heißt, für nächsten Freitag. Und an den Freitagnachmittagen, an denen keine Vorträge stattfinden, geht Miss Stacy mit allen in den Wald für einen 'Feldtag', und sie studieren Farne, Blumen und Vögel. Und sie machen jeden Morgen und Abend Bewegungsübungen. Mrs. Lynde sagt, sie hat noch nie von solchen Vorgängen gehört und das alles kommt daher, dass es eine Lehrerin ist. Aber ich denke, es muss herrlich sein, und ich glaube, ich werde feststellen, dass Miss Stacy ein verwandter Geist ist." "Es gibt eine Sache, die man deutlich sehen kann, Anne", sagte Marilla, "und das ist, dass dein Sturz vom Barry-Dach deiner Zunge überhaupt nicht geschadet hat." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Anne gerät in eine Affäre der Ehre Zu Ende des Sommers lädt Diana Barry alle Mädchen aus der Sonntagsschulklasse zu sich nach Hause ein. Müde von ihren üblichen Liedern und Spielen beschließen die Mädchen, sich auf abenteuerlichere Aktivitäten einzulassen. Sie fordern sich gegenseitig heraus, im Garten auf einem Fuß zu hüpfen oder auf einen Baum zu klettern. Josie Pye, ein hinterlistiges Mädchen, das Diana und Anne nicht mögen, fordert Anne heraus, den First des Küchendachs der Barrys entlangzulaufen. Diana versucht, Anne davon abzubringen, eine solche schwierige Herausforderung anzunehmen, aber Anne fühlt, dass ihr Ehre in Gefahr ist, also klettert sie auf das Dach. Sie schafft es ein paar Schritte zu gehen, bevor sie das Gleichgewicht verliert, zu Boden stürzt und sich den Knöchel bricht. Alle Mädchen stürzen zu ihrer Seite, schreien und weinen. Als Marilla sieht, wie Mr. Barry Anne zurück nach Green Gables trägt, ist sie entsetzt, dass etwas Ernsthaftes passiert ist. Sie erkennt zum ersten Mal, wie viel Anne ihr bedeutet. Anne ruht sich sieben Wochen lang im Bett aus und ist erfreut festzustellen, dass viele Menschen in Avonlea sich genug um sie kümmern, um sie zu besuchen. Von ihren Freunden hört sie alles über die neue Lehrerin, Miss Stacy, die sich wunderschön kleidet und Rezitationen, Naturwanderungen und körperliche Übungen für ihre Klasse organisiert. Anne denkt, dass ihre neue Lehrerin eine Seelenverwandte sein wird.